The Project Gutenberg eBook of Merry's Museum, Volumes I and II (1841)
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Title: Merry's Museum, Volumes I and II (1841)
For Boys and Girls
Author: Various
Editor: Louisa May Alcott
S. T. Allen
Samuel G. Goodrich
Release date: October 11, 2023 [eBook #71854]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Bradbury & Soden, 1842
Credits: Carol Brown, Linda Cantoni, Jude Eyelander, Katherine Ward, Anne Celnick, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MERRY'S MUSEUM, VOLUMES I AND II (1841) ***
[Illustration: frontis-squirrel]
ROBERT MERRY’S
MUSEUM:
VOLUMES I. II.
[Illustration]
Boston:
PUBLISHED BY BRADBURY & SODEN,
10, SCHOOL STREET.
1842.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by
S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office
of the District Court of Massachusetts.
INDEX
TO THE
FIRST VOLUME.
FROM FEBRUARY TO JULY 1841, INCLUSIVE.
Address to the Reader, page 1
About Labor and Property, 3
Anecdote, 102
Absence of Mind, 126
Antiquities of Egypt, 149
A Drunkard’s Home, 152
Architecture of Birds, 158
A Philosophical Tea-pot 171
Astonishing Powers of the Horse 172
A Good Reply, 187
Chinese Spectacles, 18
Contentment, 50
Curious way of Keeping Accounts, 189
Death of the President, 127
Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy; a Dialogue, 145
Hogg’s Father, 102
Hunting Wild Animals in Africa, 111
Hymn, 159
Importance of Attention; a Dialogue 174
Instinct, 190
John Steady and Peter Sly, a Dialogue 38
My First Whistle, 4
My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry,
9, 33, 65, 129, 161
Music--Jack Frost, a Song, 32
Madagascar, 168
Napoleon’s last Obsequies 51
Night, 101
Owls and Eagles, 5
Origin of ‘The House that Jack Built,’ 7
Origin of Words and Phrases, 35
Our Ancestry, 53
Plain Dealing, 26
Peach Seeds, 37
Professions and Trades, 94
Peter Pilgrim’s account of his Schoolmates,
No. 1, 107
Pet Oysters, 187
Poetry and Music, 192
Queen Elizabeth of England, 103
Swallows, 15
Story of Philip Brusque 19, 47, 73, 97
Spring is Coming; a Song, 64
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History
of the Indians of America, 116, 140, 141, 181
Something Wonderful, 141
The Sociable Weavers, 2
The Human Frame likened to a House 18
The Sailor’s Family, 21
The Groom and the Horse, 23
The Druids, 24
The Re-entombment of Napoleon 27
The Pelican, 36
The Three Friends, 41
The Fox and the Tortoise, 43
The Travels, Adventures and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter, 44, 81, 120, 138
The Month of March, 60
The Child and the Violets, 62
The Great Northern Diver, or Loon 71
The Spectre of the Brocken 79
Trifles, 80
The New Custom House, Boston, 86
The New Patent Office, Washington 89
The River; a Song, 96
The Sun, 101
The Kingfisher and the Nightingale 125
The April Shower,--a Song, 128
The Artist’s Cruise, 133
The Boastful Ass, 157
Travelling Beehives, 158
The Secret, 158
The Logue Family, 159
The Humming Birds, 167
The Moon, 173
The Horse and the Bells, 178
The Crane Family, 179
The Shetland Pony, 188
Varieties, 30, 62, 127, 190
What is Truth? 28
What sort of Heart have you got? 90
What is Poetry? 95
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
Address to the Reader.
Kind and gentle people who make up what is called the Public--permit
a stranger to tell you a brief story. I am about trying my hand at a
Magazine; and this is my first number. I present it to you with all due
humility--asking, however, one favor. Take this little pamphlet to your
home, and when nothing better claims your attention, pray look over its
pages. If you like it, allow me the privilege of coming to you once a
month, with a basket of such fruits and flowers as an old fellow may
gather while limping up and down the highways and by-ways of life.
I will not claim a place for my numbers upon the marble table of the
parlor, by the side of songs and souvenirs, gaudy with steel engravings
and gilt edges. These bring to you the rich and rare fruitage of the
hot-house, while my pages will serve out only the simple, but I trust
wholesome productions of the meadow, field, and common of Nature and
Truth. The fact is, I am more particular about my company than my
accommodations. I like the society of the young--the girls and the
boys; and whether in the parlor, the library, or the school-room, I
care not, if so be they will favor me with their society. I do not,
indeed, eschew the favor of those who are of mature age--I shall always
have a few pages for them, if they will deign to look at my book. It
is my plan to insert something in every number that will bear perusal
through spectacles.
But it is useless to multiply words: therefore, without further parley,
I offer this as a specimen of my work, promising to improve as I gain
practice. I have a variety of matters and things on hand, anecdotes,
adventures, tales, travels, rhymes, riddles, songs, &c.--some glad and
some sad, some to make you laugh and some to make you weep. My only
trouble is to select among such variety. But grant me your favor, kind
Public! and these shall be arranged and served out in due season. May I
specially call upon two classes of persons to give me their countenance
and support--I mean all those young people who have black eyes, and all
those who have not black eyes! If these, with their parents, will aid
me, they shall have the thanks and best services of
ROBERT MERRY.
[Illustration: _A Tree with Nests of Sociable Weavers upon it._]
The Sociable Weavers.
Men find it convenient to devote themselves to different trades. One
spends his time in one trade, and another in another. So we find the
various kinds of birds brought up and occupied in different trades.
The woodpecker is a carpenter, the hawk a sportsman, the heron a
fisherman, &c. But in these cases we remark, that the birds do not have
to serve an apprenticeship. It takes a boy seven years to learn to be a
carpenter; but a young woodpecker, as soon as he can fly, goes to his
work without a single lesson, and yet understanding it perfectly.
This is very wonderful; but God teaches the birds their lessons, and
his teaching is perfect. Perhaps the most curious mechanics among the
birds, are the Sociable Weavers, found in the southern part of Africa.
Hundreds of these birds, in one community, join to form a structure
of interwoven grass, (the sort chosen being what is called Boshman’s
grass,) containing various apartments, all covered by a sloping roof,
impenetrable to the heaviest rain, and increased year by year, as the
increase in numbers of the community may require.
“I observed,” says a traveller in South Africa, “a tree with an
enormous nest of these birds, to which I have given the appellation
of _Republicans_; and, as soon as I arrived at my camp, I despatched
a few men with a wagon to bring it to me, that I might open the hive
and examine the structure in its minutest parts. When it arrived, I
cut it to pieces with a hatchet, and saw that the chief portion of the
structure consisted of a mass of Boshman’s grass, without any mixture,
but so compact and firmly basketed together as to be impenetrable
to the rain. This is the commencement of the structure; and each
bird builds its particular nest under this canopy, the upper surface
remaining void, without, however, being useless; for, as it has a
projecting rim and is a little inclined, it serves to let the water run
off, and preserves each little dwelling from the rain.
“The largest nest that I examined was one of the most considerable I
had anywhere seen in the course of my journey, and contained three
hundred and twenty inhabited cells, which, supposing a male and female
to each, would form a society of six hundred and forty individuals.
Such a calculation, however, would not be exact. It appears, that
in every flock the females are more numerous by far than the males;
many cells, therefore, would contain only a single bird. Still, the
aggregate would be considerable; and, when undisturbed, they might go
on to increase, the structure increasing in a like ratio, till a storm,
sweeping through the wood, laid the tree, and the edifice it sustained,
in one common ruin.”
About Labor and Property.
All the things we see around us belong to somebody; and these things
have been got by labor or working. It has been by labor, that every
article has been procured. If nobody had ever done any labor, there
would have been no houses, no cultivated fields, no bread to eat, no
clothes to wear, no books to read, and the whole world would have been
in a poor and wild state, not fit for human beings to live happily in.
Men possess all things in consequence of some person having wrought
for these things. Some men are rich, and have many things, although
they never wrought much for them; but the ancestors, or fathers and
grandfathers, of these men, wrought hard for the things, and have left
them to their children. But all young persons must not think that they
will get things given to them in this way; all, except a few, must work
diligently when they grow up, to get things for themselves.
After any one has wrought to make a thing, or after he has a thing
given to him, that thing is his own, and no person must take it from
him. If a boy get a piece of clay, and make the clay into a small
ball or marble to play with, then he has labored or wrought for it,
and no other boy has any right to take it from him. The marble is
the _property_ of the boy who made it. Some boys are fond of keeping
rabbits. If a boy have a pair of these animals, they are his property;
and if he gather food for them, and take care of them till they have
young ones, then the young rabbits are his property also. He would not
like to find, that some bad boy wished to take his rabbits from him!
He would say to the bad boy, “I claim these rabbits as my property;
they are mine. You never wrought for them; they are not yours.” And if
the bad boy still would take the rabbits, then the owner would go to
a magistrate, and tell him of the bad boy’s conduct, and the bad boy
would be punished. All things are the property of some persons, and
these persons claim their property in the same way that the boy claims
the marble that he has made, or the rabbits that he has reared. It is
very just and proper that every person should be allowed to keep his
own property; because, when a poor man knows that he can get property
by working for it, and that no one dares to take it from him, then he
will work to have things for his own use. If he knew that things would
be taken from him, then he would not work much, and perhaps not at all.
He would spend many of his days in idleness, and live very poorly.
When one person wishes to have a thing which belongs to another, he
must ask permission to take it, or he must offer to buy it; he must
never, on any account, take the thing secretly, or by violence, or by
fraud; for that would be _stealing_, and he would be a thief. God has
said, “Thou shalt not steal;” and every one should keep his hands from
picking and stealing. Some boys think, that, because they _find_ things
that are lost, they may keep these things to themselves. But the thing
that is found is the property of the loser, and should be immediately
restored to him without reward; it is just as bad as stealing to keep
it, if you can find the owner.
My First Whistle.
Of all the toys I e’er have known,
I loved that whistle best;
It was my first, it was my own,
And I was doubly blest.
’Twas Saturday, and afternoon,
That school-boys’ jubilee,
When the young heart is all in tune,
From book and ferule free.
I then was in my seventh year;
The birds were all a singing;
Above a brook, that rippled clear,
A willow tree was swinging.
My brother Ben was very ’cute,
He climbed that willow tree,
He cut a branch, and I was mute,
The while, with ecstasy.
With penknife he did cut it round,
And gave the bark a wring;
He shaped the mouth and tried the sound,--
It was a glorious thing!
I blew that whistle, full of joy--
It echoed o’er the ground;
And never, since that simple toy,
Such music have I found.
I’ve seen blue eyes and tasted wines--
With manly toys been blest,
But backward memory still inclines
To love that whistle best.
[Illustration: _The Harpy Eagle._]
Owls and Eagles.
It has been remarked, that, as mankind apply themselves to various
trades and pursuits, some being carpenters, some house-builders, some
hunters, some fishermen, so we find that the animal tribes appear to
be severally devoted to various professions. And as we find among men
bold, open pirates, who rob by day, and secret thieves, who plunder
by night; so, among animals, we find those that seem to have taken up
similar vocations.
The eagles, for instance, are daylight robbers; and it is wonderful
to observe, how well adapted they are for the life they are designed
to lead. They are strong of wing, with powerful talons to grasp
their prey, and a sharp, hooked beak, calculated, like the knife
of a butcher, to cut their food in pieces. Their eye is keen and
long-sighted, so that they can mark their victim afar off; and their
flight is swift, so that they may strike down upon it with certainty.
Thus qualified to pursue a life of rapine and plunder, their very
air and bearing correspond with their profession. They have a bold,
haughty, and merciless look. The description in the thirty-ninth
chapter of Job, portrays the character of these birds in a few
sentences, and it is impossible to mend the description: “Doth the
eagle mount up at thy command,” saith the inspired writer, “and make
her nest on high? She dwelleth and abideth on the rock, upon the crag
of the rock, and the strong place. From thence she seeketh the prey,
and her eyes behold afar off. Her young ones, also, suck up blood; and
where the slain are, there is she.”
[Illustration: _The Eagle Owl._]
Thus, if the eagles are the open, daylight robbers, the owls are the
secret thieves and plunderers by night. And it is interesting to
observe how well these creatures, also, are fitted for their vocation.
In order to see at night, they need large eyes, and, accordingly,
they have large heads to accommodate these organs. Their business is
to steal upon their prey in the darkness and silence of the night.
Accordingly, they are covered with an abundance of light, yielding
feathers, so that they may glide through the air on a noiseless wing,
and come upon their victim unheard and unsuspected. If you have ever
seen an owl at evening, or during a cloudy day, (for it is seldom
that they venture abroad in the sunshine,) you must have noticed,
that he skims along as if he were almost as buoyant as a soap-bubble.
How different is this from the whistling rush of the pigeon, or the
whirring flight of the partridge!
Among the owls there are at least fifty kinds; and, taken all together,
they are a most curious and interesting family. Among these, the
largest is the great eagle owl, which is found in Europe. Its home is
among the deep recesses of mighty forests, and the clefts of rocks
amidst the mountains. From its lonely retreat, where it reposes in
silence during the day, it issues forth, as the dusk of evening throws
a yet deeper gloom over the dark pine forest or rocky glen, to prowl in
quest of prey. On silent wing it skims through the wood, and marks the
fawn, the hare, or the rabbit nibbling the herbage. Suddenly wheeling,
it sweeps upon the unsuspecting victim, and, if not too large, bears it
off in its talons. Other and less noble game is also to be reckoned as
its prey, such as rats, mice, squirrels, and frogs. These are swallowed
entire, after being merely crushed into a mass by the efforts of the
bill; the bones, skins, feathers, or hair, rolled into a ball, are
afterwards ejected from the stomach.
In our American forests, we have an owl very similar to the one I have
described, both in looks, size, and habits. These large owls seldom
approach the abodes of men; but the little barn owl is more familiar.
He often takes up his residence in a barn, and, hiding in some nook by
day, sallies forth at night, making prey of such little animals as he
can find. He is very useful in destroying rats and mice. Mr. Waterton
says that he has seen one of these little owls bring a mouse to its
nest of young ones, every twelve or fifteen minutes during the evening.
It is also stated, that this bird will sometimes take up its residence
in a pigeon-house, and live there, without giving the pigeons the least
disturbance, or even taking their young ones.
The ancients called the owl the bird of wisdom, because he looked so
sober and solemn. Many superstitious people now-a-days look upon him
with foolish dread. The owl is frequently mentioned in the Bible;
but the most interesting allusion is that of Isaiah, chap. xiii., in
which the prophet foretells the coming destruction and desolation of
Babylon, then a great and powerful city. His words are, “Wild beasts
of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of
doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there.” This prophecy has been
literally fulfilled. Many years after the time of Isaiah, Babylon was
destroyed, and the place became a scene of desolation. Travellers tell
us, that now the place is surrounded with caverns, which are the refuge
of jackals and other savage animals, and that in these cavities there
are numbers of bats and owls.
Origin of “The House that Jack
Built.”
The following curious article shows that the idea of the popular legend
of “The House that Jack built,” is of ancient date, and derived from
the Jews. That famous story is in fact modelled after an ancient hymn,
conceived in the form of a parable, sung by the Jews at the feast of
the passover, and commemorative of the principal events of the history
of that people. The original, in the Chaldee language, is known to
scholars; and, as it may not be uninteresting to my readers, I will
furnish the literal translation, which is as follows:
1. A Kid, a Kid, my Father bought for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
2. Then came the Cat, And ate the Kid, That my Father bought
for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
3. Then came the Dog, And bit the Cat, That ate the Kid,
That my Father bought for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
4. Then came the Staff, And beat the Dog, That bit the Cat,
That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of
money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
5. Then came the Fire, And burned the Staff, That beat the
Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father
bought for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
6. Then came the Water, And quenched the Fire, That burned
the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate
the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
7. Then came the Ox, And drank the Water, That quenched the
Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit
the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two
pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
8. Then came the Butcher, And slew the Ox, That drank the
Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff,
That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid,
That my Father bought for two pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
9. Then came the Angel of Death, And killed the Butcher,
That slew the Ox, That drank the Water, That quenched the
Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit
the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two
pieces of money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
10. Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!
9. And killed the Angel of Death,
8. That killed the Butcher,
7. That slew the Ox,
6. That drank the Water,
5. That quenched the Fire,
4. That burned the Staff,
3. That beat the Dog,
2. That bit the Cat,
1. That ate the Kid that my Father bought for two pieces of
money.
_A Kid, a Kid._
The following is the interpretation:
1. The Kid, which was, among the Jews, one of the pure animals, denotes
the Hebrews. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah, who is
represented as sustaining this relation to the Hebrew nation. The two
pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron, through whose mediation the
Hebrews were brought out of Egypt.
2. The Cat denotes the ancient Assyrians, by whom the ten tribes were
carried into captivity.
3. The Dog is symbolical of the ancient Babylonians.
4. The Staff signifies the Persians, a powerful nation of antiquity.
5. The Fire indicates the Grecian empire, under Alexander the Great.
6. The Water betokens the Romans, or the fourth of the great
monarchies, to whose dominion the Jews were subjected.
7. The Ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine and
brought it under the Caliphs of Bagdad.
8. The Butcher, that killed the Ox, denotes the Crusaders, by whom the
Holy Land was wrested out of the hands of the Saracens, for a time.
9. The Angel of Death signifies the Turkish power, by which the land
of Palestine was taken from the Crusaders, and to which it is still
subject.
10. The commencement of the 10th stanza is designed to show, that
God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, immediately after whose
overthrow the Jews are to be restored to their own land, and to live
under the government of the long-expected Messiah.
[Illustration: issue head]
My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION.
I am inclined to think, that, among the various pleasures of life,
talking is one of the greatest. Eating and drinking are very good
things, especially when one is hungry and thirsty, and has a good meal
before him. But they are very short in their duration. The heartiest
supper is over in a few minutes, and drinking, in as many seconds.
Beside, these are selfish pleasures, and afford only the single
satisfaction of an immediate appetite. But talking is not confined to
self, nor is it limited to the body. It exercises the mind, and extends
alike to the speaker and the listener.
The love of talking exhibits itself in very infancy. The little
prattler, even before he can speak words, tries to amuse you with
his inarticulate gabble. And when he has learned a word, with what
glory does he repeat it to you! A young soldier touches off a cannon
with less exultation than the infant pronounces his first articulate
syllable.
And then, look at a group of children! How eager are they to speak to
each other! How their little tongues rattle! Sometimes all will speak
at once, whether anybody listens or not. It is often hard to get a word
in edgewise among such a set of orators.
Suppose some child has been away, and comes home with a piece of news.
How does he rush into the room, scarcely taking time to hang up his hat
or cap, and with staring eyes and ruddy cheeks, set forth the wondrous
tale! Suppose a child has seen something new, as a lion or an elephant;
how does he talk of it to his companions! Or, suppose he has been
rambling in the woods, and has seen an eagle, or a gray squirrel, or
a woodchuck,--something he had never seen before,--how eager is he to
talk about it!
Thus it is with the young; they love to talk of things that interest
them; and thus it is with those who have passed from the morning
of life toward its setting sun. It may be that old people are less
talkative than young ones; but still we all love to speak to others of
that which excites our own feelings, or occupies our minds. Talking,
then, is one of the great pleasures of life, and God has no doubt made
it so for good and wise purposes. How large a portion of the happiness
of life would be cut off, if we were all dumb!
For myself, I was a great rattler in youth, and, even now that my hair
is grizzled with years, I must confess that I am not greatly altered
in this respect. My life has been a varied one, and I have seen a good
deal of the world. I cannot pretend to be so great a traveller as Peter
Parley, nor can I match him in telling stories to babies. But still,
give me a good listener, and something to speak about, and I can talk
from sunrise to sunset.
I love better to talk to youth than to others. Those who are from eight
to sixteen years old, are my chosen friends. I always find some way
of entertaining them. Several bright-eyed girls and boys are in the
habit of coming to see me, and I tell them my long stories. They come
again and again, and I infer that they are pleased with them. I tell
them sometimes of giants and fairies; but it is curious, that, while
most young people prefer these tales of fancy, I succeed much better
in pleasing my listeners by talking to them about things that really
exist, or have really happened. Truth, after all, is more attractive
than fiction, if it is only dressed in a proper guise.
My own adventures seem to give my listeners the most pleasure; for I
have been all over the United States; have been a soldier, and seen
service; have been a pedler, and travelled thousands of miles on foot;
have met with strange accidents and hairbreadth escapes from danger;
and have had my share of what is called hard luck. Still, I have reason
to thank Heaven that my heart is happy, and my mind cheerful. I love
sunshine as well as when I was a boy, and see much more occasion to
laugh than to cry. I have indeed my serious moods, for there are some
subjects that demand seriousness and reverence. Religion claims some
of our time, and much of our thought. The Sabbath is with me a day of
solemn reflection and prayer. I bend over the Bible, with a feeling
that I am listening to the voice of God. These things make me serious,
but not sad. As the sun seems to shine brighter, when it comes out
from a cloud, so my heart is ever more serene and cheerful, for its
communion with holy things.
But this is enough for an introduction. I am now going to tell
the story of my own life, which I hope may prove both amusing and
instructive.
CHAPTER II.
_About my Birth.--The Death of my Parents.--My first
Journey.--My Wonder at seeing the Country.--Lambs.--I
find out where Milk comes from.--Reflections and good
Advice._
I was born in the city of New York, in the year 1790. My parents were
both English people. At first, they were in poor circumstances, but my
father became a merchant, and acquired some property. He died, however,
in the midst of success; and in a few months after my mother followed.
I was thus left an orphan, at the age of six years, but with a fortune
of about ten thousand dollars.
My mother had a brother living in the small town of Salem, situated
upon the eastern border of the State of New York, and touching the line
of Connecticut. He kept a tavern; and, as it was upon the great road
that was then the route between Boston and New York, he had a good
situation and a thriving business.
To the care of this uncle I was committed by my mother’s will, and
immediately after her death I was taken to my uncle’s residence. I had
never been out of the city of New York, and had never seen the country.
I had supposed the world one great city, and never fancied that there
were hills, and forests, and rivers, and fields without any houses. I
still remember my journey from New York to Salem very well. I remember
that the sight of so many new things, put the recollection of my
father and my mother out of my mind, and banished the sorrow I had felt
at seeing my parents laid into the coffin, and carried away, to return
to me no more. I was delighted at everything I met, and particularly
remember some lambs that I saw playing on a hill-side. They were
scampering about, jumping from rock to rock, and chasing each other at
full speed. I had never seen a lamb before, and I thought these the
prettiest creatures that were ever made. I have since seen lions and
tigers, and many other strange creatures; but I have never met with any
animal, that excited in me half the admiration that I felt when I saw
those little lambs.
I suppose some of my young friends in the country will laugh at what I
am now going to tell them; but it is nevertheless true. As I was going
from New York to Salem, we stopped one night at a small inn. When we
arrived at this place, the sun was an hour high, and I had some time
to play about the house. As I was running around, peeping at every new
and strange thing, I saw some cows in the barn-yard. I had seen cows
before, but still I went up to the gate and looked through, and there I
saw a woman, sitting upon a little stool, and milking one of the cows.
Now I had never seen a cow milked before, nor, indeed, did I know where
milk came from. I had not thought about it at all. If I had been asked
the question, I should probably have said, that we got milk as we do
water, by pumping it from the cistern, or drawing it out of the well.
I looked at the woman for some time, wondering what she could be about.
When she had done, she came out of the yard, and I saw that her pail
was full of milk. “What is that that you have got?” said I. “It is
milk,” said the woman. “Where did you get it?” said I. “I got it from
the cow, you little simpleton!” said the woman; and then she went into
the house.
I did not like to be called a simpleton, for I had come all the way
from the great city of New York, and supposed that I knew everything.
I soon found, however, that I was ignorant of many useful things that
children of my age in the country were well acquainted with.
The little incident, however, that I have just related, was not without
its use to me. It set me thinking about other things, and I began to
ask questions about every article of food and dress,--where they came
from, and how they were made; and, in this way, I obtained a great
deal of knowledge. I would recommend it to my young readers to follow
my example in this respect. They will find it very amusing to study
into these matters. Let them one day inquire about hats, what they are
made of, where the materials come from, how they are obtained, and how
they are wrought into hats. Another day, let them take up the subject
of coats, and learn all about the cloth, the buckram, silk, twist, and
buttons, that are used in making them. So let them go through with
dress; and then they may inquire about bread, and other articles of
food; and then they may learn all about the furniture in the house.
From this subject, they may go on and learn how houses are built. I
can assure my young readers, that, in this way, they may spend their
time very pleasantly, and become well acquainted with all those useful
things with which we are surrounded. If I had done this before I went
to Salem, I should have known where milk came from, and not been called
simpleton by a milkmaid.
CHAPTER III.
_Wise Observations.--Story of the Hat._
I fancy that some of my readers imagine, that it would be a dull
business to study into the history of hats and coats, bread and butter,
and such other common-place things. But there is an old proverb which
says, “Look ere you leap;” and another which says, “Think twice and
speak once.” These admonish us never to be over-hasty in speaking or
acting; and, on the present occasion, I shall endeavor to show, that
this good rule has been transgressed by those who despise my advice
about hats and coats, bread and butter.
Here, Philip! give me a hat; let it speak for itself. Come, old hat,
tell us your story! tell us what you are made of; where the materials
of which you are made were obtained, how they were put together, and
the price at which you were sold. Come, old beaver, speak out! What!
dumb? Not a word? Then I will speak for you. So here is
THE STORY OF THE HAT, SUPPOSED TO BE
TOLD BY ITSELF.
“I am made partly of wool, which is the hair of sheep, and
partly of furs, of different kinds. There is some beaver’s
fur, some musquash’s, and some wildcat’s in me.
“I suppose that everybody knows how we get wool,--by
shearing it from the sheep’s back; but we do not get furs
in the same way. Musquashes, beavers, and wildcats are not
tame, like sheep, and they will not let you take them into
a barn, and shear off their nice, soft fur. These creatures
live far away from the abodes of men; they seek the distant
solitudes beyond the hills and mountains, and those who
would catch them must go and find them in these wild
retreats.
“Sometimes, it is true, a beaver is found nearer to our
houses, and now and then a wildcat, that has strayed from
his native forest, is found in the neighboring woods. The
musquash builds his habitation on the banks of streams, and
is not very uncommon even in districts frequented by man.
“But these animals are, on the whole, so scarce, that,
in order to obtain a supply of their fur, a great many
hunters and trappers spend their time in roaming through
the mountains, valleys, and prairies of the far West, in
order to obtain them. These people meet with a great many
strange adventures. Sometimes they will follow the branch
of a river for five hundred miles, in a boat, during which
time they will not meet with a human habitation, save the
wigwams of the Indians. Sometimes they will sleep at night
upon the ground, with no covering but a blanket; sometimes
they will meet with a party of Indians, and have a fight
with them. Sometimes they will meet with friendly Indians,
who receive them into their lodges, and entertain them
kindly; sometimes they are confronted by a grizzly bear,
who places himself in their path, and must receive at
least a dozen bullets in his breast before he is killed.
Sometimes they will roam over wide deserts, and suffer
very much for want of water. Sometimes they will be in the
midst of a vast prairie, the grass of which is on fire,
and then they have the greatest difficulty to escape from
the flames. Sometimes they are robbed of all their furs by
hostile Indians, and sometimes they meet with Indians who
sell them large quantities of fur.
“After a great many cares, and trials, and dangers, and
often after an absence of two years, the fur-hunter comes
back with his load of skins; and a pretty figure he is.
The clothes he carried with him are worn out, and he is
now attired in the skins of various wild beasts. On his
head you see the grizzled fur of a raccoon, with his tail
hanging down behind. His coat is made of a wolf’s skin,
and his vest of the skin of an otter. But his trowsers are
the drollest part of his attire. They are made of a bear’s
skin, and each leg looks like a great, shaggy, black dog,
standing upright! Altogether, the hunter is a most curious
object. He looks like three or four wild animals all sewed
into one!
“What a great variety of adventures has this man met with
in his wanderings of two years. How many pleasant stories
could he tell, if he would sit down of a long winter night,
and recount all that happened to him; all about the bears,
the foxes, the wolves, and the wild Indians that he saw.
How much this poor man must have suffered; what toil,
hunger, thirst, danger and privation; and all this, that
master Philip might have a hat; all this to get furs to
make hats of.
“The wool and fur being obtained, these are prepared by
the hatter, who, in the first place, makes a sort of cap,
shaped something like a sugar-loaf. This is then soaked
in hot water, and, being put upon a block, the crown is
made of a proper shape. The whole is stiffened with gum,
colored, dressed, put in boxes, and sent to the hat-seller.
The price paid for me was two dollars. Philip has worn me
for about a year, but I am in a sad condition. The hole in
my crown was made by a stick, which went through me one day
when Philip threw me at a red squirrel on the fence. The
rent on my brim was caused by a saucy fellow, that tried
to pull me off one day; but I chose to be torn, rather
than see Philip insulted by having his hat knocked off;
for, though the boy has his faults, I like him better than
anybody else.”
Such is the story of the hat. My object in giving it to you is, to
show, that the commonest article of daily use has its history, if we
will only inquire into it.
CHAPTER IV.
_Arrival at my Uncle’s.--The Village.--Bill Keeler.--My
first Day at School.--Trouble._
I must now return to the story of myself. The morning after I left the
little tavern where I discovered how milk was obtained, we proceeded
on our journey, and at evening arrived at my uncle’s house. It was an
old-fashioned building, painted red, with a large sign swinging in
front, upon one side of which was the picture of a stout barn-yard
cock, and on the other side was the head of a bull. So my uncle’s
tavern went by the name of the “Cock and Bull.”
I soon became acquainted with the family, and in a few weeks was quite
familiar with the main street and all the by-lanes in the village.
My uncle had no children, but there was living with him a boy about
ten years old, by the name of Bill Keeler. He became my principal
companion, and, being a very knowing sort of lad, gave me an insight
into many things, which I could not otherwise have understood.
After I had been at my uncle’s about six months, it was concluded to
send me to school. I was now seven years of age, but, strange as it may
seem to boys and girls of the present day, I did not know my letters,
and, what is more remarkable, I had a great dislike to the idea of
going to school. I believe it is the case that all people who grow up
ignorant acquire a settled dislike to learning and learned people.
As an owl can see best in the dark, because the light seems to put
his eyes out, so ignorant people love ignorance and darkness, because
truth and knowledge offend and distress them. I mention these things
as a warning to my reader against growing up in ignorance, and thereby
becoming a lover of darkness, rather than light.
Well, I went to school for the first time, and I remember all about
it to this day. The schoolhouse was situated in a large space, where
four roads met. It was a bleak and desolate hill-side, partly covered
with heaps of stones, thrown out of the path, or gathered from the
neighboring fields. There were a few groups of tangled briers and
stunted huckleberry bushes amid these heaps of stones. On the lower
side of the hill, there was an old gnarled oak growing out of a heap
of splintered rocks, at the foot of which there bubbled forth a small
stream of pure water. This fountain went by the pretty name of “Silver
Spring.”
Bill Keeler led me into the school, which was then kept by Mistress
Sally St. John. She looked at me through her spectacles, and over
her spectacles, and then patted me on the head, told me I was a good
boy, and sent me to a seat. In about an hour I was called up, the
spelling-book opened, and the alphabet being placed before me, the
mistress pointed to the first letter, and asked me what it was.
I looked at the letter very carefully, and then gazed in the face
of Mistress St. John, but said nothing. “What’s that?” said she,
peremptorily, still pointing to the first letter of the alphabet. Now
I hadn’t been used to being scolded, and therefore felt a little angry
at the manner in which the school-mistress addressed me. Beside, at
that moment I saw Bill Keeler at the other end of the room, looking at
me with a saucy twinkle in his eye, which made me still more angry.
“What’s that?” again said the school-mistress, still sharper than
before. It was time for me to do something. “I’ll not tell you!” said
I. “Why not?” said the school-mistress, greatly amazed at my conduct.
“Because I didn’t come here to teach you your letters; but I came here
to learn them.”
The school-mistress shut up her book. Bill Keeler rolled up his
eyes, and made his mouth into a round O. “Go to your seat!” said the
school-mistress. I turned to go. “Stop!” said the school-mistress,
fetching me a slap on the side of the head; at the same moment she
opened the book, and again presented the alphabet to my view. “Look,
there!” said she, pointing with her finger to the top letter; “do you
see that?” I answered, “Yes.” “Well, that’s A,” said she. “That’s
A?” said I, doubtingly. “Yes,” said the mistress sharply. “I don’t
believe it!” said I. “Why don’t you believe it?” said she. “Because
I never heard of it before,” I replied. “Go to your seat!” said the
school-mistress; and away I went.
Such was my first day’s schooling. In the evening, Mistress St. John
called upon my uncle, and told him I was the most stupid creature she
ever saw, and very ill-mannered beside; and she hoped I would by no
means be permitted to come again to her school. My uncle was greatly
offended, not with me, but with the school-mistress. He declared
I should not go near her again; and, for more than a year, I was
permitted to amuse myself in my own way. I was greatly pleased with
all this at the time, but I have since often thought how severely I
was punished for my ill behavior at school. For more than a year, I
was left to run about in idleness, getting bad habits, and losing the
precious time that should have been devoted to the acquisition of
knowledge. Thus it always happens, that, soon or late, we are made to
suffer for our misconduct.
(_To be continued._)
Swallows.
Of these birds there are several kinds, but I am going to speak of only
one or two of them now. The common barn swallow is one of the most
interesting. It does not come much among us at the north, till the
settled warm weather of May. A straggler now and then appears before,
which has led to the adage, “One swallow does not make summer.”
The flight of the swallow is often low, but distinguished by great
rapidity, and sudden turns and evolutions, executed as if by magic.
Over fields and meadows, and the surface of pools and sheets of water,
all the day may this fleet, unwearied bird be seen, skimming along, and
describing, in its oft repeated circuit, the most intricate mazes. The
surface of the water is indeed its delight; its insect food is there
in great profusion; and it is beautiful to observe how dexterously it
skims along, and with what address it dips and emerges, shaking the
spray from its burnished plumage, as, hardly interrupted by the plunge,
it continues its career. Thus it feeds, and drinks, and bathes upon the
wing.
[Illustration: _Bank Swallows._]
The swallow breeds twice a year, and constructs its nest of mud or
clay, mixed with hair and straw; the clay is tempered with the saliva
of the bird, (with which nature has supplied it,) in order to make it
tenacious and easily moulded. The shell or crust of the nest, thus
composed, is lined with fine grass or feathers, firmly fixed against
the rafters of barns or out-houses. The writer has heard of a pair that
yearly built in the rafters of a wheelwright’s shop, undisturbed by
the din of the hammer or the grating of the saw. The propensity which
these birds, in common with their family, exhibit to return to the same
spot, and to build in the same barn year after year, is one of the most
curious parts of their history. During their sojourn in foreign climes,
they forget not their old home, the spot where they were bred, the spot
where they have reared their offspring; but, as soon as their instinct
warns them to retrace their pilgrimage, back they hasten, and, as
experiments have repeatedly proved, the identical pair that built last
summer in the barn, again take up their old quarters, passing in and
out by the same opening.
It is delightful to witness the care which the swallow manifests
towards her brood. When able to leave the nest, she leads them to
the ridge of the barn, where, settled in a row, and as yet unable to
fly, she feeds them with great assiduity. In a day or two they become
capable of flight, and then they follow their parents in all their
evolutions, and are fed by them while on the wing. In a short time they
commence an independent career, and set up for themselves.
The notes of the swallow, though hurried and twittering, are very
pleasing; and the more so as they are associated in our minds with
ideas of spring, and calm serenity, and rural pleasures. The time in
which the bird pours forth its melody is chiefly at sunrise, when, in
“token of a goodly day,” his rays are bright and warm.
“The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed,”
unite alike to call man from his couch of rest, and to praise “the God
of seasons as they roll.”
After the work of rearing the young, ere autumn sears the leaf, the
swallow prepares to depart. Multitudes, from various quarters, now
congregate together, and perch at night in clusters on barns or the
branches of trees, but especially among the reeds of marshes and fens,
round which they may be observed wheeling and sinking and rising again,
all the time twittering vociferously, before they finally settle. It
was from this circumstance that some of the older naturalists supposed
the swallow to become torpid and remain submerged beneath the water
during winter, and to issue forth from its liquid tenement on the
return of spring; a theory utterly incompatible with reason and facts,
and now universally discarded. The great body of these birds depart
about the end of September.
The Holy Scriptures make frequent allusions to this interesting bird.
Jeremiah, reproaching the Jews for their turning away from God, alludes
to the swallow as obeying His laws, while they who have seen his glory
rebelled: “Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times;
and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their
coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.” viii. 7.
The Psalmist notices the partiality of this bird for the temple of
worship, the sanctuary of God: “Yea, the sparrow hath found an house,
and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even
thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.” Psalm lxxxiv. 3.
Hezekiah, king of Judah, wrote of himself, “Like a crane or a swallow,
so did I chatter.” Is. xxxviii. 14. In these casual notices we at least
trace out that the habits, migration, and song of the swallow, were
known to the inspired writers; a circumstance of no little value, since
a false assertion that the facts of natural history are not correctly
stated in the Bible, has long been among the weak engines used by the
infidel against the validity of that book, “which maketh wise unto
salvation.”
The Sand Martin, or Bank Swallow, is a most curious bird of this
family. It is the least of the tribe, and the first to arrive,
appearing a week or two before the swallow, and often while the
weather is severe. Its flight is vacillating, but it is equally fond
of skimming over the surface of the water. This bird, unlike its race,
mines deep holes in sand or chalk cliffs, to the depth of two feet, or
even more, at the extremity of which it constructs a loose nest of
fine grass and feathers, artificially put together, in which it rears
its brood.
The sand martin is of a social disposition; hence flocks of them unite
to colonize a favorite locality, such as a precipitous bank or rock,
which they crowd with their burrows. Professor Pallas says, that on the
high banks of the Irtish, their nests are in some places so numerous,
that, when disturbed, the inmates come out in vast flocks and fill
the air like flies; and, according to Wilson, they swarm in immense
multitudes along the banks of the Ohio and Kentucky.
What, it may be asked, are the instruments by which this little
creature is able to bore into the solid rock, and excavate such a
chamber? Its beak is its only instrument. This is a sharp little awl,
peculiarly hard, and tapering suddenly to a point from a broad base;
with this tool the bird proceeds to work, picking away from the centre
to the circumference of the aperture, which is nearly circular; thus it
works round and round as it proceeds, the gallery being more or less
curved in its course, and having a narrow funnel-shaped termination.
The author of “The Architecture of Birds” informs us that he has
watched one of these swallows “cling with its sharp claws to the face
of a sandbank, and peg in its bill, as a miner would do his pickaxe,
till it had loosened a considerable portion of the sand, and then
tumbled it down amongst the rubbish below.”
The Human Frame likened to a
House.
Man’s body’s like a house: his greater bones
Are the main timbers; and the lesser ones
Are smaller joists; his limbs are laths daubed o’er,
Plastered with flesh and blood; his mouth’s the door;
His throat’s the narrow entry; and his heart
Is the great chamber, full of curious art.
His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat
Is often put, half sod, for want of heat.
His spleen’s a vessel nature does allot
To take the scum that rises from the pot;
His lungs are like the bellows, that respire
In every office, quickening every fire;
His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented
Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented;
His eyes are crystal windows, clear and bright,
Let in the object, and let out the sight;
And as the timber is, or great or small,
Or strong or weak, ’tis apt to stand or fall.
[Illustration: Chinese Spectacles]
Chinese Spectacles.
Mr. Davis, in his account of China, tells us that the people there do
not make glass that is fine enough for spectacles, and therefore they
use pieces of rock crystal for the purpose. The rims of the spectacles
are of immense size and width, and give a very wise appearance to the
wearer. The spectacles are attached to the head by silken strings slung
over the ears, as represented in the picture.
[Illustration: _View of the Bastile._]
Story of Philip Brusque;
SHOWING THE NATURE AND NECESSITY OF GOVERNMENT AND LAWS.
CHAPTER I.
_Early Life of Philip Brusque.--He engages in the French
Revolution.--Is at length suspected by Robespierre, and
obliged to fly.--Enters on board a Ship, and is cast away upon
an uninhabited Island in the Indian Ocean.--Description of
the place.--Philip fancies that he is now happy, having found
perfect Liberty._
Philip Brusque was a young Frenchman, who engaged very heartily in
the revolution that began to agitate France about the year 1789. He
was young, ardent and discontented. Though he had little education,
he had still read many of the papers and pamphlets of the day. These
had filled his mind with a horror of kings, and the most intoxicating
dreams of liberty. Knowing little of political government, except that
of France, and which he saw to be corrupt and despotic, he adopted the
idea that all government was bad, and to this he attributed nearly all
the evils of society. With the ardor of a young but heated fancy, he
looked forward to the destruction of the monarchy as certain to bring a
political millennium, when every man should walk forth in freedom and
happiness, restrained by no law except the moral sense of man, and the
innate perception and love of human rights.
With these views, which were then common among the French people,
and which artful disorganizers had disseminated, in order thereby to
acquire power, Philip arrived at Paris. He was soon engaged in several
of the debating clubs of that great metropolis, and being possessed
of natural eloquence, he speedily became a leader. He was present at
the destruction of the Bastile, and his own vigorous hand battered
down more than one of the iron doors of that horrid prison. Looking
upon these gloomy walls, with their dark chambers, and the chains and
instruments of torture which were found there, as at once emblems and
instruments of that tyranny which had cursed his country for ages,
Philip felt a high inspiration in witnessing its demolition. As one
portion after another of the massy wall was hurled to the earth, he
seemed to fancy that a whole nation must breathe more freely; and in
seeing the pallid wretches delivered from the dungeon, where some of
them had been imprisoned for years, he seemed to think that he saw the
spirit of his country set at liberty.
The Bastile was soon but a heap of ruins. The whole fabric of the
French monarchy, which had existed for twelve centuries, in a few brief
years had shared the same fate. Louis XVI. had been beheaded, and his
beautiful queen had been brought to the block. In all these scenes
Brusque had taken a part. He was present at the execution of Marie
Antoinette. He had no respect for majesty, but he was not yet lost to a
sense of decency in respect to woman. The shocking and brutal insults
offered to the queen, worse than anything ever witnessed among savages,
disgusted Philip. He was indeed sick of blood, and he ventured to speak
his sentiments aloud. His words were repeated to Robespierre and the
rest of the bloody men who then held the sway. Philip became suspected,
and he was obliged to fly to save his life. He reached the coast of
France with difficulty, and entering on board a merchant ship as a
sailor, set out upon a voyage to China.
Nothing remarkable happened for some time; but when the ship had
doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and entered the Indian Ocean, a violent
storm arose. The vessel contended bravely with the waves for a time,
but at length her masts were swept away, the helm was broken, and the
hull of the ship rolled like a log amidst the tumbling waters. She then
drifted for a time at the mercy of the winds, and at length came near
a small island. She then struck on a rock, and went to pieces. All
the crew were drowned except the hero of our story, who seized upon a
plank, and, after two days of toil and suffering, reached the shore of
the island.
He landed upon a pebbly beach, but he was so exhausted as only to be
able to draw himself up from the waves. There he lay for a long time,
almost unconscious of existence. At length, his strength returned,
and he began to think over what had happened. When his reason was, at
last, fully returned, he fell upon his knees, and thanked Heaven for
his preservation. It was the first prayer he had uttered for years, for
Philip Brusque had been told by the French revolutionists that there
was no God, and that prayer was a mere mockery. But now he prayed, and
felt in his heart that there was indeed a God, that claimed gratitude
and thanksgiving from the lips of one who had been saved from death,
while his companions had all been drowned.
Philip was soon able to look about the island and make observations. It
was a lovely spot, about four miles in circuit, and pleasantly varied
with hills and valleys. It was almost covered with beautiful trees, on
some of which there were delicious fruits. Birds of bright feathers
and joyous notes glanced through the forests, and sweet perfumes were
wafted on the warm, soft breezes. Philip walked about the island,
his delight and wonder increasing at every step. And what seemed to
please him most of all was, that the island was without a single human
inhabitant except himself.
“Now,” said Philip, in the fulness of his heart, “I shall be happy.
Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. Here is no prison like the
Bastile; here is no king to make slaves of his fellow-men; here is no
Robespierre to plot the murder of his fellow-citizens. Oh liberty!
how have I worshipped thee, and here, in this lone island, I have now
found thee. Here, I can labor or rest, eat or drink, wake or sleep, as
I please. Here is no one to control my actions or my thoughts. In my
native country, all the land belongs to a few persons, but here I can
take as much land as I please. I can freely pick the fruit from the
trees according to my choice or my wants. How different is my situation
from what it was in France! There, everything belonged to somebody, and
I was restrained from taking anything, unless I paid for it. Here, all
is free; all is mine. Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. In France, I
was under the check and control of a thousand laws; here, there is no
law but my own will. Here, I have indeed found perfect liberty.”
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: family]
The Sailor’s Family.
There once lived in Ireland a sailor, who had a wife and one child. He
was poor, but still he provided a small house for his family, had it
decently furnished, and, as he always brought them money when he came
home from his voyages, they were quite comfortable.
He was very fond of his little boy, and he, too, was very fond of his
father. The sailor used to go in a ship to the West Indies, and, when
he returned, he always brought back some nice oranges and other good
things for his little son.
Well, the Irishman, whose name was Kelly, had once been gone on a
voyage to the West Indies for several months, and his family were
expecting every day that he would return. Whenever the door was opened,
the boy looked up to see if it was not his father who had come.
Four months passed away, and no news came. And now Mrs. Kelly had
become very much afraid that something had happened to her husband.
She feared that the vessel had been cast away upon some rocky shore,
or that it had sunk in the deep sea, or that some other misfortune had
occurred, by which her husband had perished.
The boy, too, became very uneasy, and was every day expressing his
wonder that his father did not come back. At length, a man, who lived
near by, came into the house, and told Mrs. Kelly that he had brought
sad news. He then went on to tell her that the vessel in which her
husband sailed, had been driven ashore in a gale of wind, and dashed to
pieces upon a rocky island, and it was supposed that all on board had
perished.
Some persons from another vessel had landed upon the island, and found
papers and pieces of the wreck upon the shore, by which they knew it
was the vessel in which Kelly had sailed. The island was small, and
there was no person upon it.
This was sad intelligence to the poor sailor’s wife, and it was long
before she could find it in her heart to break the news to her child.
When he heard it, he shed many tears, and peace returned no more to the
sailor’s home.
Being deprived of the assistance of her husband, Mrs. Kelly was obliged
to make great exertions to support herself and child with comfort. She
was, however, very industrious, and, for a time, she got along pretty
well.
At length she was taken sick, and a little girl was added to her
family. When she was partially recovered, she found herself poor, and
a good deal in debt to her landlord. He was a cruel man; he took away
her furniture for what she owed him, and then turned the widow and her
family into the street.
The poor woman was still unwell; and it was with great difficulty that
she walked about a mile to the house of a farmer, whom she knew, hoping
that he would render her assistance. But he would give her nothing.
She was now in great distress, and did not know where to find even
shelter. Sad, sick, and almost broken-hearted, she crept toward a
stable, and sat down upon some straw. Here she remained for some time,
with her infant in her arms, and her boy’s head resting on her lap.
Where could she now look for aid? She had no friends, from whom she
could expect assistance. At length her thoughts turned to that good
Being, who is ever the friend of the poor and the distressed. To him
she prayed fervently, and so deeply was her mind absorbed in this
act of devotion, that she did not notice a man who at the moment was
passing by, on the public road.
He was on foot, and seeing the woman and her children, stepped toward
them, to observe them more carefully. When Mrs. Kelly had finished her
petition and opened her eyes, the man was standing before her.
She instantly perceived that he was a sailor, and that his countenance
bespoke amazement; and then it struck her that he seemed to bear a
wonderful likeness to her lost husband. At length he spoke her name,
and the poor woman, betwixt fear and joy, would have fallen through
faintness to the ground. Kelly supported her, for it was he!
When she recovered, mutual explanations took place. She told her story,
and he related his, which was this. The ship in which he sailed was
wrecked upon the island, and all perished save himself and two others.
These were taken off the island, by a vessel going to the East Indies.
As soon as he could, he left this ship, and got into a vessel that was
going to England; and thus, after an absence of eight months, returned
to his country. I need not attempt to describe the happiness that now
filled again the hearts of the sailor’s family.
[Illustration: horse]
The Groom and the Horse;
A FABLE, TO SHOW THE DISADVANTAGES OF DECEPTION.
A groom, whose business it was to take care of a certain horse, let
the animal go loose into the field. After a while, he wanted to catch
him, but the brute chose to run about at liberty, rather than be shut
up in the stable; so he pranced round the field and kept out of the
groom’s way. The groom now went to the granary, and got the measure
with which he was wont to bring the horse his oats. When the horse saw
the measure, he thought to be sure that the groom had some oats for
him; and so he went up to him, and was instantly caught and taken to
the stable.
Another day, the horse was in the field, and refused to be caught. So
the groom again got the measure, and held it out, inviting the horse,
as before, to come up to him. But the animal shook his head, saying,
“Nay, master groom; you told me a lie the other day, and I am not so
silly as to be cheated a second time by you.”
“But,” said the groom, “I did not _tell_ you a lie; I only held out the
measure, and you fancied that it was full of oats. I did not _tell_ you
there were oats in it.”
“Your excuse is worse than the cheat itself,” said the horse. “You held
out the measure, and thereby did as much as to say, ‘_I have got some
oats for you_.’”
Actions speak as well as words. Every deceiver, whether by words or
deeds, is a liar; and nobody, that has been once deceived by him, will
fail to shun and despise him ever after.
[Illustration: Druids]
The Druids.
The Druids were a remarkable race of priests, who first came into
Europe with the Celts, the first settlers of that quarter of the globe,
and who seem to have exercised almost unlimited sway in civil and
religious matters. Of their origin and history very little is known;
but the early writers have given such accounts of them as to make it
evident that their influence among the Gauls and Britons was very
great. At the time they flourished, Christianity had not penetrated
into those countries, and the religion of the Druids was exercised
there without check or control. The best account of them is given by
Julius Cæsar, who conquered Gaul and a part of Britain about fifty
years before Christ; but these countries were so wild and uncultivated,
and the manners of the people so barbarous, that all the intelligence
he could collect respecting this singular race of men, is far from
satisfying our curiosity.
The Druids appear to have exercised the office of civil magistrates, as
well as that of ministers of religion. Neither their laws nor precepts
of religion were committed to writing, but were preserved in poems,
which were learned by heart, and recited on special occasions. They
had the power of life and death over the multitude; and such was the
superstitious terror with which they inspired the people, that their
orders were always implicitly obeyed. The most characteristic part
of their religious worship was their veneration for the oak tree, and
the mistletoe, which is a plant that grows on the trunks of the oak.
No ceremony was performed by the Druids without some part of this tree
being used to consecrate it. They wore garlands of oak leaves upon
their heads, for they believed that everything which grew upon this
tree came from heaven.
The ceremony of gathering the mistletoe was always performed with much
solemnity, and in such a manner as to strike the multitude with awe.
This plant is very rare, and when any of it was discovered, the Druids
set out with great pomp to procure it. This was always done on the
sixth day of the moon, a day which they deemed of particular sanctity.
When they arrived at the oak on which the mistletoe grew, a great
banquet and sacrifice was prepared under the tree. Two white bulls were
tied by the horns to the trunk of the tree. One of the priests, clad in
a white garment, then mounted the tree, and with a golden knife cut off
the mistletoe, which was received by another priest in a white cloak.
They then offered up their prayers and sacrifices. The mistletoe,
besides being an object of religious veneration, was considered an
antidote to poison, and to possess many other virtues.
The Druids performed their worship in the deepest recesses of the
woods, far from human dwellings; a circumstance which added to the
superstitious awe with which the common people regarded them. One of
these spots is described by the poet Lucan. This wood, according to
his account, had never been touched by the axe since the creation.
The trees of it grew so thick and were so interwoven, that the rays
of the sun could not penetrate through the branches, and a damp and
chilling darkness reigned throughout. Nothing was to be seen in the
neighborhood except a multitude of altars, on which human victims had
been sacrificed, and the blood of which had stained the trees of a
horrid crimson. Ancient traditions affirmed that no bird ever perched
upon their branches, no beast ever walked under them, no wind ever blew
through them, and no lightning ever struck them.
The idols which these gloomy recesses contained, were a species of rude
and shapeless trunks, having some resemblance to the human figure,
and covered with a tawny yellow moss. If the superstitious belief of
the multitude might be credited, these mystic groves were frequently
shaken by some unearthly movement, and dreadful sounds issued from the
caverns and hollows which abounded in them. Sometimes, we are told,
the woods would be wrapt in a flame of fire without being consumed;
and sometimes the oaks would be twined round with monstrous dragons.
At the hours of noon and midnight the priests entered these gloomy
abodes, to celebrate their mysteries with trembling and terror. Such
appalling accounts of these frightful regions, probably originated with
the Druids themselves, who wished to deter the multitude, by every sort
of dreadful description, from penetrating into the secrets of their
superstitious practices.
Plutarch informs us that a Roman commander named Demetrius was sent
by one of the emperors to an island of the Druids, for the purpose of
making discoveries, but that the Roman adventurers were repulsed by a
strange phenomenon. Immediately on their arrival, says the account,
the heavens grew black; the winds arose; strange apparitions were
seen in the sky; a dreadful tempest sprung up, and the heavens were
filled with fiery spouts and whirlwinds. The Romans desisted from
their attempt, in the dread of being destroyed for their sacrilegious
invasion of a consecrated spot. Probably all this was nothing more than
an ordinary thunder-storm, which the fright of the Romans magnified
into a supernatural occurrence.
The Druids were also addicted to the horrid practice of sacrificing
human victims. These were sometimes criminals who had offended either
the laws or the religious prejudices of the Druids. It often happened
that, when a man’s life was in danger, from sickness or any other
cause, the Druids undertook to secure his safety by a human sacrifice
to their false deities. When criminals could not be found, innocent
persons were taken for victims. Huge hollow piles of osier twigs, bark
or hay were erected, and filled with these unhappy wretches; after
which the whole was set on fire and consumed. Under the guidance of the
Druids, the people at their funerals burnt the bodies of the dead, and
threw into the blazing pile all their most valuable property, and even
their servants and slaves. Sometimes the near relatives of the deceased
burnt themselves with their friends, in the manner practised at the
present day by the Hindoo widows.
The Druids extended their worship over the greater part of the modern
kingdom of France, which was then named Gaul, the southern part of the
island of Great Britain, and the island of Hibernia, now Ireland. Their
most celebrated abode was the island of Mona, now called Anglesey, on
the coast of Wales. In this island are some remains of the Druidical
superstition, consisting of immense blocks of stone, supposed to have
been altars. The celebrated structure in the south of England, known
by the name of Stonehenge, is also considered a remnant of Druidical
architecture, though we are not positive that the Druids ever performed
their worship in temples.
From all the accounts transmitted to us by the ancient writers, it is
pretty evident that the Druids were possessed of considerable knowledge
for so barbarous an age, and that they made all possible use of this
knowledge to perpetuate their authority and keep the rest of the people
in ignorance of the true character of their religious mysteries. Their
influence, wherever they prevailed, was very great. When the Romans
invaded Britain, they found the inhabitants almost entirely subject
to their control. The Druids offered an obstinate resistance to the
Romans, and incited the Britons, on many occasions, to revolt against
them. The Romans perceived at length that the subjugation of the island
would never be effected until the Druids were entirely extirpated. They
therefore waged a war of extermination against them, put them to death
in every quarter, and the last of the race having fled for shelter
to Anglesey, the Romans crossed over to that island, destroyed their
idols, cut down their groves, and burnt the priests to death, as they
had been accustomed to burn their victims. Such was the end of the race
and religion of the Druids.
* * * * *
PLAIN DEALING.--An impertinent fellow asked Lord Guilford, who that
plain lady was before him. “That lady,” said his lordship, “is my wife.
It is true, she is a plain woman, I am a plain man, you are a plain
dealer, and that is the plain truth.”
[Illustration: _Hospital of the Invalides, where Napoleon’s body is now
entombed. Paris._]
The Re-entombment of Napoleon.
Of all the great and remarkable men of modern times, Napoleon Bonaparte
was the most wonderful. He was a son of a lawyer of Corsica, an island
in the Mediterranean sea, belonging to France. From a humble station he
rose to be the emperor of France, and the greatest general of modern
times. He hurled kings from their thrones, and put others in their
places. He dismembered empires, and created new ones. He made the whole
earth ring with his mighty deeds. But one thing he could not do--he
could not conquer himself. His ambition led him on from one step of
injustice to another, till the embattled armies of Europe appeared in
the field against him. He was defeated, dethroned, and taken on board
a British ship to the rocky and lonely island of St. Helena, where he
died in 1821.
After being entombed for almost twenty years, the king, Louis Philippe,
sent out a ship to bring back his body to France, to be re-entombed
in the capital of the empire of which he once swayed the sceptre. The
hearts of many of the French people adore the name of Napoleon; and the
ceremony of his re-entombment, which has just taken place at Paris, is
the theme of the fallowing lines.
Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!
Come in long procession, come!
Come with sword and come with lance,
Children of heroic France;
Come from castle’s frowning wall,
Come from the ancestral hall,
Come, poor peasant, from thy shed,
Cowled monk and crowned head!
From the hamlet’s green retreat,
From the city’s crowded street,
From the proud Tuilleries’ door
Let the royal escort pour;
Duke and baron, king and queen,
Gather to the august scene;
In your purple pomp arrayed,
Haste to swell the grand parade.
Brow of snow and locks of gold,
Matron, maiden, young and old!
Sound the trumpets, roll the drum,
For Napoleon’s ashes come!
Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!
Let the cannon be not dumb;
Charge your black guns to the brim,
Invalides! to welcome him!
War-worn veterans, onward march
To Etoiles’ towering arch.
Let the column of Vendome,
Let the Pantheon’s soaring dome,
Champs de Mars and Elysees,
Hear the clang of arms to-day;
Let the Luxembourg once more
Hear Napoleon’s cannon roar.
Bring the eagles forth that flew
O’er the field of Waterloo,
Bring his tattered banners, red
With the blood at Jena shed,
Scorched with fire and torn with steel,
Rent by battle’s crushing heel,
When the fight o’er Moscow pealed,
And Marengo’s sanguine field;
Sound the clarion’s wildest strain,
For the conqueror comes again!
Sound a sad funereal wail
For the warrior stark and pale!
Hussar and dark cuirassier,
Lancer and fierce grenadier;
Soldiers of the Seine and Rhone,
Join the universal moan.
Conscripts who have never yet
In the front of battle met,
Join your sorrows to the grief
Of these veterans for their chief!
Veterans, raise your brows the while,
As of yore by Rhine and Nile;
Show the frequent ghastly scar
Won in following him to war;
Tell the fields where you have bled,
Left a limb, or heart’s-blood shed;
And remembering each brave year,
March on proudly by his bier----
Forth with drooping weapons come
To the rolling of the drum!
Let the city’s busy hum
Cease when rolls the muffled drum;
Let no light laugh, no rude sound,
E’er disturb the hush profound!
Only let the swinging bell
Of St. Roche peal out its knell.
Silence! on his rolling car
Comes the favored Child of war!
Not as in the olden days,
With his forehead bound with bays,
With the bright sword in his hand,
Encircled with his ancient band.
Long the sceptre and the crown
At the grave hath he laid down.
Now with coffin and with shroud
Comes the chieftain once so proud.
On his pale brow, on his cheek,
Death hath set his signet bleak,
And the dead alone doth crave
Rest and silence in the grave.
Sound the trumpet, roll the drum,
Bear his ashes to the tomb!
What is Truth?
Truth is conformity to fact, in a statement or representation. If I say
that London is the largest city in the world, my statement conforms to
fact, and is therefore true. If I say that Boston has more inhabitants
than New York, my statement does not conform to fact, and therefore is
not true. There is one thing more to be considered, which is, that the
statement must conform to fact in the sense in which it is meant to be
understood. If I say a thing which is literally true, but which is not
true in the sense in which I mean it to be understood, then I am guilty
of falsehood, because I intend to deceive. The following story will
illustrate this.
Two boys, who had been studying geography, were walking together one
evening, when one of them exclaimed, “How bright the sun shines!” The
other boy immediately replied that, as it was evening, the sun did not
shine. The first boy insisted that it did shine; whereupon a dispute
arose, one of the boys insisting that the sun did shine, the other that
it did not. At last, they agreed to leave the point to their father,
and accordingly they went to him and stated the case. They both agreed
that it was nine o’clock at night; that the stars were glittering in
the sky; that the sun had been down for nearly two hours; and yet John,
the elder of the boys, maintained that, at that moment, the sun was
shining as bright as at noon-day.
When his father demanded an explanation, John said that the geography
he had just been studying, stated that when it was night here, it was
day in China--“and now,” said he, “of course the sun is shining there,
though it is night here. I said that the sun shines, and so it does.”
To this the father replied as follows: “What you say _now_, John, is
true, but still, what you said to James was a falsehood. You knew that
he understood you to say that the sun shone _here_--you meant that he
should so understand you; you meant to convey a statement to his mind
that did not conform to fact, and which was therefore untrue. You had
a reservation in your own mind, which you withheld from James. You
did not say to him that you restricted your statement to China--that
was no part of your assertion. Truth requires us not only to watch
over our words, but the ideas we communicate. If we intentionally
communicate ideas which are false, then we are guilty of falsehood.
Now you said to James that which was untrue, according to the sense in
which you knew he would, and in which you intended he should, receive
it, and therefore you meant to violate the truth. I must accordingly
decide against John, and in favor of James. John was wrong, and James
is right. The sun did not shine as John said it did, and as James
understood him to say it did.”
There are many other cases which illustrate this “truth to the
letter and lie to the sense.” Some years since, during the laws
against travelling on the Sabbath, a man was riding on horseback near
Worcester, in Massachusetts. It chanced to be of a Sunday morning, and
the traveller was soon stopped by a tythingman, who demanded his reason
for riding on the Lord’s day, and thus violating the law.
“My father lies dead in Sutton,” said the other, “and I hope you will
not detain me.”
“Certainly not,” said the tythingman, “under these circumstances;”
and accordingly he allowed the man to proceed. About two days after,
the traveller was returning, and happened to meet the tythingman in
the road. The two persons recognised each other, and accordingly the
following conversation ensued:
“You passed here on Sunday morning, I think, sir,” said the tythingman.
“Yes, sir,” said the traveller.
“And you told me you were going to your father’s funeral--pray when did
he die?”
“I did not say I was going to my father’s funeral--I said he lay dead
in Sutton, and so he did; but he has been dead for fifteen years.”
Thus you perceive that while the words of the traveller were literally
true, they conveyed an intentional falsehood to the tythingman, and
therefore the traveller was guilty of deception. I know that people
sometimes think these tricks very witty, but they are very wicked.
Truth would be of no value, if it might be used for the purposes of
deception; it is because truth forbids all deception, and requires open
dealing, that it is so much prized. It is always a poor bargain to give
away truth for the sake of a momentary advantage, or for the purpose
of playing off an ingenious trick. To barter truth for fun or mischief
is giving away gold for dross. Every time a person tells a lie, or
practises a deception, he inflicts an injury upon his mind, not visible
to the eye of man, but as plain to the eye of God as a scar upon the
flesh. By repeated falsehoods, a person may scar over his whole soul,
so as to make it offensive in the sight of that Being, whose love
and favor we should seek, for his friendship is the greatest of all
blessings.
[Illustration: child reading]
Varieties.
A CHILD’S AFFECTION FOR A KITTEN.--A short time since, a little girl,
daughter of Mr. Alexander Rice, lost her life through her affection for
a kitten. She had followed a small boy to the river, weeping bitterly
because he was about to drown a kitten for which she had formed a
strong attachment; and no sooner was it tossed into the water, than the
agonized child took off its shoes, and, raising its clothes, walked
into the river with a firm and determined step, towards the object of
her affection; but, before reaching it, she suddenly sank into deep
water, and her gentle spirit returned to the God who gave it.
* * * * *
A MUSICAL MOUSE. --One evening, as some officers on board a British
man-of-war were seated round the fire, one of them began to play a
plaintive air on a violin. He had scarcely played ten minutes, when a
mouse, apparently frantic, made its appearance in the centre of the
floor. The strange gestures of the little animal strongly excited the
attention of the officers, who, with one consent, resolved to let it
continue its singular actions unmolested. Its exertions now appeared to
be greater every moment; it shook its head, leaped about the table,
and exhibited signs of the most ecstatic delight. It was observed,
that in proportion to the gradation of the tones to the soft point,
the feelings of the animal appeared to be increased. After performing
actions, which so diminutive an animal would, at first sight, seem
incapable of, the little creature, to the astonishment of the
spectators, suddenly ceased to move, fell down, and expired, without
any symptoms of pain.
* * * * *
TRAVELLING CATS.--A lady residing in Glasgow, Scotland, had a handsome
cat sent to her from Edinburgh. It was conveyed to her in a close
basket, and in a carriage. She was carefully watched for two months,
but, having produced a pair of young ones at the end of that time,
she was left at her own discretion, which she very soon employed in
disappearing with both her kittens. The lady at Glasgow wrote to her
friend in Edinburgh, deploring her loss; and the cat was supposed to
have formed some new attachment, with as little reflection as men and
women sometimes do.
About a fortnight, however, after her disappearance at Glasgow, her
well-known _mew_ was heard at the street-door of her old mistress in
Edinburgh, and there she was, with both her kittens! they in the best
state, but she very thin. It is clear, that she could carry only one
kitten at a time. The distance from Glasgow to Edinburgh is forty
miles; so that, if she brought one kitten part of the way, and then
went back for the other, and thus conveyed them alternately, she must
have travelled one hundred and twenty miles at least. Her prudence must
likewise have suggested the necessity of journeying in the night, with
many other precautions for the safety of her young.
* * * * *
A MUSICAL PIGEON.--Bertoni, a famous instructor in music, while
residing in Venice, took a pigeon for his companion, and, being very
fond of birds, made a great pet of it. The pigeon, by being constantly
in his master’s company, obtained so perfect an ear for music, that no
one who saw his behavior could doubt for a moment of the pleasure the
bird took in hearing him play and sing.
* * * * *
SWIFTNESS OF BIRDS.--A vulture can fly at the rate of one hundred and
fifty miles an hour. Observations on the coast of Labrador convinced
Major Arkwright, that wild geese could travel at the rate of ninety
miles an hour. The common crow can fly twenty-five miles, and swallows
ninety-two miles, an hour. It is said, that a falcon, belonging to
Henry the Fourth, was discovered at Malta, twenty-four hours after
its departure from Fontainebleau. If true, this bird must have flown,
for twenty-four hours, at the rate of fifty-seven miles an hour, not
allowing him to rest a moment during the whole time.
* * * * *
A BRAVE IRISHMAN.--An Irishman, who was a soldier of the Revolution,
and of Warren’s brigade, was suddenly stopped near Boston by a party,
during a dark night; a horseman’s pistol was presented to his breast,
and he was asked to which side he belonged. The supposition that it
might be a British party, rendered his situation extremely critical.
He replied, “I think it would be more in the way of civility, just to
drop a hint which side you are pleased to favor.” “No,” testily said
the first speaker; “declare your sentiments, or die!” “Then I will not
die with a lie in my mouth. American, to extremity! Do your worst, you
_spalpeen_!” The officer replied, “We are your friends; and I rejoice
to meet with a man so faithful to the cause of his country.”
* * * * *
SEARCHING FOR HIDDEN GOLD.--Kidd was a famous sea robber on the
American coast, and many people believe that he buried large pots
or chests of gold, somewhere along the shore. A number of laborers,
believers of this legend, at work in a field, accidentally discovered,
upon the top of a large stone, an inscription in ancient characters,
which, on deciphering, read as follows:
“Take me up, and I will tell you more.”
Eager for the money, and entertaining no doubt of their being close
upon it, they immediately set about raising the stone. After tugging
and toiling several hours, they finally succeeded, and with some
difficulty read on the bottom,
“Lay me down as I was before.”
* * * * *
READY WIT.--A countryman the other day, for information, asked an
Hibernian, who was busily engaged in the street driving down stones,
“Pat, when will you get this street done?” “How did you know my name
was Pat?” inquired the Irishman. “Why, I _guessed_ as much.” “Then,”
replied Pat, “since you are good at guessing, you may guess when the
street will be finished.”
* * * * *
MONUMENT OF AFFECTION.--There is a monument near Copenhagen, erected
by Count Schimmelman, called “The Weeping Eye.” That nobleman’s grief
for the death of his wife was so excessive, that he caused a statue to
be erected over a spring, and made the water spout from the eye, as a
continual flood of tears.
JACK FROST, A SONG,
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
_Andante._
[Illustration: Music]
1
Who hath killed the pretty flow’rs,
Born and bred in summer bowers;
Who hath ta’en away their bloom
Who hath swept them to the tomb?
Jack Frost, Jack Frost.
2
Who hath chased the birds so gay,
Lark and linnet, all away?
Who hath hushed their joyous breath,
And made the woodland still as death?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
3
Who hath chilled the laughing river?
Who doth make the old oak shiver?
Who hath wrapped the world in snow?
Who doth make the wild winds blow?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
4
Who doth ride on snowy drift
When the night wind’s keen and swift--
O’er the land and o’er the sea--
Bent on mischief--who is he?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
5
Who doth strike with icy dart,
The way-worn traveller to the heart?
Who doth make the ocean-wave--
The seaman’s home--the seaman’s grave?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
6
Who doth prowl at midnight hour
Like a thief around the door,
Through each crack and crevice creeping,
Through the very key-hole peeping?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
7
Who doth pinch the traveller’s toes?
Who doth wring the school-boy’s nose?
Who doth make your fingers tingle?
Who doth make the sleigh bells jingle?
Jack Frost--Jack Frost.
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
My own Adventures.
(_Continued from page 15._)
CHAPTER V.
_About Bill Keeler.--The Fox-Trap, and Mistress Sally St.
John.--A Hunting Excursion.--Extraordinary large Game!--A
remarkable Story to come._
The little town of Salem was situated at the foot of a mountain,
consisting of wild and broken ridges, forming the boundary between
the states of New York and Connecticut. Being now almost entirely
at liberty, I spent a great part of my time in rambling among the
mountains. In these excursions, Bill Keeler was my almost constant
attendant. My uncle, disposed to humor me in everything, allowed me to
dispose of my time as I chose, and permitted Bill to leave his work or
school, whenever I desired his company, and this was almost every day.
This boy was, in general, very good-natured. He was ingenious in making
whistles, and setting snares and traps for quails, partridges, and
rabbits; in cutting fish-poles, attaching the hook to the line, digging
worms for bait, and putting the bait on the hook. He had also a knack
of putting the hook and line into the water in such an insinuating
manner, that he always caught more and bigger fish than any one else.
He was a dexterous swimmer, expert in strapping skates, formed the best
flying kites in the village, made bows and arrows to perfection, and
could gather more chestnuts, butternuts, and shagbarks, than any boy in
the town.
All these various accomplishments rendered Bill Keeler a delightful
companion to me, who, having been brought up in the city, had little
acquaintance with those arts, so well understood by boys in the
country. He was particularly devoted to me, partly because of his good
nature, and partly because my uncle was so indulgent to me, that all
around had caught his habit of yielding to my wishes.
But although Bill was thus clever, and thus obliging to me, he was so
restless and enterprising, as always to be in some scrape or other. One
day, he had seen the burrow of a woodchuck in a field behind the house
of Mistress Sally St. John. So he took a large fox-trap, and sunk it
to the level of the ground, in the very path where the woodchuck was
accustomed to go. He then sprinkled it over with earth, so as to make
it appear as if no trap was there. Next morning, pretty early, Bill
went to see his trap, expecting of course to find that he had caught
the woodchuck. But what was his dismay, on approaching the place, to
find Sally St. John herself, standing bolt upright, screaming and
piping with all her might, and throwing up her hands in despair! Bill
went near enough to see that she had one foot fast in the trap. He then
turned about, and left the poor school-mistress to be extricated by her
neighbors. For this Bill got a sound flogging from my uncle, but he
felt well compensated by being released from school for a month; for,
during that period, poor Sally was too lame to resume her duties at the
schoolhouse.
My companion’s next exploit was equally serious. If there was anything
on earth that he loved better than another, it was gunpowder. Why he
had such a fancy for it, I cannot tell, unless because it was a noisy,
tearing, dangerous thing, like himself. But be this as it may, he spent
more than half the little money he could get in buying it. Every day
he was touching off some old pistol-barrel, rammed full of powder;
or he was trying to split a pepperidge log with it, by filling some
knot-hole, and exploding it. But his greatest delight was to get my
uncle’s gun, one of the real old “King’s arms,” taken at the battle
of Princeton, and go forth with as big a feeling in him as that which
inspired Nimrod, the first hunter that history tells about.
Well, one afternoon he got the gun, and he and I went among the
mountains to hunt for something. Pretty soon we saw a squirrel, but
Bill was so intent on killing a bear, a raccoon, or some large animal,
that he scorned to shoot a squirrel. So we went on, and met with
various kinds of small game, but none worthy of the attention of my
heroic friend. We proceeded for some time, and finding no large game,
Bill determined to shoot a squirrel if he could meet with one. But no
squirrel was now to be seen. He gradually lowered his pretensions,
until, at length, he was so anxious to shoot something, that he drew up
at a wren, and was on the point of discharging his piece at it, when
the bird flew away, and we saw no more of it.
It was now evening, and we were at a considerable distance from home.
We walked along as fast as we could, and Bill, who was never out of
spirits, beguiled the time by telling what he would have done, if
something had fallen in his way. “If a wolf had come along in the
woods,” said Bill, drawing up the old piece, and taking aim at a mullen
stalk, “and if he had come near enough, how I would have peppered him!”
Just at that instant we heard a rustling sound in a meadow, that we
were passing. It was too dark to see distinctly, but Bill peeped
through the rail-fence, and, saying to me with an emphatic whisper,
“Be still; I see one!” he cocked the gun and brought the heavy old
piece to a level with his eye. After a long, portentous aim, during
which I winked so hard as nearly to put my eye out--whang! it went,
and Bill was stretched backward upon the grass in an instant, by the
kicking of the gun! He very soon got up, however, and jumped over the
fence to pick up his game. He was gone but a minute, and when he came
back he only said, “Well, I peppered him!” “Peppered what?” said I.
“No matter,” said he; and that was all I could get out of him. But
the next morning one of Deacon Kellogg’s cows was found in a thicket,
shot through the head, and dead as a hatchet! Bill was obliged to
confess, and my uncle settled the affair by paying thirteen dollars and
forty-two cents. It was not till several years after, that Bill would
tell me what he took the cow for when he fired at her. He then said,
that his fancy was so full of shooting a wolf, and he was so ravenous
to shoot something, that he really took the poor old cow to be a wolf,
or a creature very like one.
The next event of my life, that seems worth recording, was very
interesting to me. But I must reserve this story for another chapter.
(_To be continued._)
Origin of Words and Phrases.
A tailor of Samarcand, a city of the East, chanced to live near a gate
that led to the public burying-place; and, being a fanciful fellow, he
hung up by his shopboard a little earthen pot, into which he dropped
a small stone, whenever a corpse was carried by. At the end of every
moon, he counted the contents of the pot, and so knew the number of the
deceased. At length, the tailor died himself, and, some time after,
a person unacquainted with his decease, observing his shop to be
deserted, inquired what had become of him. “Oh,” said a neighbor, “the
tailor has _gone to pot_, as well as the rest!” And this is the origin
of the phrase, “to go to pot.”
Few words have so remarkable a history as the familiar word
“_bankrupt_.” The money-changers of Italy had, it is said, benches or
stalls in the burse or exchange, in former times, and at these they
conducted their ordinary business. When any of them fell back in the
world, and became insolvent, his bench was broken, and the name of
broken bench, or _banco rotto_, was given him. When the word was first
adopted into the English, it was nearer the Italian than it now is;
being _bankerout_, instead of _bankrupt_.
Though any man can put his pony to the _canter_, few are able, in
general, to explain the word by which they designate the animal’s
pace. The term _canter_ is a corruption, or rather an abbreviation,
of a Canterbury gallop, which signifies the hand-gallop of an ambling
horse. The origin of the phrase is as old as the days of the Canterbury
pilgrims, when votaries came at certain seasons to the shrine of Thomas
à Becket in that city, from all parts of the nation. Mail-coaches and
railroads being then unknown, the pilgrims travelled on horseback,
and from their generally using easy, ambling nags, the pace at which
they got over the ground came to be called _a Canterbury gallop_, and
afterwards _a canter_.
The word _dun_ first came in use, it is said, during the reign of Henry
the Seventh of England. It owes its birth to an English bailiff, by the
name of _Joe Dun_, who was so indefatigable and skilful at his business
of collecting debts, that it became a proverb when a person did not
pay his debts, “Why don’t you _Dun_ him?” that is, “Why don’t you send
_Dun_ after him?” Hence originated the word, which has so long been in
universal use.
[Illustration: Pelican]
The Pelican.
There is nothing more interesting than to study into the works of
nature, and remark their infinite variety. It is also pleasing to
discover in all this variety, that each individual thing is adapted to
fill a particular place in the scale of creation, and that it is often
adapted to its end with wonderful ingenuity. The pelican affords a
striking instance of this. It is made to live the life of a fisherman,
and, being endowed with a strong appetite, we shall see how well he is
fitted to his vocation, and how curiously he is provided with the means
of securing and storing his prey.
This bird, of which there are several kinds, all being about the size
of the swan, is found in almost every part of the globe. Its neck
somewhat resembles that of the swan, but its bill, and the pouch
beneath, render it entirely different from all other birds. This bill
is fifteen inches long, and at its lower edges hangs a bag, which, it
is said, will hold fifteen quarts of water. When this is not in use,
the bird wrinkles it up under his bill. The upper mandible is of a
dull yellow in the middle, with a reddish tinge towards the edges,
and a blood-red spot at the extremity. From this color of the bill,
resembling blood, arose the idea, formerly entertained, that the
bird fed its young with its blood. In disgorging the food, the full
pouch is pressed against the chest, and the red spot on the bill
comes against the delicate plumage of the breast, giving the bird an
appearance of tearing away its feathers and drawing own blood.
Some years ago, there were a male and female pelican in the menagerie
at the Tower of London. The female built herself a nest, in which she
laid three eggs. She then commenced sitting with the utmost patience,
never leaving her eggs for a moment. When the male was fed, following
the plan dictated by nature, even in confinement, he crammed his pouch
in the first place with double the portion of the food offered to
him, and then emptied half the quantity into the female’s pouch. This
process over, they disgorged and devoured their food at leisure.
In his natural state, the pelican is very inactive, sitting for hours
in the same posture. When he feels the calls of hunger, he raises
himself over the surface of the sea, and holding one eye downwards,
watches with keenness for the appearance of his finny prey. When a fish
approaches near the surface, he darts downwards with great swiftness,
and never fails in securing his prize. In this way, he continues his
labors, ascending and descending, putting one fish after another into
his pouch, until he has laid up enough for a meal. Being a large and
clumsy bird, he rises in the air with great difficulty; and we may
suppose that the long repose in which he indulges, and which has gained
him a sad character for indolence and inactivity, is really rendered
necessary by the toilsome nature of his fishing.
Pelicans are said sometimes to assemble in large numbers, and, rising
in the air, hover about in a circle, gradually drawing nearer and
nearer, thus driving the fish in the water beneath into a narrow space.
They then plunge into the water suddenly, pick up their victims with
great rapidity, and store them in their pouches. If this be true, it
is certainly a very judicious plan, adopted probably by the oldest and
most experienced fishermen among them.
The pelican is capable of domestication, and some degree of
instruction. The natives in some parts of South America are said to
turn their fishing powers to good account, as the Chinese do those of
the cormorant. They train them to go out on the water and fill their
pouches with fish; and, on their return, they are made to disgorge
their contents for the benefit of their masters, receiving a part only
for their share.
There is one instance on record of a pelican which possessed a strong
taste for music, evincing great pleasure in singing and in the sound of
the trumpet. When thus excited, it stretched out its neck, and turned
its ear to the musician, remaining perfectly attentive and motionless
as long as the music lasted.
We are told of one also which belonged to the ancient Roman emperor,
Maximilian, which actually attended the army when on its march, and
lived to the age of eighty years.
The voice of the pelican is harsh and discordant, and is said to
resemble that of a man in deep complaint. David speaks of it thus: “By
reason of my groanings my bones cleave to my skin; I am like a pelican
in the wilderness.”--Psa. cii. 6.
* * * * *
PEACH SEEDS.--A gentleman having given a quantity of peaches to some
foreign laborers on a railroad, in the vicinity of one of our cities,
one of them was asked how he liked them. He said the fruit was very
good, but the seeds scratched his throat a little when he swallowed
them.
John Steady and Peter Sly.
A DIALOGUE.
_Peter._ Ho, John, don’t stumble over that log! I don’t think it a good
plan to study my lessons as I go to school.
_John._ Nor I; but I am in such a scrape!
_Peter._ What’s the matter?
_John._ Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson.
_Peter._ I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin?
_John._ Here, at the top of the page; and I learned over three leaves,
down to the end of the chapter.
_Peter._ Well, that’s all right.
_John._ Are you sure?
_Peter._ Certain, as can be.
_John._ Well, now! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think; there is
poor George Gracie has been getting the wrong lesson. I came by his
window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about
it, we found we had been studying in different places. But he was so
sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong.
_Peter._ I know it; I know all about it.
_John._ Why! did you tell him wrong?
_Peter._ No, no; I never tell a lie, you know. But yesterday, when the
master gave out the lesson, George was helping little Timothy Dummy to
do a sum; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he
misunderstood what the master said; and then he began groaning about
such a hard lesson, as we were going home; I laughing to myself all the
time!
_John._ What! did you find out his blunder and not set him right?
_Peter._ Set him right! Not I. I scolded about the hard lesson, too.
_John._ There, that’s the reason he was so positive. He said you had
got the same lesson he had.
_Peter._ But I never told him so; I only let him think so.
_John._ Ah, Peter, do you think that is right?
_Peter._ To be sure it is. Don’t you know he is at the head of the
class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day, I am sure of the
medal? A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a
blunder.
_John._ Lucky for you, but very unlucky for him; and I must say, I
don’t call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly!
_Peter._ I don’t care what you call it, John. It is none of your
affair, as I see; let every fellow look out for himself, and the
sharpest one will be the best off.
_John._ Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn,
now; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest
of us. But if you don’t come out at the little end, and come out pretty
small too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I
shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter.
_Peter._ That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the
right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the
world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that.
(_Enter George Gracie._)
_John._ Here, George, stop a minute; here’s bad news for you.
_George._ What’s the matter?--no school to-day?
_John._ School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong
lesson, after all.
_George._ O, John, John! don’t tell me so!
_John._ It’s true; and that sneaking fellow that sits whittling a
stick, so mighty easy, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.
_George._ Oh, Peter! how could you do so?
_Peter._ Easily enough. I don’t see that I was under any obligation to
help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next.
_George._ But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have
been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it
out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I
was right about the lesson.
_Peter._ But I did not tell you so; you can’t say I told you so. Nobody
ever caught me in a lie.
_John._ But you _will_ lie;--you will come to that yet, if you go on so.
_Peter._ Take care what you say, sir!
_George._ Come, come, John; don’t quarrel with him. He will get the
medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven
o’clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming
home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal.
But it can’t be helped now.
_Peter._ Poor fellow! don’t cry! I declare there are great tears in his
eyes. Now it is a pity, really.
_John._ For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him! You are a selfish, mean
fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.
_George._ Come, John; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I
would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage
of anybody.
(_Exit George._)
_Peter._ The more fool you! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he
will be sure to miss in the very first sentence.
_John._ There is the master, coming over the hill; now if I should just
step up to him, and tell him the whole story!
_Peter._ You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages
tale-bearers.
_John._ I know that, very well; and I would almost as soon be a
cheat as a tell-tale; but the master will find you out, yet, without
anybody’s help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole
school. There is not a fellow in it that don’t scorn you, Peter Sly.
_Peter._ And who cares, so long as the master----
_John._ Don’t be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says
much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at
you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks.
He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it.
I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly. You got to the head
of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much
as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (_Peter sits
whittling, and humming a tune._)
_Peter._ Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but
there’s the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I
could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he
gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.
(_Enter master, taking out his watch._)
_Master._ It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I
want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.
_Peter._ Yes, sir.--What now? he looks rather black.
(_Aside._)
_Master._ For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week,
on the best of my scholars?
_Peter._ To make the boys study, I believe, sir.
_Master._ And why do I wish them to study?
_Peter._ Why,--to please their parents, I suppose, sir.
_Master._ I wish them to study for the very same reason that their
parents do;--that they may get knowledge. I have suspected, for some
time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters.
You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of
silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in
seeing it.
_Peter._ Yes, sir; she does.
_Master._ And why? What does the medal say to her? Of what is it a sign?
_Peter._ Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.
_Master._ Is that what it says? I think it only shows, that you have
been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other
boy.
_Peter._ Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.
_Master._ She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you
know, Peter Sly, and _I_ know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no
generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of
his class, and get medals for a time, _without_ being the best scholar.
You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the
medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (_Peter hangs his head
in silence._) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks;
by purposely leading others into mistakes; by taking advantage of every
slip of the tongue; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson
sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short
of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy
who does these things, is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper
use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of
being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life; and, under
this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing
itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object,
as to care not by what unjustifiable means he obtains it. That shows
wickedness,--want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this
description?
_Peter._ Yes, sir; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed
it.
_Master._ The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful
than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well
as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if, by them,
you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be
publicly disgraced.
_Peter._ What, sir! when I have not told a lie!
_Master._ You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I
have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am
satisfied, that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden
temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you; that,
through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I
do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt
of men, and the anger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your
heart as that of a liar. Go into school; and as I am convinced, from
reflecting on several circumstances which took place, that you had
no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the
foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained
in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in
my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry; but I watch
against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and
unwavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feelings; and am
happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause of doubt of having
succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from
his heart the base man[oe]uvres which you adopt; and, before this day
is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You
must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your
schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in!
[Illustration: two sisters]
The Three Friends.
Two sisters, named Amy and Anna, were once sitting together upon a
grassy bank, when a large dog came between them, and thrusting his
nose familiarly into their hands, snugged down, as if desirous of
making one of the party. The two girls caressed him fondly, and called
him “good Dash” and “pretty Dash”--and many other titles of affection
they bestowed upon him. At length the younger of the girls said, “Amy,
I have heard that Dash once saved my life: will you tell me how it
happened?” “With pleasure,” said Amy; and accordingly she proceeded as
follows:
“About five years ago, Anna, when you were not more than two years old,
we were living in Vermont, near one of the streams that empties into
Connecticut river. The snow was very deep that winter, and when it came
to go away in the spring, it made a great freshet. The melted snow came
down the hills and mountains, and filled the rivers, which overflowed
their banks, and overspread the valleys and swept everything before
them.
“The little river near our house suddenly rose above its borders, and
came thundering along, tearing away trees and bridges and mills and
houses. At last it seemed to threaten our dwelling, and father and
mother began to prepare to leave it and fly to the neighboring hills
for security. In the preparation for flight, you was put into a large
basket with some clothes stuffed round you, and set down upon a little
bridge of planks near the house, while our parents and myself were
gathering together a few things to take with us. As father put you on
the bridge, he noticed that Dash seemed to look on with interest and
anxiety, for the waters made a terrible roaring all around us; and he
observed also, on looking back, that Dash had taken his seat on the
bridge by your side.
“You had not been left more than ten minutes, when we heard a frightful
noise, and going to the door, we saw, with terror and amazement, that
the water had suddenly risen and surrounded the house. Nothing could
save us but instant flight. Father took me in his arms, and with mother
clinging to him, he started for the bridge where you had been placed;
but he soon perceived that the bridge had been carried away by the rush
of the waters, and neither you nor Dash was to be seen. It was no time
for delay or search, for the waves were rising rapidly, and it was
with the utmost difficulty that father was able to take mother and me
to the hill. There at length we arrived, and leaving us to take care
of ourselves, father went in search of you. He was absent nearly four
hours--and I never shall forget the anxiety with which we waited his
return. We were without shelter; the earth was damp and the air chill;
but we were so absorbed in fear for you that we thought not of our own
sufferings. At last we saw father coming, at a considerable distance.
He had you in his arms, and Dash was leaping and frolicking at his
side. I was never so happy; I shall never, never be so happy again, as
I was when I saw father coming, and saw that you was safe!
“At length father reached us; though it was a matter of some
difficulty, on account of the water, which had choked up the valley.
I need not tell how heartily mother and myself kissed you when we got
hold of you. We shed a great many tears, but you only laughed, and
seemed to think it all a pleasant frolic. When we could compose our
feelings, father told us the story of your escape. It seems that the
waters rose suddenly while we were in the house, and lifting the planks
of the bridge, carried you and Dash and the basket upon them, down the
stream. The current was very swift, and you must have sailed along at a
terrible rate; but faithful Dash kept his place at your side. You had
gone about two miles, when the dog and basket were seen by some people
standing on the shore. Dash saw them at the same moment, and he set up
a very piteous howl, but they did not understand him. When he saw that
there was no relief to be had from them, he leaped into the water, and
seizing one end of one of the planks in his mouth, began to swim with
all his might, and push the planks toward the land. He was so powerful
and so skilful, that he very soon gave them a direction toward a little
island, which was not distant, and in a few moments they struck against
the shore, and were held fast by running between some small trees. The
dog again set up a howl, and the people before mentioned, now thinking
something was the matter, entered a boat and went to the island, where
they found you fast asleep in the basket, and dry as a biscuit!”
When Amy had reached this point of her story, Anna put her arms around
the dog’s neck, and with her eyes swimming in tears, kissed him over
and over again. She said nothing, however, for her heart was too full.
Her sister then went on to tell the rest of the story--but as the
reader will easily guess it all, I need not repeat it here. If any of
my young readers are curious to know all about it, I shall be at their
service, whenever they will give me a call.
* * * * *
ATTACHMENT TO OUR COUNTRY.--When Gulliver was in Lilliput, he lay down
to sleep. In the morning he found himself fastened down to the earth
by a thousand little cords which the Lilliputians had thrown over
him. Every man is thus attached to some spot on earth by the thousand
small threads which habit and association are continually throwing
around him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is that which makes
us love the place where our fathers are entombed. When the Canadian
Indians were once solicited to emigrate, “What!” they replied, “shall
we say to the bones of our fathers, ‘Arise, and go with us into a
foreign land?’”
[Illustration: Fox and tortoise]
The Fox and the Tortoise;
A FABLE, TO SHOW THE ADVANTAGES OF HONESTY.
A fox that had been robbing some hen-roosts, and had therefore excited
the indignation of the people, was one day pursued by a party of
hunters, and sorely pressed by their hounds. At last he came to a
secluded spot, and having for the time eluded his enemies, he sat down
to take breath. Near by there chanced to be a tortoise, and as birds
and beasts always talk in fables, it was a matter of course that the
two animals on the present occasion should fall into conversation.
“You seem,” said the tortoise, “to be very much out of breath: pray let
me ask you what is the matter?”
“Matter enough!” replied the fox. “I occasionally slip into the
farmers’ hen-roosts, and take away a few of their fowls, or now and
then I carry off a fat goose or a stray lamb; and behold, I am hunted
by all people with all their hounds, as if I was the greatest rascal
on the face of the earth! Whew! how hot I am. These villanous hounds
put me in a terrible tremor. One of them came so close as to snap at my
throat with his long ugly teeth, and I really thought my last hour was
come. What a terrible life it is I lead: I cannot stir abroad but some
hound is on my track, or some bullet whistles near my heart. Even in my
den of rocks I have no peace, for I am ever dreaming of the sound of
muskets or the baying of hounds.”
As the fox said this, the cry of the hunters and their hounds came
near, and to save his life, he was again obliged to take to flight.
The humble tortoise, observing all this, remarked very wisely, as
follows: “How much better it is to be honest and content with what we
can call our own, than to be forever running after forbidden pleasures,
thus drawing down upon ourselves the enmity of mankind, and all the
disquietude of a guilty conscience.”
* * * * *
THE INSINCERITY OF FLATTERY.--“What little, ugly-looking, red-headed
monster is that, playing among those children?” “That, madam, is my
eldest son!” “Indeed! you don’t say so; what a beautiful little cherub
it is!”
[Illustration: Thomas Trotter]
The Travels, Adventures and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER I.
_My Birth and Parentage.--The reasons why I became a
Traveller.--My first Travels.--Advantage of having good
legs.--My first Voyage to the Mediterranean.--The Orange
and Lemon Trade.--The Gulf Stream.--Whales.--Portuguese
Man-of-War._
Ever since my earliest remembrance I have had a great passion for
travelling, seeing foreign countries, and studying foreign manners. I
believe this disposition runs in our family, for all the Trotters, I
am assured, have been great travellers. My great grandfather, Absalom
Trotter, was famous for having the longest legs in the state of
Massachusetts, and for making the best use of them. He could beat a
horse at a stretch of a month or so; but he died just as the Providence
railroad was completed. My great aunt, Peggy Trotter, was also
celebrated among her neighbors for an unconquerable propensity to move
about. There was not a story circulating in the town, but she was the
first to find it out, and the most industrious in communicating it to
all her acquaintance. If she had lived till this day, I verily believe
the newspaper editors would have hired her to carry expresses; for
when she once got hold of a piece of intelligence, it is inconceivable
how rapidly she made it fly through all quarters of the town. When she
died, people were afraid that news would be scarce forever afterwards;
but steamboats came into fashion about that time, so that we have not
been without a supply of intelligence from various parts.
I was born in Fleet street, down at the north end, in Boston. My
father was a West-India captain, who used to sail in a little schooner
from Boston to Guadaloupe. He commonly carried out a load of lumber,
that is, pine boards, plank, timber, and shingles; and brought back a
cargo of molasses. Every time he returned from a voyage, he brought us
oranges, lemons, and pine-apples, fruits which do not grow hereabouts.
These rarities always excited my admiration; and I was delighted to
sit in the chimney-corner during the long winter evenings, and listen
to his description of the West-India islands, where the summer and
the fruits and the green fields last the whole year round; and where
no snow or ice chills the air, but fresh verdure and bright flowers
enliven the landscape from the beginning of the year to the end of it.
The more of these stories I heard, the more I wanted to hear, for it
is notorious that there is no passion so insatiable as curiosity. And
when our curiosity is directed towards a useful object, the indulgence
of it becomes both proper and beneficial. The world is filled with
variety, and this variety is evidently designed by Providence to
stimulate our curiosity, so that we may be incited to action and the
pursuit of knowledge. In this way I became seized with an irresistible
inclination to travel and see the world. My neighbor Timothy Doolittle,
who had nobody to tell him stories when he was a boy, on the contrary,
never cared to move about, or know how the rest of the world lived, or
what was doing out of his own chimney-corner. I believe he never in his
life walked further than Roxbury Neck; and if anybody should ask him
how big the world was, he would say it extended from Bunker Hill to
Brookline! Such magnificent notions of the universe will a man have who
never stirs abroad.
I could give a long account of my early travels--how they began in very
infancy when I first ventured out the front door--how I next rambled
down the street, and was amazed to see how large the town was--how I
then grew more courageous, and journeyed as far as Faneuil Hall Market;
what surprising discoveries I made there; what perilous adventures I
met with on the way thither and back--how I next made a still bolder
excursion as far as Fort Hill, got overtaken by night, and was brought
back by the town crier--how, finally, after a great many hair-breadth
escapes and daring exploits, I became so experienced in travelling that
I ventured into the country to see what sort of people lived there;
and how in a single day I penetrated as far as the Blue Hills, and
found the inhabitants of Milton and Dorchester an exceedingly civil,
pleasant and good sort of people. I might give the particulars of all
these peregrinations at full length, if I had room in these pages. But
as it is very probable that most of my readers have travelled the same
route and seen pretty much the same things, I have concluded to omit
them for the present, and pass on to the narrative of my travels and
adventures in foreign countries, which will probably offer more novelty
and instruction.
My father died when I was ten years old; and as my mother had been dead
several years before, I was left to the care of my aunt Katy Walker. I
had little chance of gratifying my roving inclination under her care,
for she could not afford me any money, and travelling is expensive.
The most I could do was to take long walks now and then, with a staff
in my hand, and a pack over my back. In this way I have travelled over
nearly all the state of Massachusetts; and can assure my readers, that
they will learn more by travelling on foot in a single day than they
will in a week by being whirled along in a railroad car. The main thing
is to have good vigorous limbs; and a man’s legs will always grow
strong if he walks enough. After trudging up and down for some years,
a second cousin of mine, Captain Scudder, who used to visit at our
house, came one day to tell me that he was about to make a voyage to
the Mediterranean, to bring home a cargo of oranges and lemons for the
Boston market. He offered to take me with him, and I gladly accepted
the proposal. To visit Europe was the great object of my wishes;
and the Mediterranean countries had the greatest of all possible
attractions for me. I was never tired of thinking of the interesting
territories which were situated upon that famous sea--their romantic
shores--their beautiful islands--their bright sky--their charming
climate--their magnificent cities--their picturesque inhabitants,
and the multitude of glorious and ever-memorable historical events
connected with them. All these thoughts threw me into a rapture, and
my impatience to set out upon the voyage was such, that I deemed every
moment lost, till I was on board, and the vessel was fairly under weigh.
We sailed in the brig Swift, bound to Malta. We carried a cargo of
logwood, coffee, sugar, beeswax, raw hides, tobacco, cotton, and
staves. These articles generally compose the cargo of vessels bound to
the Italian ports. The logwood, coffee, sugar, tobacco, and cotton, are
productions not raised in those countries. Hides and staves are much
cheaper, and more abundant, in our country than in theirs. They have no
great pastures and tracts of wild country filled with droves of cattle,
as you will find in many parts of America. Forests of large trees
are so scarce with them, that wood of every kind bears a high price.
Beeswax is an article which they use to a great extent, as their custom
is to burn enormously long wax candles in their churches and religious
processions.
It was about the middle of December when we set sail. This is
considered the best season for a voyage such as we were bound upon.
The oranges are ripe in January and February, so that when the vessel
arrives out, the fruit is all freshly gathered and ready for shipping.
A great deal of care is necessary in the importation of this sort of
fruit; for if the weather be too warm, or the oranges have been too
long taken from the trees, they will be spoiled on the passage. It very
often happens that a vessel arrives at Boston from Sicily in the summer
with a load of oranges and lemons, and having had a long passage, the
whole cargo is found to be spoiled, and must be thrown away. This most
commonly happens in the Italian vessels, which do not sail so fast as
the Americans’, and have not crews so expert in navigation.
Well, I was now fairly on board. We hoisted sail; the wind blew fresh
from the northwest; we scudded by the castle, we were soon outside of
Boston lighthouse. The pilot jumped into his boat and bade us good-by.
I looked after him as his little wherry kept bobbing up and down
between the waves, till he was too far off to be seen any longer. The
steeples of Boston and the neighboring hills gradually sunk in the
horizon; night came on, and I could see no more of my native land. We
carried all sail through the night, in order to get well off the coast
while the wind was fair, as the weather is very variable near the land,
and it is highly dangerous to be near the coast in winter. By-and-by we
had furious squalls of wind, which tore our sails, and put us in great
danger. In a day or two more we crossed the Gulf Stream, which is a
long and wide current of water running through the Atlantic, from the
Gulf of Mexico nearly across the ocean. I was astonished to find the
water in this current blood-warm, although it was the middle of winter;
but Captain Scudder informed me that this is always the case, as the
water comes from a warm climate. Dreadful thunder-storms also happen
here, and a great many ships have been struck and burnt up by lightning
in the Gulf Stream.
We were all very glad when we had crossed this remarkable current, for
we had nothing but squalls of wind and showers of rain while we were in
it. At length we got fairly out into blue water, the sky grew clear,
we had a bright sun and a fair wind, and although the sea continued to
roll and dash pretty turbulently, yet it was a pleasure to stand on
the deck and look at the glorious broad ocean, with its blue waves,
crested with white foam, sparkling in the sun. Two or three ships had
kept us company off the coast, and for some days we could discern their
white sails on the verge of the horizon; but they presently sunk out of
sight, and we found ourselves with nothing but sea around and sky above
us.
One day, as I was walking on the deck and looking out for a sail, I
was surprised to see a stream of water rise up out of the sea at some
distance. I pointed it out to the man who was steering at the helm,
and was told by him that it was a whale, spouting. I had never seen
a whale before, and was anxious to get a nearer view of so wonderful
a creature. My wish was soon gratified. Presently he directed his
course towards our vessel, and passed by us, spouting up streams of
water from his nose in a manner that excited my astonishment. When
I contemplated the monstrous bulk of this creature, and the amazing
swiftness with which he dashed through the water, I could not repress a
feeling of terror. Yet it is well known that men are courageous enough
to go out to sea in little boats for the purpose of catching such
enormous monsters. The description of the whale fishery is one of the
most interesting items in the history of human courage and skill, and
shows how the ingenuity of man can triumph over the strength of the
mightiest of all the brute creation. The whale is attacked, pursued for
miles across his own element, and finally killed and taken by six or
eight men in a boat, so small that, if he had but the sense to open his
mouth, he might swallow the boat and its crew.
I had another amusement at sea in witnessing the gambols of the shoals
of porpoises which now and then came tumbling around us. These fish
generally move in single file through the water, and when they meet a
ship at sea, they shoot right before her bows, so as almost to strike
the vessel; but as they dart with great velocity, they always manage
to steer clear. At such times it is highly interesting to watch their
movements, as they glance through the water just below the surface.
When the sun shines, they glisten in the waves with all the hues of the
rainbow, and one would almost imagine they were proud of showing their
gaudy colors, for they dart along the ship’s side, as if on purpose
to be seen. This diversion is often fatal to them, for the sailors
contrive to catch them with harpoons. They are very fat, and yield a
large quantity of oil. Their flesh is black, and tastes a good deal
like pork; it is much relished by crews that have been long deprived of
fresh provisions.
In the course of our voyage, as I was looking over the vessel’s side
one bright, sunshiny day, I saw something sailing along on the top of
the waves that looked exactly like one of the chip boats which the boys
sail in the Frog Pond. The sailors told me it was a fish called the
Portuguese man-of-war. I looked upon it with admiration. It was a most
curious sort of shell-fish, with a thin white membrane or wing spread
in the air for a sail. By the help of this it steered before the wind
just like a ship, and kept company with us for two or three miles. When
I was looking at it with a spy-glass, it suddenly struck its sail, dove
under water, and was out of sight in an instant.
(_To be continued._)
Story of Philip Brusque.
(_Continued from page 21._)
CHAPTER II.
_Brusque discovers that man wants something beside Liberty; he
wants Company--Society._
Such were the thoughts of Brusque, as he stood on a little hill in the
centre of the island, and looked round upon what now seemed entirely
his own. Nor did anything happen to disturb his peace for a long time.
There was fruit enough for his support upon the trees, and he found a
cave in a rock, which served him for a house and a home. The weather
was almost constantly fine, and so mild was the temperature, that he
hardly needed a shelter, even at night.
So the time slid on very pleasantly with Philip for about a year. By
this time, he began to be a little tired of his own company; nor could
the chattering of the macaws and parrots, of which there were many in
the trees, entirely satisfy him. He caught some of the young birds,
and reared them, and taught them to speak, but still he felt lonely.
At last it came to be his custom every day to go upon the top of the
highest hill, and look far off upon the ocean, hoping to see a ship,
for he yearned in his heart to have some human being for a companion.
Then the tears would fill his eyes, and flow down his rough cheeks; and
then he would speak or think to himself as follows:
“Liberty is indeed a dear and beautiful thing, but still I want
something beside liberty. I want to hear a human voice. I want to
look into a human face. I want some one to speak to. I feel as if my
very heart would wither for the want of a friend. I feel a thirst
within, and I have no means of satisfying it. I feel within a voice
speaking, and there is no answer. This beautiful island is becoming
a desert to me, without even an echo. O! dear France! O! dear, dear
home! How gladly would I give up this hollow and useless liberty for
the pleasures of friendship and society. I would be willing to be
restrained by the thousand meshes of the law, if I might once more
enjoy the pleasure of living in the midst of my fellow-men.”
With these thoughts dwelling in his mind, Philip went to rest one
night, and though it was very stormy, he slept soundly. In the morning
the feelings of yesterday came back, and with a sad heart he went again
to the top of the hill; for the hope of seeing a ship, and of once
more being restored to human society, haunted him perpetually. Long
he stood upon the hill and looked out upon the sea, now tossing from
the tempest of the night, and throwing up a thousand white-caps in
every direction. Having gazed upon this scene for more than an hour, he
chanced to turn his eyes towards the extremity of the island, where,
at the distance of about a mile, he distinctly saw a human being on
the shore. He paused but a moment to assure himself that he was not
mistaken, and then set off like a deer toward the stranger.
Brusque did not stop in his way, but ran with all his might. When
he came near the object of his attention, he saw that it was a man,
and without waiting to examine farther, ran toward him with open
arms. The man was alarmed, and stooping down, he picked up a stone,
and threatened to hurl it at Brusque. The latter now paused, and the
parties soon came to an understanding.
The stranger said that he was a fisherman from Mauritius, an island
in the Indian Ocean, belonging to the French nation. It is inhabited
chiefly by French people, and negroes, who are their slaves. The whole
population is about 20,000.
It seems that the fisherman had been driven out to sea by a storm, and,
the weather being cloudy and he having no compass, did not know which
way to steer for home. Thus he wandered about several days, till, on
the preceding night, in an attempt to land upon the island where he now
found himself, his little smack was dashed in pieces, and he only saved
himself by swimming.
No sooner had he told his story, than Philip put his arms around him
and kissed him over and over again. He was indeed delighted, for now he
had a companion, for which he had sighed so long. Now, he had a human
face to look upon; now, he could listen to a human voice; now, he had
some one into whose mind he could pour his own thoughts and feelings.
Now, in social intercourse, he could quench that thirst which had
parched his soul in solitude.
Full of these thoughts, Philip took the stranger, and led him to his
cave. He gathered for him some fresh pine-apples, and some oranges, and
placed them before him. When the fisherman began to eat with a hearty
appetite, Philip clapped his hands in joy. He then ran to a little
spring that was near, and brought some cool water in a gourd shell, and
gave it to the fisherman.
Now Philip Brusque was rather a proud man, and it was very strange to
see him waiting upon the rough fisherman, as if he were a servant.
But Philip was acting according to the dictates of his heart, and so,
though a seeming slave, he did not feel that his liberty was violated.
He was, in fact, acting according to his own pleasure, and he was
seeking happiness in his own way. If Philip had been compelled to serve
the fisherman, he would have hated and resisted the task; but now,
doing it freely, he found pleasure in it. So true it is that we do
things when we are free, with delight, which slavery would turn into
bitterness and sources of discontent.
Things went on very well for a few days. The fisherman took up his
abode in Philip’s cave, and there he lay a great part of the time.
Brusque brought him fruit and water, and all he wanted, and he did it
cheerfully for a time. But, by-and-by, the fisherman began to command
Brusque to wait upon him, to do this and that, and to bring him this
thing and that thing. This immediately changed the face of affairs
between the parties. Brusque became angry, and told the fisherman to
wait upon himself.
The fisherman made a rude reply, and high words followed. Brusque
ordered the fisherman to quit his cave. The fisherman told Brusque to
leave it himself. Their faces were full of red wrath. Anger begets
anger. The fisherman struck Brusque a blow. Brusque retaliated, and
being a powerful man, he instantly stretched the fisherman on the
ground. He was completely stunned, and lay without motion, seeming
actually to be dead.
Brusque’s anger was too high for the immediate return of reason. He
looked on the pale form with a feeling of delight, and spoke some words
of triumph between his firm-set teeth. But this feeling soon passed
away, and a better one returned. Believing that the fisherman was dead,
he now began to feel regret and remorse. Already was that monitor
within, called conscience, telling him that he had violated a universal
law, a law enacted by the Maker of man, and whispered into every man’s
bosom. Already Brusque felt that while a fellow-being was on the
island, he was not absolutely free; that this fellow-being had rights
as well as himself; that he had a right to his life, and that in taking
it away he had done a great wrong to justice, to liberty, and himself.
While these thoughts were passing in his mind, the fisherman moved,
and showed signs of returning life. Brusque was again full of joy,
and fetching some water, sprinkled it over the man’s face. In a short
time he so far recovered as to sit upright, and soon after he was able
to walk about. Brusque led him to the cave, where, lying down, the
fisherman fell asleep.
Brusque now left him, and walked forth by himself. He was of a
reflecting turn, and from his training in the revolution, his
reflections often took a political cast. On this occasion, his thoughts
ran thus:--
“What a strange creature I am! A few weeks since, I was mad with joy at
the arrival of this fisherman; soon he became the tyrant of my life;
I then wished him dead; and when I thought I had killed him, my heart
smote me, and I was more miserable than if death had stared me in the
face. He is now alive again, and I am relieved of a load; and yet, in
the midst of this happiness, which seems born of misery, I still feel a
strange sadness at my heart.
“When I was alone, I was perfectly free, but I soon found that freedom,
without society, was like the waters of the river, near which Tantalus
was so chained that he could not drink, thus dying of thirst with a
flood before his eyes.
“I therefore yearned for society, and then I had it by the arrival
of this fisherman. But he became a torment to me. What then is the
difficulty? I believe it is the want of some rules, by which we may
regulate our conduct. Though there are but two of us, still we find
it necessary to enter into a compact. We must form a government, we
must submit to laws, rules, and regulations. We must each submit to
the abridgment of some portion of our liberty, some portion of our
privileges, in order to secure the rest.”
Full of these thoughts, Brusque returned to the cave, and when the
fisherman awoke, he spoke to him on the subject of their quarrel, and
then set forth the necessity of laying down certain rules by which the
essential rights of each should be preserved, and a state of harmony
ensured. To this the fisherman agreed, and the following code of laws
being drawn up by Brusque, they were passed unanimously:--
Be it ordained by Philip Brusque, late of France, and Jaques Piquet, of
Mauritius, to ensure harmony, establish justice, and promote the good
of all parties:
1. This island shall be called Fredonia.
2. Liberty, being a great good in itself, and the right of every human
being, it shall only be abridged so far as the good of society may
require. But as all laws restrain liberty, we, the people of Fredonia,
submit to the following:
3. The cave called the Castaway’s Home, lately occupied by Philip
Brusque, shall be alternately occupied for a day and night by said
Philip Brusque and Jaques Piquet; the former beginning this day, and
the latter taking it the next day, and so forth.
4. Each person shall have a right to build himself a house, and shall
have exclusive possession of the same.
5. If two persons wish the same fruit at the same time, they shall draw
lots for the first choice, if they cannot agree otherwise as to the
division.
6. If any difference arises between the two parties, Philip Brusque and
Jaques Piquet, they shall decide such questions by lot.
7. This code of laws shall be changed, or modified, or added to, only
by the consent of the parties, Philip Brusque and Jaques Piquet.
All which is done this 27th day of June, A. D. 18--.
This was neatly cut with a penknife on a board which had come ashore
from the wreck of Philip’s vessel, and it became the statute law of the
island of Fredonia.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
CONTENTMENT.--A gentleman, it is said, had a board put on a part of
his land, on which was written, “I will give this field to any one who
is really contented;” and when an applicant came, he always said, “Are
you contented?” The general reply was, “I am.” “Then,” rejoined the
gentleman, “why do you want my field?”
Napoleon’s Last Obsequies.
In the first number of our Magazine we stated that the remains of the
late Emperor Napoleon had been conveyed from St. Helena to France, for
interment in the Hospital of the Invalides at Paris. This event having
caused the display of much splendid pageantry, and public feeling among
the French, we have thought it would be interesting to our readers to
see a minute and correct account of the events and ceremonies that took
place on this remarkable occasion.
The body of the Emperor was found in the earth at St. Helena, where it
had been deposited in a tomb of very strong and compact masonry, so
that although the workmen began at noon, it was ten o’clock at night
before they were able to reach the body. It was enclosed in three
coffins, two of mahogany and one of lead, all of which were found in a
perfect state, though nearly twenty years had elapsed since they had
been laid in the earth.
It is difficult to describe with what anxiety, with what emotions,
those who were present waited for the moment which was to expose
to them all that death had left of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the
singular state of preservation of the tomb and coffins, they could
scarcely hope to find anything but some misshapen remains of the least
perishable parts of the costume to evidence the identity. But when, by
the hand of Dr. Guillard, the satin sheet over the body was raised,
an indescribable feeling of surprise and affection was expressed by
the spectators, most of whom burst into tears. The Emperor himself
was before their eyes! The features of his face, though changed, were
perfectly recognised--the hands perfectly beautiful--his well-known
costume had suffered but little, and the colors were easily
distinguished--the epaulets, the decorations, and the hat, seemed to be
entirely preserved from decay--the attitude itself was full of ease;
and but for the fragments of the satin lining, which covered as with
a fine gauze several parts of the uniform, they might have believed
that they saw before them Napoleon still extended on a bed of state.
General Bertrand and M. Marchand, who were present at the interment,
quickly pointed out the different articles which each had deposited
in the coffin, and in the precise position which they had previously
described. It was even remarked that the left hand which General
Bertrand had taken to kiss for the last time before the coffin was
closed up, still remained slightly raised.
The body was now placed in a new leaden coffin or sarcophagus, sent out
from France for the purpose, and conveyed with appropriate ceremonies
on board a French man-of-war, which immediately sailed for Cherbourg.
Great preparations were made in France for its reception. On the
arrival of the ship at Cherbourg, a steamboat was ready to convey it
up the Seine to Paris. A great number of steamboats and vessels of all
sorts were collected together, forming a numerous fleet, under convoy
of which the corpse was transported up the river, stopping occasionally
at the cities and towns on the way, to allow the inhabitants the
opportunity of gratifying their curiosity and displaying their
enthusiasm, by paying homage to the remains of the great soldier and
chieftain of the French empire. The crowds that assembled all along
the banks of the river were immense. The military turned out by
hundreds and thousands. All sorts of pageantry, exhibition, and pompous
show--consisting of triumphal arches, pyramids, bridges, columns, and
other fanciful and imposing devices--contributed to give effect to the
solemnities.
On the fourteenth of December, 1840, the procession reached St.
Germain, a place within a few miles of Paris. The crowd of spectators
which had thronged to the spot from Paris was so immense, that it was
impossible to proceed and land the body till the middle of the next
day. Two battalions of troops were stationed on the banks of the river;
and the stream was covered with vessels decked with laurels and wreaths
of _immortelles_, a bright, unfading, yellow flower, very much in use
among the French on funeral occasions.
At the great bridge of Neuilly, three or four miles from Paris, an
immense rostral column had been prepared, surmounted by a ball or
globe, representing the world, and six feet in diameter. This was
crowned by a huge eagle; but owing to the intense cold of the weather,
the design was not wholly completed. On the base of this column was
the following inscription, containing the last request of Napoleon:
“_I wish my ashes to repose on the banks of the Seine_.” A wharf had
been built at this place for the express purpose of landing the coffin,
and here the body of Napoleon first touched the soil of France. At the
extremity of the wharf a Grecian temple, one hundred feet in height,
was erected; and at the end of the bridge of Neuilly was a colossal
statue of the Empress Josephine.
From Paris to Neuilly there extends a beautiful broad avenue,
ornamented with rows of trees and handsome buildings. Along this road
the population of the capital began to throng in immense multitudes
before daylight the next morning. It was computed that five hundred
thousand persons crowded into this avenue on the morning of the landing
of the body. The troops of the National Guard were drawn up on the
bank of the river; prayers were said over the corpse, and the coffin
was borne to the land by twenty-four sailors. The artillery fired a
salute of twenty-one rounds, and the multitudes that thronged the
banks of the river rent the air with their shouts. The body was then
placed in a magnificent _catafalque_ or funeral car, twenty-five feet
in length, with gilt wheels, and decorated with golden eagles. On the
car was a pedestal eighteen feet long and seven feet high, richly
ornamented and hung with gold and purple cloth. On this pedestal
stood fourteen _cariatides_ or columnar human figures of colossal
size, supporting with their heads and hands an immense golden shield.
The coffin was laid on this shield. On the coffin was placed a rich
cushion, sustaining the sceptre, the hand of justice, and the imperial
crown, studded with jewels. The whole formed a structure fifty feet
in height, and was drawn by sixteen black horses, richly caparisoned,
after the manner of the middle ages.
The procession then took up its march for Paris. In the procession was
the war-horse of Napoleon, and five hundred sailors who accompanied
the corpse from St. Helena. The whole avenue to Paris was lined with
troops. Round the great triumphal arch at the entrance of the city,
were lofty masts bearing tri-colored pennants surrounded with black
crape, and exhibiting each the name of some one of the armies of the
Republic or the Empire, as “The Army of the Rhine”--“The Army of
Italy,” &c. On entering the city, the crowd was so immense that the
procession had great difficulty in forcing its way onward. The number
of spectators was estimated at 800,000. This is equal to the whole
population of Paris; yet when we take into the account the great
numbers that resorted to the capital from all parts of the kingdom to
witness so grand and interesting a ceremony, this estimate does not
appear very improbable.
The place destined for the reception of Napoleon’s body was the Hotel
des Invalides, a spacious edifice erected by Louis XIV. as a residence
for veteran soldiers, and a view of which is given in our preceding
number. It is beautifully situated on the river Seine, with a spacious
esplanade in front. In the chapel of this building, preparations had
been made for the funeral service over the body. The walls were hung
with black draperies bordered with silver, and large lustres were
placed between the pillars, contrasting their brilliant lights with the
dark draperies around them. The pillars were ornamented with gilded
trophies, with the names of Napoleon’s victories, Marengo, Austerlitz,
Wagram, &c. The galleries above, thronged with countless multitudes of
spectators, were also hung with black, with silver and gold emblems,
laurels, and golden letters commemorating the principal acts of the
Emperor’s life. Above were hung an immense number of standards, taken
from the enemy in different battles. In front of the altar was erected
a tomb, standing on pillars and surmounted by an eagle. This structure
was of gilt wood, and only temporary; it is to be replaced by one of
the same shape in marble.
Here were assembled the king, the royal family, and the chief
personages of the court, the Archbishop of Paris and other dignitaries
of the church, and a great number of generals and veterans of
Napoleon’s wars. At two o’clock the procession arrived, and the body
of Napoleon was brought into the chapel. This was the most impressive
part of the whole ceremony. The steps leading to the choir were lined
on both sides by the military and the veteran invalids, so many of
whom had fought under the deceased Emperor. The whole of the aisle
was filled with troops, and the whole body of the clergy stood in
religious silence, waiting to perform the last offices of religion. The
drums rolled, the cannons roared, and the muffled drums announced the
approach of the body. At the sight of the coffin, surmounted with the
imperial crown of Napoleon, the whole body of spectators appeared to
be struck by a sudden thrill. Every one rose up and bent forward, but
not a word was uttered; a religious silence and awe pervaded the whole
multitude!
Mass was then said over the body according to the forms of the Roman
Catholic religion, after which Mozart’s celebrated requiem was sung by
a choir of musicians. The coffin was then sprinkled with holy water by
the Archbishop, and the ceremony concluded. The crowd remained long
in the chapel to satiate their curiosity by gazing on the splendid
decorations of the place and the long vista of funeral pomp. At length
the military succeeded in clearing the chapel of the throngs of
spectators; the people dispersed; and the body of Napoleon lay once
more in the silence of the tomb!
Our Ancestry.
If you were to visit England, you would hardly imagine that the people
there were descended from a variety of nations, some of them as savage
and wild as our American Indians. The English people have now a pretty
uniform appearance, as if they all descended from one father and
mother: they are generally stoutly made, with ruddy cheeks, light skin,
light hair, and full blue eyes; though black eyes and brown skins are
not uncommon. The people talk one language too--and at first view they
seem one great family, descended from one parentage.
But if we visit different parts of the country, we shall begin to
remark diversities in the appearance of the people, and especially in
their mode of speech. Though they all speak English, yet in one part
they use many strange words that are not used in another part, and
so singular is the mode of speaking in some places that an American
cannot well understand the people. Thus in Lancashire, which includes
Liverpool and the vicinity, the people speak very differently from what
they do in Yorkshire; and yet in both counties the speech of the common
people cannot be understood, till you become accustomed to it.
All this is easily explained when we look into the early history of
England; for we then find that the present English people are in fact
descended from several different tribes and nations, that settled
upon the island in ancient times. This subject is very interesting in
itself, and it becomes more so to us from the fact that we too are
descended from the English nation, as nearly all our forefathers, who
settled America, came from England. Let us therefore give a little
attention to this subject.
It appears that the first human beings were created in the valley of
the Euphrates, in Asia. Here they increased, and soon spread themselves
in various directions over the earth. About two thousand years before
Christ, they began to cross the Uralian mountains, which separate
Asia from Europe, and to people the latter country. Like our western
settlers who are now pushing farther and farther into the wilderness,
these Asiatic emigrants continued to spread to the north and west,
until the whole northern and middle portions of Europe were occupied
by them. The southern portions of that quarter of the globe, Spain,
Italy, and Greece, were during this same period filled up by colonists
from Asia and Africa.
Thus the whole of Europe was settled, but by very different classes
of nations. Those who dwelt along the border of the Mediterranean
sea, were acquainted with the arts of civilization; accordingly
they settled down in cities, and carried on commerce. But those who
entered Europe across the mountains, and who occupied Germany, France,
Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Russia, and Britain, were of a very different
character. They were somewhat like the present Tartars of Asia, half
warriors and half husbandmen. They seldom built permanent towns, but
usually wandered from one place to another, taking large flocks of
cattle with them, upon which they chiefly subsisted. Different tribes
or nations often met each other in their migrations, and, as a matter
of course, entered into conflict, the strong robbing and making slaves
of the weak.
The number of these rude tribes that came from Asia into Europe appears
to have been great, and the individuals must have amounted to many
millions. Though of one general cast, still they were divided into
separate tribes, and spoke different languages, and in some respects
differed in religion, manners, and customs.
Of all these Asiatic emigrants, the Celts appear to have been the
most numerous. These were the first settlers of ancient Gaul, now
France, Spain, Belgium, and the British isles. When Julius Cæsar, the
Roman general, made war upon Gaul, about sixty years before Christ,
he found the nation to consist wholly of Celts. In general, they were
a barbarous people, rude in their mode of life, superstitious in
religion, and savage in their feelings. They were divided into three
classes: the nobles or warriors, who were the despotic masters of the
common people; the Druids or priests, whom we have described in a
former number; and the mass of the nation, who performed the common
labor of the community.
Among the nobles, there were many claiming to be princes, and these
held the first rank; the people at large had no acknowledged rights,
and were wholly dependent upon their superiors for protection. There
appears to have been no other government than that of the chiefs of the
several tribes, though in important expeditions they chose a common
leader. The Druids, male and female, exercised supreme authority in
religion, and governed to some extent in civil matters. They possessed
some knowledge of astronomy and other sciences, which they used to
secure their power over the minds of the people.
Among the Celts of France at the time of Cæsar, duels and drunkenness
were common; there were many villages and few cities; the houses were
circular in form, and made of beams, being laid upon stone, and covered
with thatch; the household utensils were few and poor. Few of the
people tilled the soil, the greater part subsisting upon their flocks.
Their beverage was a kind of beer or mead; the cultivation of the vine
was unknown. The rich had gold, obtained from mines and the sands of
rivers.
In battle, the rich wore checked or plaid cloaks over their shoulders,
but no other garment. The common soldiers were almost naked. They were
of high stature and savage features. Their hair was yellow, long, and
matted--giving them a terrible aspect. Their blind, headlong courage;
their immense numbers; the stunning noise which proceeded from their
numerous wild horns and trumpets; their terrible devastations in
passing through a country; their sacrifice of captives to their
deities; their using the skulls of the slain as trophies and as
drinking-cups, all contributed to render them the terror of the western
world. On one occasion, 389 B. C., the Celts or Gauls entered Italy,
advanced towards Rome, sacrificed in battle the flower of the Roman
youth, sacked and burnt the city, and laid siege to the capitol, which
was only delivered by a Roman army under Camillus.
At the period of which we speak, Cæsar found these Gauls a most
formidable people. For nine campaigns they resisted him; but their long
swords of copper could not withstand the steel swords of the Romans;
and besides, their soldiers wanted discipline, harmony, and unity of
action. Cæsar overcame them at last; and then he turned his armies
against the island of Britain.
The people there were Celts, and generally resembled the Gauls. They
were, however, in a still more rude and savage state. Along the
southern border of the island they were most civilized. Here they
wore a dress of their own manufacture, consisting of a square mantle,
which covered a vest and trowsers, or a plaited shirt or tunic. Their
houses, like those of their Gallic neighbors, were of circular beams,
reared upon stone foundations, and covered with straw thatch. They
manured their lands with marl; raised abundance of wheat, which they
kept in dry pits; and were skilful in training horses, especially for
war-chariots.
Farther north, the Britons were much more wild and savage. They either
went naked, or were only clothed in skins; they had no bread, and
lived entirely on the milk or flesh of their flocks. Marriage was not
practised, and children knew not their parents.
[Illustration: _Agricultural operations of the Ancient Britons._]
Such was the state of things in the year 55 B. C., when Cæsar first
crossed the British channel from Calais, and made his descent on
Britain. As he approached the cliffs of Dover and Deal, he saw them
crowded with armed men, and therefore stood northward and entered
Pegwell bay. He was obliged, however, to land in the face of the
natives, who had watched his motions, and were here ready to receive
him. They filled the air with their hostile arrows; they approached the
water’s edge, and rushing into the waves, met and struggled furiously
with the Roman soldiers in the sea. But their courage and strength were
vain; Roman discipline prevailed, and Cæsar made good his landing. This
first attack was followed by other expeditions, and Rome, having taken
possession of the island, held it for nearly five hundred years.
During this long period, the manners of the Britons were greatly
changed. The arts of Rome were adopted in the country; towns and cities
were built; Christianity was introduced; and civilization, to a certain
extent, was spread over the island. Thus the original Celtic Britons
became mixed with the Romans, and were partially Romanized.
But the Roman empire at last became weakened, and tottered to its fall.
The Roman soldiers were called home for the defence of the capital, and
Britain was once more left to herself.
The Romans quitted England about the year 410, and for a time, the
Britons continued in a feverish state of independence, divided into
small republics. But soon these became subject to ambitious leaders,
who involved the people in repeated struggles. Constant inroads were
also made by the Scots and Picts from the north. To aid in defending
the people from these, fifteen hundred Saxons, who came accidentally
to the coast from Sweden and Norway, were employed by a British chief
named Vortigern. In a few years more Saxons arrived, and in about
one hundred and fifty years the whole island was subjected to these
intruders. The Britons fought bravely for their liberties, but they
were divided among themselves, and were sacrificed piece-meal by the
hordes of Saxons that came like successive waves to overspread the
country.
The Saxons, though a brave and warlike race, were savage and cruel
in the extreme. They drove such of the Britons as resisted to the
mountains of Cornwall and Wales, and the adjacent islands, making
slaves of those who submitted. Thus they established their dominion,
and became not only the ruling people in the country, but the stock
which was to give a distinctive character to the nation ever after.
They were a mixture of Angles, Picts, and Saxons, and were, taken
together, called Anglo-Saxons. It is from this race, chiefly, that the
English people, as well as ourselves, derive existence.
[Illustration: _Anglo-Saxons._]
The Saxons were robust in their make, tall, at least as compared with
the Romans, possessed of fair complexions, blue eyes, and, in almost
all instances, light or sandy hair. They were distinguished, from
the earliest ages, for indomitable courage and great ferocity. In
their social state they acknowledged four ranks or classes of men,
among whom intermarriages rarely, if ever, occurred; namely, their
nobles, their freemen, their freedmen, and their slaves. They were
particularly jealous of the honor of their wives. In ordinary times
they acknowledged no single chief, but were governed by an aristocracy;
from among the members of which, in the event of war, they chose a
king. But the authority of the sovereign lasted only while hostilities
continued: at their close, he returned to his original station among
the nobles.
The Saxons delighted in the perpetration of cruelties, and were
themselves regardless of danger. They carried on their predatory
warfare chiefly by sea; launching their vessels most cheerfully during
the prevalence of the wildest storms, because they took it for granted
that their intended victims would, at such moments, be least prepared
to escape or to resist them. When the first of these bands arrived in
England, they came under the guidance of two nobles, Hengist and Horsa,
whom they had themselves elected as leaders in a piratical expedition;
and whom they continued to obey, only because the war, in which they
became engaged, lasted during the lifetime of those who began it.
[Illustration: _Danes._]
The religion of the Anglo-Saxons, as they imported it into Britain, was
a wild and hideous polytheism, which demanded from its votaries, among
other rites, the occasional offering up of human victims. Of some of
their gods we retain a remembrance in the names which still attach to
the days of the week. They worshipped the Sun, thence our Sunday; the
Moon, thence our Monday; Tiw, thence Tuesday; Woden, thence Wednesday;
Thurse, thence Thursday; Friga, thence Friday; and Saterne, whence
Saturday.
About the year 800, the Danes, a nation of sea rovers and robbers,
began to infest England. This country had been divided into seven
kingdoms, called the Saxon Heptarchy; but these had been condensed into
three, and at last the whole Saxon portion of the nation became subject
to one king, for the first time. This king was Egbert. He died in 836,
and the sceptre passing into feeble hands, the country was exposed to
the incursions of the people whom we have mentioned above.
The Danes came from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, and in many respects
resembled the Saxons. They were pirates by profession, who took to
themselves the appellation of Sea-kings; and Europe has never produced
a race of men more stained with the crimes of treachery and cruelty.
Not content, like the generality of savage warriors, to slay, without
remorse, all by whom they were opposed in battle, the Sea-kings
appeared to delight in the infliction of unnecessary torture; razing
to the ground every town of which they obtained possession, and
slaughtering men, women, and children indiscriminately upon its ruins.
[Illustration: _Normans._]
It would lead us beyond our present limits to detail all the struggles
with these invaders of Britain. It is sufficient to say that they
continued for many years, and spread desolation over the country. The
wars occasioned by the Danes were replete with suffering, cruelty,
and crime. They were finally checked, and many who had settled in
the country were driven away; but others became mingled with the
inhabitants, and made another ingredient in the compound of British
blood and bone.
The last introduction of foreign people into Britain took place in
1066, when William, Duke of Normandy in France, came with an army, and
triumphed over king Harold in the battle of Hastings, and established
himself and his family on the throne. Many French people came over with
William and settled in the country. The French language became the
language of the court and the laws, and French customs were largely
introduced among the people.
From this brief sketch, we can see that the English people derive
their origin from five races: the Celts, Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Danes,
and Normans; and we, descendants of the English, must look back for
our first grandfathers and grandmothers to these various nations and
tribes. It is from them we derive our blood, our language, and our
customs.
It is true that the Anglo-Saxons form the basis of our ancestry: the
mixture of the other races with them is not considerable. Our language
may afford a pretty fair index to the proportion which the Saxon stock
bears to the others. The foundation of our language is Saxon, and
consisting chiefly of the short expressive words called monosyllables.
To this original stock, we have added words from the Celtic Britons,
the Romans, the Danes, and the Norman French. Our language may be
compared to a patched garment, the main cloth of which is a Saxon
texture; but the patches are furnished by the other nations that have
worn it. It is, however, a pretty good language, after all.
[Illustration: March]
The Month of March.
Of all the months, March is the least of a favorite. It has neither
the brilliant snows of winter, with its keen and bracing breezes,
nor has it the flowers and fruits of the warmer seasons. It is a
capricious mixture of cold and warm, wet and dry, sometimes visiting us
with storms of sleet and snow, and suddenly changing its temper, it
presents us with soft southern breezes, seeming to remind us of spring.
As far south as Virginia, March seems to bring spring with it, and
many of the flowers venture to peep forth during this month; but even
there, the weather is uncertain. In New England, nothing can exceed
its versatility. Often the sun will rise bright and clear, and the
hills will seem to breathe the atmosphere of spring. But before noon
the scene is entirely changed; dark and heavy clouds come heaving from
the west, the cold wind rises to a gale, and the whole air is filled
with a whirling storm of snow. And thus the sun that rose on the hills,
where spring had apparently began its reign, as it sets, sees these
hills re-conquered by winter, and wearing its white livery in token of
vassalage. So sudden are these changes, that the birds, weather-wise
as they generally are, are often taken by surprise. The blue-birds,
sparrows, and robins are always in haste to get back to their
birth-places, and accordingly, following the retreat of winter, come
northward as fast as the season will permit. But spring and winter are,
in March, like two armies, constantly contending--one prevailing one
day, and the next day giving way before the other. In these skirmishes
of the seasons the birds we mention are often involved, and it is not
seldom that they are glad to escape to the south, till the conflict of
the elements is over, and the triumphant reign of spring is established.
Nor are the birds alone in suffering from the capricious tricks of the
month of March. It sometimes happens that a Vermont farmer, tempted
by the solid snow-path, and the appearance of steady cold weather,
sets out with his one-horse sleigh upon a journey of a hundred miles,
to Boston. Though it is perhaps the middle of March, still the
traveller’s sleigh glides along as if upon a railroad, and in two days
he reaches Boston. Here he spends a day or two, and then sets out to
return. But what a change has come over the scene! The wind has veered
from north-west to south-west; the snow is melting and running in rills
down the hill-sides, and every time the horse steps, he is up to his
knees in _sposh_. The traveller with his sleigh plods on, but, after
a severe day’s work, he advances in his journey but twenty miles. The
next day the snow is entirely gone, and he is obliged to proceed on
foot, as you see him in the preceding picture, his weary horse dragging
the sleigh over the grating mud and stones. After five days of toil he
reaches his home, and has the comfort to be met by his wife and all his
neighbors, exclaiming, with a jeer, “I told you so!”
But although March has thus acquired a character that is not the best
in the world, there are some pleasant things to be said about it.
William Howitt, who takes a cheerful view of almost everything in
nature, admits that “March is a rude and sometimes boisterous month,
possessing many of the characteristics of winter;”--“yet,” he adds,
“it awakens sensations, perhaps, more delicious than the two following
spring months, for it gives us the first announcement and taste of
spring.”
Bryant too--our own poet, and one of the sweetest that ever sung--finds
something pleasant to say of March; a pretty good proof that nothing is
wanting but good humor to render a person always able to find something
agreeable to talk about. See how truly and yet how pleasantly Bryant
describes this capricious month:--
The stormy MARCH has come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear’st the gentle name of spring.
And in thy reign of blast and storm
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the bloom of May.
The fourth day of this month will be distinguished this year by the
inauguration of William Henry Harrison as President of the United
States. The people of this country chose him to that office last
autumn, and on the fourth day of March he enters upon its duties. He
goes to the capitol at Washington, and in the presence of the Senate,
and a great concourse of people, he takes an oath, administered by the
chief justice of the nation, by which he pledges himself to use his
best efforts to govern the people according to the laws, and with a
view to promote their best happiness.
The Child and the Violets.
“Oh, mother, mother!” said the child,
“I saw the violets blue;
Thousands were there, all growing wild;
Mother, I tell you true!
They sat so close upon the ground,
Here and there, and all around,
It seemed as if they had no stems,
And all the grass was strown with gems.
“‘Whence came ye, flowers?’ I asked them all;
They would not say a word;
Yet something seemed to hear my call,
And near me was a bird.
I turned mine eye,--he flew away,--
Up he went with joyous lay;
And seemed to sing, as high he flew,
‘From yonder sky come violets blue.’”
The mother answered thus the child:
“The bird did tell you true;
These pretty violets, low and wild,
Of heaven’s own azure hue,
Though here they have their bloom and birth,
And draw their sustenance from earth,
Still One, who fills immensity,
Made these sweet flowers for you and me.”
[Illustration: child reading]
Varieties.
HOW TO SLEEP IN SNOW.--The manner in which Captain Ross’ crew preserved
themselves, near the north pole, after the shipwreck of their vessel,
was by digging a trench in the snow when night came on. This trench
was covered with canvass and then with snow. The trench was made large
enough to contain seven people; and there were three trenches, with
one officer and six men in each. At evening, the shipwrecked mariners
got into bags, made of double blanketing, which they tied round their
necks, and thus prevented their feet from slipping into the snow while
asleep; they then crept into the trenches and lay close together. The
cold was generally sixty-four degrees below the freezing-point of
Fahrenheit; but in January, 1831, the mercury was ninety-two degrees
and a half below the freezing-point.
* * * * *
THE FIGHTING BUSINESS.--“What are you thinking of, my man?” said Lord
Hill, as he approached a soldier, who was leaning in a gloomy mood
upon his firelock, while around him lay mangled thousands of French
and English; for it was a few hours after the battle of Salamanca had
been won by the British. The soldier started, and, after saluting
his general, answered, “I was thinking, my lord, how many widows and
orphans I have this day made for one shilling.” He had fired six
hundred bullets that day, and his pay was a shilling a day.
* * * * *
ANECDOTE OF FRANKLIN.--While Franklin was ambassador to the English
court, a lady, who was about being presented to the king, noticed his
exceedingly plain appearance, and inquired who he was. “That, madam,”
answered the gentleman upon whose arm she was leaning, “is Dr. Benjamin
Franklin, the ambassador from North America.” “The North American
ambassador so meanly dressed!” exclaimed the lady. “Hush, madam, for
Heaven’s sake!” whispered the gentleman; “he is the man that bottles up
thunder and lightning!” I suppose my readers all know that Dr. Franklin
was the inventor of lightning-rods, by which the lightning is drawn off
from buildings, and thus rendered harmless. It was this that gave rise
to the humorous reply of the aforesaid gentleman.
* * * * *
INGENIOUS EXCUSE OF A SCHOOLBOY.--A country schoolmaster once having
the misfortune to have his schoolhouse burnt down, was obliged to
remove to a new one, where he reprimanded one of his boys, who
mis-spelled a number of words, by telling him that he did not spell as
well as when he was in the old schoolhouse. “Well, thome how or other,”
said the urchin with a scowl, “I can’t ethackly get the _hang_ of thith
ere thkoolhouth.”
* * * * *
KEEN SATIRE.--“You saved my life on one occasion,” said a beggar to
a captain under whom he had served. “Saved your life!” replied the
officer; “do you think that I am a doctor?” “No,” answered the man,
“but I served under you in the battle of ----, and when you ran away, I
followed, and thus my life was preserved.”
TALKING TO ONE’S SELF.--Earl Dudley possessed in a remarkable degree
the unpleasant habit of talking to himself. On one occasion he was
driving his cabriolet across Grosvenor Square, in London, in his way to
Park Lane, when he overtook an acquaintance of the name of Luttrell.
It was raining quite fast, and his lordship good-naturedly invited the
pedestrian to ride. They drove on till they had nearly arrived at Lord
Dudley’s mansion, where, Mr. Luttrell giving no hint of wishing to
alight, the Earl unconsciously exclaimed aloud, what many would have
thought under similar circumstances, “Plague on this fellow; I suppose
I must ask him to dine with me!” How often, instead of flattering
speeches and soothing compliments, should we hear unpleasant and
reproachful remarks, if people were in the habit of thinking aloud,
like Lord Dudley.
* * * * *
BEING BEHINDHAND.--An idle fellow complained bitterly of his hard lot,
and said, that he was born on the last day of the year, the last day
of the month, and the last day of the week, and he had always been
behindhand. He believed it would have been a hundred dollars in his
pocket if he had not been born at all!
* * * * *
APHORISMS FROM SHAKSPEARE.
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.
One drunkard doth love another of the name.
Do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation.
All offences come from the heart.
Every cloud engendereth not a storm.
Ignorance is the curse of God--knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to
heaven.
He is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man.
There’s small choice in rotten apples.
SPRING IS COMING! A SONG.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
1
Tell me, snow wreath, tell me why
Thou dost steal away so sly,
Why up-on the hill to-day,
But to-mor-row gone a-way?
“Spring is coming, spring is coming!”
2
Tell me, blue-bird, tell me why
Art thou seen in yonder sky,
Pouring music from above,
In a lay that’s all of love?
“Spring is coming--spring is coming!”
3
Tell me, foaming, romping rill,
Dashing headlong down the hill,
Why, like boy from school let out,
Dost thou leap, and laugh, and shout?
“Spring is coming--spring is coming!”
4
Tell me, little daisy, tell
Why in yonder wooded dell
Forth you venture from the ground,
Mid the sere leaves all around?
“Spring is coming--spring is coming!”
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
My own Life and Adventures.
(_Continued from page 35._)
CHAPTER VI.
_My new Gun.--Obstinacy.--Setting out on a Hunting Expedition.--A
Strange Character.--Mountain Sport.--A Snow-Storm.--Getting
lost.--Serious Adventures._
I have said enough as to the indulgent manner in which I was treated at
my uncle’s, not only by him, but by others, to show that no very great
restraints were laid upon my wishes, or even my caprices. At the time,
I thought it very pleasant to be permitted to have my own way; but I
have since been led to believe that most of the serious evils of my
life have flowed from this defect in my early education. We all of us
need to be brought up to follow duty rather than pleasure, or, to speak
more properly, to find our pleasure in doing our duty. If parents send
their children to school, it is the duty of their children not only to
go, but to improve all the advantages offered them. It is their duty
to learn their lessons well and thoroughly, and to obey the rules of
the school; and children that are properly educated, and who have right
feelings, will do this with cheerfulness and satisfaction. Thus they
will find pleasure in following the path of duty.
This is very important for the happiness of children, while they are
children,--for there is no pleasure so sweet as that which is found
in doing something useful and right; but it is still more important
in another point of view. In early life, we form habits, and they are
likely to guide us ever after. It is easy for us to act according to
habit, and it is difficult for us to act otherwise. A child who is
brought up in the habit of finding pleasure in doing his duty, is
likely to go on so through life; and thus he will secure happiness in
this world and that which is to come: while a child who is brought
up without a sense of duty, and at the same time is permitted to
follow his fancy, is apt always to be guided rather by his whims,
his caprices, and his passions, than by any right feeling or right
principle. Such a person is almost sure to meet with much trouble in
life, and there is great danger that he will turn out an unhappy and
unfortunate man.
Now I was brought up in this manner, and though my uncle intended me
the greatest kindness by his system of indulgence, it was, in point
of fact, the most mischievous that could have been devised. I grew up
headstrong and passionate, and though my temper was naturally good, it
seemed rather to be injured than benefited by the manner in which I
was treated. I could not bear anything that thwarted my wishes. I was
very easily offended, and became selfish, unreasonable, and unjust, in
proportion as I was petted and flattered. Thus it happened in my case,
as it always happens, that having my own way made me what is called a
spoiled child; and accordingly, I became disagreeable to myself and
almost everybody else.
I am particular in telling all this for two reasons:--first, to show to
parents, that if they do not wish their children to be miserable and
disagreeable--if they do not wish to lay the foundation of selfishness,
caprice, and injustice in the hearts of their offspring--let them
govern their children, make them mind, make them do right. If parents
do not wish to have their children ruined, let them avoid a system of
indulgence. My other reason for giving these details is, that I hope to
persuade children to do their duty cheerfully, because this is really
the best, the happiest way. It is not only the best for the future,
but the present; not only best in view of manhood, but for childhood
itself.
I am now going to relate some circumstances, which will illustrate some
things I have been saying. It will show not only how much my temper had
been injured, but into what evils a thoughtless and headstrong youth
will rush, if given up to his own guidance.
On a certain day in January, it had been agreed between Bill Keeler
and myself, that we would proceed to the mountain for the purpose
of hunting. My uncle had bought me a new fowling-piece, and on this
occasion I was to take it with me. I looked forward to the day with
great impatience, and when at last it arrived, Bill and myself were up
by day-break, ready to depart. The winter had thus far been remarkably
mild and open. There was as yet no snow on the ground. But when we were
about to leave the house on our expedition, my uncle, who had been out
of doors, told us that it was going to snow, and we had better not
venture among the mountains. I was immediately angry at this advice,
and told my uncle that I would go, whether he thought it best or not.
With more than ordinary spirit, he replied that I should not go! This
resistance set me in a blaze. I seized my gun, uttered some words of
defiance, and rushed out of the house. Finding me thus determined
and incorrigible, my yielding uncle told Bill, who stood still all
the time, seeming to know how it would turn out, to go with me, and
take good care of me. Accordingly, he soon joined me, and we went on
together, laughing heartily at the scene which had just passed.
We soon reached the forests that lay at the foot of the mountain, and
while it was yet somewhat dark, we began to climb up the ledges. As we
were passing through a small copse of tall trees without underwood, I
heard the step of something near by, and immediately discovered a dark
object passing slowly on before me. I drew up my piece, and was on
the point of firing, when Bill struck down the barrel of my gun, and
exclaimed, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t fire!--it’s Old Sarah!” This was
said and done in season to prevent my shooting the object at which I
aimed, but not to stop the discharge of my firelock. The shot struck
the ground at the very feet of my companion, thus coming very near
taking his life.
The noise of my gun aroused the attention of the singular old woman,
whom, with the ardor of a youthful hunter, I had taken for a wild-cat
or a wolf. She turned round, and began to speak in a warning voice. “Go
back!” said she, at the pitch of her lungs, “go back! for the snow is
already falling, and you will both get lost in the woods. In one hour
the paths will be covered, and then you cannot find your way among the
mountains!”
Bill and I both laughed at all this, and I am sorry to say that we
returned the kind anxiety of the old woman for our safety, with jeers
and gibes. “Take care of yourself! and we will take care of ourselves,”
said I. “Keep your breath to cool your porridge,” said Bill. With this
and similar impertinence, we passed up the acclivity, leaving the
decrepit old woman to climb the mountain as she might.
I had seen this personage before, and had heard something of her story;
but I was now curious to know more. Accordingly, I asked Bill about
her, and he proceeded to tell me all that was known of her character
and history. She was a native of Long Island, and during the war of
the Revolution had become attached to a British officer, who was
stationed there. He wronged her cruelly, and then deserted her. With
a mind somewhat bewildered, she wandered into the country, and took
up her abode in a cave of the very mountain we were now ascending.
Here she had lived for years, visiting the villages in the vicinity in
the open seasons, but retiring to her den and subsisting on nuts and
roots, during the winter. Many wild stories were told of her. It was
said that she had lived so long in the mountain, that the foxes had
become familiar with her, and would come and lick her hands. It was
said the crows would sit on her head, and the rattlesnakes coil in her
lap. Beside all these tales, it was said that “Old Sarah,” as she was
called, was a witch, and many persons declared that they had seen her
just at dark, or before a thunder-storm, flying through the air on a
broomstick.
Bill’s narrative was cut short by the sudden whizzing of a partridge
from a bush just before me. Another and another soon followed. These
creatures are very cunning. They are always on the watch, and when they
hear or see any one coming, they get on the opposite side of some rock,
or thicket, or tree, and remain concealed till the person comes near.
Then they burst away with a startling, rushing sound, taking good care
to keep the rock, or tree, or thicket between them and their enemy,
until they are at a distance.
At least a dozen of these fine birds broke away from their cover,
but neither Bill nor myself had a chance for a shot. So we went on,
greatly excited, however, by the game we had seen. It was not long
before we met with another covey of partridges, and firing at random,
I killed one of them. Great was my exultation, for I had never killed
a partridge before; and beside, I had shot it with my new gun; and,
more than all, Bill, who was expert at every kind of sport, had as
yet met with no success. As I picked up the large and beautiful bird,
still fluttering and whirling round in my hand, and held it forth
to my companion, I imagine that I felt of as much consequence as
Bonaparte did when he had conquered the Austrians in the famous field
of Austerlitz.
Excited by this triumph of skill and my new gun, we continued to push
forward, though it was now snowing fast; and the ground was already
covered to the depth of two or three inches. Frequently meeting with
some kind of game, though we got little of it, we traversed one ridge
after another, until we were involved in a sea of small and thickly
wooded ridges and ravines, that crowned the top of the mountain.
Scarcely heeding the course we took, or thinking of return, we
proceeded for several hours. At last we came to a small hill, and it
was agreed between Bill and myself that he should take the valley on
one side, and I on the other, and we would meet beyond it.
I had not gone far before a rabbit rushed by me with prodigious bounds,
and entered a thicket at a little distance. I followed it, but as
I approached, it plunged farther into the bushes. Intent upon the
pursuit, and guided by its footsteps in the snow, I pursued it from
place to place, from thicket to thicket, but without being able to get
a shot at it. At last it disappeared amid a heap of stones. As these
were loose and not large, I began to pull them away, expecting every
moment to reach the object of my pursuit. But after working here for
some time, I was obliged to give up the effort in despair, and leaving
the place, I set out to join my companion. So intent had I been upon my
object, that I had not marked my route or noticed the lapse of time. As
soon as I began to think of joining him, however, I became conscious
that I had gone a considerable distance out of my way, and had spent
a long time in the chase of the rabbit. I therefore proceeded with as
much rapidity as the rugged nature of the ground and the dense forest
would allow, and in the direction, as I supposed, toward the extremity
of the ridge, where Bill and I were to meet.
It was not long, however, before I became assured that I had lost my
way--and that, instead of approaching the point designated, I had
wandered a great way from it. I now began to retrace my steps, and for
a time was guided by my tracks in the snow. But the storm had set in
in earnest. The large flakes fell thick and fast, filling the air with
a dense cloud, and seeming to pour down upon the earth as if shovelled
from some reservoir in the skies. In a few minutes after I had passed
along, my tracks were completely covered up, and no trace of them could
be seen.
My situation was now serious, and I began to consider what was to be
done. The advice of my uncle came to my mind, and the warning of the
grizzly old woman crept over me with a sort of shudder. I fired my
gun, hoping to make Bill hear it, and waited in breathless anxiety for
a reply. But the wind was roaring in the tops of the tall trees, and
neither the mountain nor the tempest seemed to heed my distress, any
more than if I had been an insect. I was never in my life so struck
with my utter helplessness. I was not accustomed to take care of
myself. In any difficulty heretofore, I had hitherto always found some
one to extricate me. But I was now alone. No one was here to aid me. At
first I gave way to despair. I threw my gun to the ground in a pet, and
lay down myself, and with bitter lamentations bewailed my fate. But the
gray, gnarled old trees and sturdy rocks around took not the slightest
notice of my distress. I fancied that I could almost see them smile at
my vain wailings. They did not, at any rate, rush to my relief, and
soothe my agony. For once, I was obliged to rely upon myself; and it
was a stern lesson, which I have never forgotten.
After a few moments, I rose from the ground, brushed off the snow from
my clothes, and began seriously to devise some plan of action. But
here, again, my habit of dependence came in my way. Little accustomed
to think or act for myself in any emergency, I was a poor hand for
contrivance. My convenient friend, Bill Keeler, had been accustomed
always to save me the trouble of making any mental or bodily exertion.
O how ardently did I now wish that he was with me! How did I fill the
mountain with cries of his name! But there was no return. Even the
throat of the mountain, that had ever before been so ready with its
echoes, was now choked up with the thickening shower of snow. Nothing
could be heard but one deafening roar of the gale, chafing the uneasy
tops of the trees.
I concluded to set out in what seemed to me the direction of my home,
and to push straight forward till I was extricated from the wilds
of the mountain. I began to put this scheme in execution, and for
more than an hour I plodded on through the woods. I proceeded with
considerable rapidity for a time, but the snow was now a foot in depth,
and as it impeded my progress, so it diminished my strength. I was,
at length, obliged to slacken my pace, and finally, being completely
wearied out, I sat down beneath the branches of a large hemlock tree,
to rest myself. This spot was so sheltered by the thickly woven
branches as to be free from snow, and here I continued for some time.
When I got up to proceed, I found my limbs so stiffened that it was
difficult for me to move. At the same time a dizziness came over me,
and I fell to the ground.
It was not till the next day that I had any consciousness of existence.
When I awoke, I was in a dark, rocky cavern, with a grizzly old woman
by my side. At first, I fancied it all to be some strange dream, and
expected to awake and find myself in my comfortable bed at my uncle’s.
But pretty soon, remembrances of the preceding day came back, and
guessing at the truth, I asked--“Is that you, Sarah?” “It is me,” said
the old woman; “and you are in my cave.” “And you have saved my life,
then?” said I, half rising from my recumbent position. “Yes--yes,” said
she; “I found you beneath the hemlock, and I brought you here. But you
must be quiet, for you have suffered, and need care and rest.”
I need not attempt to tell how gratefully I thanked the poor old
hermitess, and how I begged pardon for my impertinence on the preceding
morning. I then began to inquire about other things--the depth of the
snow; whether anything was known of my companion; and how and when I
could return to my uncle. In reply, I was told that there was at least
four feet of snow on the ground; that it was therefore impossible to
attempt to leave the cave; that Bill Keeler, being an expert woodsman,
had no doubt found his way home; and that in all probability I was
given up by my friends as lost.
I was obliged to be content with this recital, though it left me much
cause of anxiety, especially on account of my companion, for whom
I entertained a sincere affection. Being, however, in some degree
pacified, I began to consider my condition. Here I was, in a cave
formed by nature in a rock, and my only companion was a gray old
dame, her long hair almost as white as the snow-drift, her form bent,
her eyes bleared and colorless, her face brown and wrinkled. Beside
all this, she was esteemed a witch, and while feared and shunned by
mankind, she was regarded as the familiar companion of the wild fox
and the rattlesnake.
Nor was this all that rendered my situation singular. There was no fire
in the place I inhabited, yet, strange to say, I did not suffer from
the cold. Nor were there any articles of furniture. The only food that
was given to me consisted of butternuts and walnuts, with a little
dried beef and bread which Old Sarah had brought from the village.
For two days and two nights I remained at this place, the greater part
of the time lying upon the bottom of the cave on my back, with only a
ray of light admitted through the cleft of the rock, which served as a
door, and which was partially closed by two large pieces of bark. On
the third day I was looking from the mouth of the cave upon the scene
around, when I saw a figure at a considerable distance, attempting to
make its way through the snow, in the direction of the cave. At first
sight I knew it to be Bill Keeler! I clambered upon the top of a rock,
and shouted with all my might. I was soon discovered, and my shout was
answered by Bill’s well-known voice. It was a happy moment for us both.
I threw up my arms in ecstasy, and Bill did the same, jumping up and
down in the deep snow, as if he were light as a feather. He continued
to work his way toward us, and in half an hour we were in each other’s
arms. For a short time I thought the fellow was stark mad. He rolled
in the snow as you sometimes see an overjoyed and frisky dog--then he
exclaimed, “I told ’em so! I told ’em so! I knew we should find you
here!” Then the poor fellow got up, and looking me in the face, burst
into an uncontrollable fit of tears.
I was myself deeply affected, and Old Sarah’s eyes, that had seemed dry
with the scorching of sorrow and time, were now overflowing. When I
noticed her sympathy, however, she shrunk from notice, and retired to
her cave. Bill then related all that had happened; how he hunted for me
on the mountain till midnight, and then, with a broken heart, went home
for help; how he had since toiled for my discovery and deliverance,
and how, against the expectations of everybody, he had a sort of
presentiment that I should be found in the shelter of Old Sarah’s cave.
He farther told me that my uncle and four men were coming, and would
soon be with us.
I need not give the details of what followed. It is enough to say, that
my uncle soon arrived, with sufficient assistance to take me home,
though the depth of the snow rendered it exceedingly difficult to
proceed. I left Old Sarah with abundant thanks, and an offer of money,
which, however, she steadily refused. At last I reached home. Not a
word was said to remind me of my obstinacy and folly, in going upon a
sporting expedition, against counsel and advice; nothing but rejoicing
at my return was heard or seen. My uncle invited in the neighbors at
evening; there was hot flip in abundance, and ginger and cider for
those who liked it. Tom Crotchet, the fiddler, was called, young and
old went to dancing, and the merriest night that ever was known, was
that in which young Bob Merry who was lost in the mountain, came to
life, having been two days and two nights in the cave of “Old Sarah the
hermitess.”
I am not sure that I did not appear to share in this mirth; but in
truth I felt too sober and solemn for hilarity. The whole adventure had
sunk deep into my mind, and though I did not immediately understand its
full effect upon my character, I had at least determined never again to
scorn the advice of those more experienced than myself. I had also been
made in some degree aware of that weakness which springs from being
always dependent upon others; and a wholesome lesson had been taught
me, in finding my life saved by an old woman, whom a few hours before
I had treated with rudeness, impertinence, and scorn. I could not but
feel humbled, by discovering that this miserable old creature had more
generous motives of action, a loftier and more noble soul, than a smart
young fellow from New York, who was worth ten thousand dollars, and who
was an object of envy and flattery to more than half the village of
Salem.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: Loon]
The Great Northern Diver, or Loon.
The genus to which this bird belongs are all of a large size, and
entirely aquatic; they are seldom on land, and, although they have
great power, they seldom fly. The construction of their feet at once
points out their facility of diving and their ability to pass rapidly
through the water; the legs are placed far back, and the muscles
possess great power; and the whole plumage of the bird is close and
rigid, presenting a smooth and almost solid resistance to the waves in
swimming or diving.
The Great Northern Diver measures two feet and ten inches in length,
and four feet six inches in the expanse of the wings; the bill is
strong, of a glossy black, and nearly five inches long. It is met with
in the north of Europe, and is common at Hudson’s Bay, as well as
along the Atlantic border of the United States. It is commonly found
in pairs, and procures its food, which consists wholly of fish, in the
deepest water, diving for a length of time with astonishing ease and
rapidity. It is restless before a storm, and its cry, which foretells
a tempest, is like the shrill barking of a dog and maybe heard at
the distance of a mile. It is a migratory bird, always departing for
warmer regions when its fishing grounds are obstructed with ice. It is
difficult to kill these birds, as they easily elude their pursuers by
their astonishing faculty of diving.
The people of some parts of Russia tan the breasts of this bird, and
prepare them in such a manner as to preserve the down upon them; they
then sew them together, and sell them for pelisses, caps, &c. The
articles made of them are very warm, and perfectly impervious to rain
or moisture, which renders them very desirable in the severe climates
where they are used. The Greenlanders also make use of these skins for
clothing, and at the mouth of the Columbia river, Lewis and Clarke saw
numbers of robes made of them.
The Laplanders cover their heads with a cap made of the skin of this
bird--which they call _loom_, a word signifying _lame_, and which they
apply to it because it is awkward in walking.
The loon is not gregarious, but, as before said, is generally found
in pairs. Its aversion to society is proved by the fact, mentioned by
travellers, that only one pair and their young are found on one sheet
of water. The nest is usually on the edges of small islands, or on the
margin of a fresh-water lake or pond. It contains two large brown eggs.
In building its nest, the loon usually seeks a situation at once
secluded and difficult of access. She also defends her nest, and
especially her young, with great courage and vigor. She strikes with
her wings, and thrusts with her sharp bill as a soldier does with his
bayonet. It is, therefore, by no means easy to capture the nests or the
young of this bird.
Mr. Nuttall gives the following account of a young bird of this kind
which he obtained in the salt marsh at Chelsea, and transferred to a
fish-pond. “He made a good deal of plaint, and would sometimes wander
out of his more natural element, and hide and bask in the grass.
On these occasions, he lay very still until nearly approached, and
then slid into the pond and uttered his usual plaint. When out at
any distance, he made the same cautious efforts lo hide, and would
commonly defend himself, in great anger, by darting at the intruder,
and striking powerfully with his dagger-like bill. This bird, with a
pink-colored iris like the albinos, appeared to suffer from the glare
of broad daylight, and was inclined to hide from its effects, but
became very active towards the dusk of evening. The pupil of the eye
in this individual, like that of nocturnal animals, appeared indeed
dilatable; and this one often put down his head and eyes into the water
to observe the situation of his prey.
“This bird was a most expert and indefatigable diver, and would remain
down sometimes for several minutes, often swimming under water, and
as it were flying with the velocity of an arrow in the air. Though at
length inclined to be docile, and showing no alarm when visited, it
constantly betrayed its wandering habit, and every night was found to
have waddled to some hiding-place, where it seemed to prefer hunger to
the loss of liberty, and never could be restrained from exercising its
instinct to move onwards to some secure or more suitable asylum.”
Mr. Nuttall makes the following remarks in respect to the voice of
the loon: “Far out at sea in winter, and in the great western lakes,
particularly Huron and Michigan, in summer, I have often heard, on a
fine, calm morning, the sad and wolfish call of the solitary loon,
which, like a dismal echo, seems slowly to invade the ear, and, rising
as it proceeds, dies away in the air. This boding sound to mariners,
supposed to be indicative of a storm, may be heard sometimes for two
or three miles, when the bird itself is invisible, or reduced almost
to a speck in the distance. The aborigines, nearly as superstitious as
sailors, dislike to hear the cry of the loon, considering the bird,
from its shy and extraordinary habits, as a sort of supernatural being.
By the Norwegians, its long-drawn howl is, with more appearance of
reason, supposed to portend rain.”
Story of Philip Brusque.
(_Continued from page 50._)
CHAPTER III.
_More particulars of Philip’s early life._
Our story, thus far, has shown us that absolute liberty cannot
be enjoyed except by an individual in solitude, where he has
no intercourse with his fellowmen. It shows us that as soon as
individuals, even supposing that there are only two of them, come to
live together, some rules, by which they may regulate their conduct,
become absolutely necessary. In other words, people cannot live
together in society without government; even two persons on an island
find that, to prevent quarrelling, they must define their mutual rights
and privileges; or, in other words, they must enact laws; and these
laws, we perceive, are restraints upon natural or absolute liberty. The
farther progress of our story will show how an increasing community,
with more varied interests, requires a more extended and minute code of
laws.
But before I proceed further, let me tell you something more of
Philip Brusque’s early history. He was the son of a brickmaker of St.
Addresse, a small village in France, near the flourishing seaport of
Havre, which you know is situated at the mouth of the Seine. Philip
was early taught to read and write, but he paid little attention to
these things in his boyhood. He was more fond of action than study.
He spent a great part of his time in wandering through the deep dells
that surrounded his native village, or in walking along the high chalky
bluff that formed the neighboring sea-shore. Here he particularly loved
to spend his time, looking out over the sea for many leagues, and
tracing the progress of the ships, bearing the flags of many nations,
that ploughed their way upon the bosom of the Atlantic.
In this way, he formed habits of reflection; and though he loved
stirring excitements, still Philip was a thinking youth. At the same
time he was of a sanguine temper, ardent in his feelings, loving and
hating strongly, and readily believing what his wishes and his hopes
prompted. Thus he grew up to the age of twenty, without a settled
profession, sometimes working at his father’s trade, and sometimes
serving as mate of a small vessel that plied between Havre and Bordeaux.
About this period, the public mind in France had begun to be agitated
by the coming tempest of the revolution. In every city, village, and
hamlet, the people were talking about government, liberty, and the
rights of man. The people of France had long been subject to kings, who
had claimed a right to reign over them, even without their consent, and
they had reigned in such a manner as to make the people miserable. The
people were now examining into this claim of their kings, and they had
already discovered that it was founded in injustice. Unhappily, they
fell under the guidance of bloody and selfish men, and for many years
the sufferings of France in her struggle for liberty and human rights,
were greater than they had been under the despotism of her worst kings.
Philip Brusque engaged very ardently in the political discussions
that resulted in the revolution, and when Paris became the great
theatre of action, he resolved to quit St. Addresse, and proceed to the
metropolis, to take his share in the great drama that he felt was about
to be acted. He took leave of his parents, and went to bid adieu to
Emilie Bonfils, whom he had long loved, and to whom he was affianced.
The parting was tender, for Emilie was well worthy of the affection
of the gallant youth, and her fears were now excited for the fate of
her lover. He was not only to leave her, but he was to be exposed to
the convulsions, which already, like the heavings and swellings which
portend the earthquake, began to be realized throughout France. But
Philip’s mind was too much influenced with the spirit of the time,
which, like the hot sirocco of the desert, seemed to sweep over the
land, to be delayed or dissuaded. He gave his Emilie a long and ardent
salute, and on foot wended his way to Paris.
I have told enough of what followed, for the purposes of my story.
Philip’s active mind and devoted spirit raised him to a certain degree
of power and distinction in the revolution; he rode for a time on the
storm, and shared in the scenes of blood and horror. He was indeed
accessory to many of the atrocious executions, which, in a spirit of
madness and fury, were decreed and sanctioned by the leaders. But
in all this, Philip was rather insane than selfish. Indeed, he was
intoxicated by the whirl of events, and he yielded to the current.
At length, he became sensible of his error, but before he had the
opportunity of atoning for it, he was obliged to fly for his life. He
wished to see his aged parents, and his mind turned more than once to
his gentle, confiding Emilie, at the village of St. Addresse. But there
were many reasons for his not going to see them before his departure.
The first was, that it was not safe, either for himself or them; and
the next was, that he now began to consider his hands sullied with the
blood of his fellow-men, in such a manner as to make him unfit for the
pure affections either of his parents or his affianced Emilie. Indeed,
such was the idea he had formed of the latter, and such was the true
affection and reverence that he entertained towards her, and such,
at the same time, was his feeling of repentance and remorse, that he
shrank from the idea of attaching her to one like himself, and dragging
her down from the dignity of truth and purity, to the lot of one who
was sullied with crime. Accordingly, he wrote a letter to his parents
and Emilie, explaining his feelings and designs, and bade farewell
to his country, as we have seen. The letter he wrote did not reach
its destination, but, falling into the hands of Robespierre and his
associates, became the source of bitter persecution to those for whom
it was intended.
CHAPTER IV.
_A Ship appears in view.--Pirates ashore.--A scene at
night.--Recognition of an old Friend.--Alarming
Discoveries.--A fearful Plot.--An Explosion.--Arrival of
about seventy persons at Fredonia._
We return to Brusque on the island of Fredonia. A few weeks after the
adoption of the constitution as before related, a fine vessel, in
full sail, appeared near the island. Brusque and Piquet saw it with
a mixture of emotions. She seemed to be crowding all her sails, and
sweeping before a brisk breeze. When first seen, masts and sails only
were visible, but now her full hull was in view. At length, she came
so near that both Brusque and his companion could distinctly see the
people on board.
The scene recalled the mind of Brusque to his home and his country.
The ship bore aloft the flag of France, and stirred within him feelings
that he could not well define. There are few that can forget the land
of their birth, particularly if parents, and one loved more warmly
than kindred, be there. Brusque’s mind touched on all these points,
and tears filled his eyes. “I am an outcast,” said he, “and France
rejects me. I am unworthy of my parents, and, more than all, unworthy
of Emilie. I must teach my heart to forget; and yet I fear it will not
forget, till it ceases to feel.” With these words he sat down upon the
hill, folded his arms, and with a melancholy countenance gazed at the
ship as she now seemed flying past the island.
At this moment, a new object attracted his attention; this was another
vessel, of small bulk, but with a prodigious spread of canvass,
pursuing the first-mentioned ship. She seemed, like the sea-eagle, to
have a vast expanse of wing in proportion to her body. On she flew,
and was soon near the object of her pursuit. Brusque and his companion
watched the scene with interest. Both saw that the pursuing vessel was
a pirate ship, and that in a few minutes a desperate conflict must
follow.
The pirate had now come abreast of the island, being at the distance
of not more than three miles. Brusque saw a white roll of smoke uncoil
itself at her side, and in a few seconds the booming voice of the
cannon broke over the island. At the same time, the ball was seen to
strike the water beyond the ship, and dipping at short distances, made
the spray shoot high into the air. Another and another shot followed
from the pirate in quick succession. These were at length returned by
the ship. The two now approached. Peal after peal rung on the air. They
were both completely wrapt in smoke. Yet still the firing continued.
At length there was a dreadful volley as of a broadside, a thickening
of the smoke, and then a fearful silence. Slowly the coiling vapor was
lifted up, and the two ships were in view. All eyes seemed directed
to the larger ship. Her masts and the cloud of canvass swayed heavily
from side to side. Finally, they sank lower and lower, and with a heavy
crash fell into the waves.
The deck was now a scene of confusion. The pirate approached, and was
soon grappled to the ship. Swiftly a few of her men leaped upon the
deck. There was a short struggle, and all was still. “They have yielded
like a pack of cowardly hounds!” said Brusque to his companion. “Nay,”
said the fisherman, “they fought bravely. That piratical craft has five
hands to her one, for she has more than a hundred men on board. The
other is but a merchant vessel, and had not twenty seamen. The greater
part of the men who fought are passengers, and they fought bravely.
Beside, there were women among them!”
“How do you know that?” said Brusque, quickly.
“I saw them,” said Piquet, “as the vessel passed.”
“What is to be done?” said Brusque, jumping up.
“What _can_ you do?” said the other.
“What can I do?” said Brusque; “good God, I can do nothing: and women
on board! women to fall into the hands of these pirates! It is too
dreadful to think of. I will go down to the shore.”
“Stay,” said the fisherman; “if you show yourself we are both lost. The
ship cannot be taken away, but must remain. It is likely the pirates
will come ashore before they leave. It is now near sunset. Let us wait
for events.”
“You are right, you are right!” said Brusque. “We will watch till
evening. Perhaps something may turn up, by which we may aid the
captives. And yet I know not what we can do. We have no weapons, no
boat. Still, what we can do, we will do.”
With these resolutions, Brusque and his companion went to their
cave, and laid their plans. Considering it extremely probable that
the pirates would come ashore, they concluded to watch and wait for
circumstances. Agreeing to take separate stations, and meet again at
midnight, they parted, it being now dark.
Brusque had not waited long before he heard the regular dipping of
oars in the direction of the pirate ship, and soon saw a boat with
about twenty men approaching the shore. Getting into the cover of
some bushes, he waited till they reached the shore. They were soon
followed by another party of an equal number. Drawing their boats upon
the beach, and leaving a single sailor as a guard, the whole party
moved up to a little grassy hill. Here some sat down, and others stood
around. The leader of the party gave directions to six of his men to
go in search of water; taking two officers with him, he stepped aside,
leaving the rest to themselves. While they were talking and laughing,
the captain and his two friends sat down close to the bushes where
Brusque lay concealed, and began to talk over the events of the battle.
The question was soon started as to the disposal of the ship and her
inmates. It was agreed by all that the vessel must be scuttled. “Shall
the people go down with her?” asked one of the officers. “What think
you, Jaques?” said the captain. “As to the sailors, and those rascally
passengers that entered into the fight, let them die,” said Jaques.
“It’s the fortune of war, and I shall care as little for their death as
for the bursting of so many bubbles. But the women----”
“Well, what of the women?” said the captain.
“Why,” said Jaques, “one of them is very pretty, and one of them is
very old, and I do not like to be concerned in drowning either a pretty
woman or an old one. They are very likely to haunt a man after death.
Beside, there are thirty women in all; it will be too bad to tip them
all into the sea.”
“Well,” said the captain, “what is your plan?”
“Well,” said Jaques, “I propose that we pick out the prettiest for
ourselves, and send the rest ashore here to take care of themselves.
They can set up a petticoat republic, or any other government they
please.”
This plan occasioned a hearty laugh, but still it seemed to be
approved. The party soon broke up and joined the rest. Brusque had
heard the whole of their conversation, and, after a short time, crept
from his hiding-place, and set out to join the fisherman at the cave.
On his way he fell in with one of the pirates who was in search of
water. He had no chance to conceal himself, but as it was dark, he
spoke to the man, as if he were one of his comrades. “Have you found
any water?” said he. “Not a drop,” said the other. “Well, go with me,”
said Brusque, “and I will take you to a spring. I have been on this
island before. A long time ago, on a voyage we stopped here, and I
remember that between these two hills there was a fine spring.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “is it you, Tom? Really, I did not know you;
your voice is strangely changed.” “I’ve got a cold,” said Brusque,
coughing. “But we are near the place, I think. It’s so dark we may not
be able to find it. However, we can but try. Yes, here is the spot--I
remember it by this tall palm-tree. I can see the shape of it against
the sky, and know it is the same. The spring is within ten feet of
this place. Aye, here it is! How delightful it will be to get a drink
of fresh water, just from the ground. It’s as good to drink direct from
mother earth, as in infancy to draw milk from a mother’s breast.”
“Get out, you sentimental dog!” said the other. “It’s treason to remind
a pirate of his mother. Good God, I never dare to think of mine.”
“Is she living?” said Brusque.
“Is she living? How dare you speak to me of my mother? Is she living?
Good God, I know too well that she is living. Tell me, Tom, and tell me
truly!--suppose your mother was in that ship, what would you do? Nay,
more,--suppose your sister were there, pure as an angel from heaven,
and as beautiful too? Yes, and suppose your aged father, bowed with
toil and care and sorrow, and gray with years, were also in that ship?
And suppose you were the pirate that had aided in their capture? What
would you do?”
“Tell me, in the name of Heaven, tell me your name!” said Brusque, in
great agitation.
“You know my name is François----” The man hesitated.
“Yes, indeed, I do know your name; you are François Bonfils. You are
the brother of Emilie--and here before you is Philip Brusque!”
The pirate started at this, and drawing a pistol from his belt, stood
in an attitude of defiance. At the same time he said, “Am I betrayed?
What means this? Are you not Tom Garson, of our ship?” Brusque hastened
to explain, and in few words told his story to François. It was a scene
of mutual agitation and explanation. Each had many questions to ask,
but these were deferred that they might consider what was to be done.
For the sake of conversing freely, they retired to Brusque’s cave,
where they both agreed to attempt the rescue of the people on board the
ship. Piquet soon arrived, and he joined heartily in the enterprise.
Several plans were discussed, but none seemed feasible. At length,
François spoke as follows:
“I am afraid that we are too sanguine. There are two hundred men
belonging to the pirate. They are desperate freebooters, and armed
to the teeth. Like all rogues, they are suspicious and watchful. We
cannot hope to surprise or deceive them. The captured vessel is a
trading ship, from St. Domingo. She is filled with people that have
fled from an insurrection of the negroes there. There are about thirty
females, several children, and thirty or forty men. They are guarded
by ten of our marines, and are kept under the hatches. We must convey
instructions to them to be on the lookout for relief, that they may
exert themselves if any opportunity should offer. We must blow up the
pirate ship, and I will do it, and share the fate of the rest, if need
be.”
“Nay,” said Brusque, “this is a mad and desperate scheme. Let us think
of something more feasible.”
“It is time,” said François, “for me to return to the captain. I shall
be missed and suspected. I will take care to be in the watch of the
merchant ship to-morrow night. You, Brusque, are a good swimmer. The
vessel is not more than two miles out. You must come at twelve o’clock,
and I will see that a rope is over the stem. You must climb up, and
enter the dead-lights, which shall be prepared. You must then wait
till Heaven send you some opportunity for exertion. Mention me not to
my parents or Emilie, if I perish. It will be better for them to mourn
over an uncertainty, than the memory of a pirate son or brother.
Farewell!” Saying this, and wringing Brusque’s hand convulsively, the
pirate departed.
I shall pass over the scene of riot which took place among the pirates
on the island, next day, as well as the anxiety of Brusque and his
friend Piquet. Night at length came, and at the appointed hour Brusque
repaired to the shore, and began to swim toward the vessel, as directed
by François. It was dark, and the water was ruffled, but he could see
the vessel floating like a dusky shade upon the water, and being steady
of limb and stout of heart, and withal an excellent swimmer, he soon
neared the vessel. Cautiously and slowly approaching the stern, he
at length descried a tall sentinel standing on the deck, and thought
he could make out the figure of François. He then drew close, and at
length was able to find the promised rope. Climbing up by this, he
swung himself to the window, which was cautiously opened from within.
It was too dark to see any one, but he entered the cabin and sat down.
Pretty soon a boat started from the side of the ship, and looking
through the window, Brusque saw it set off toward the pirate vessel. He
thought he could trace in the athletic form of the man who guided the
helm of the boat the form of François, and he began to think seriously
that he intended to put his plan into execution. He was the more
fearful of this from having observed that all the pirates had left the
island, and he suspected that the opportunity of thus blowing the whole
into air was too powerful a temptation for the almost maddened mind of
François. Pondering upon the awful chances of such an event, and of the
action that must follow on the part of the ship’s crew and passengers
for liberation, should it take place, he sat for some time in silence.
At length, a hand was laid upon his arm, and he was told to follow.
Being led across the cabin, he was taken into a small state-room, where
there was a light. His guide left him here alone. Soon a man entered,
who announced himself as the captain. He said he had received an
intimation that an effort would be made for their relief, but he knew
nothing more. Brusque now entered into a detail of the circumstances
which we have related, and expressed his conviction that the pirate
vessel would be blown up. He advised the captain quietly to apprize all
the men on board of the prospect before them, and to see that they were
ready to second any effort that should be made. This plan was adopted,
and accordingly, about twenty-five men got together in the cabin, each
having provided himself with some club, or spar, or other weapon. The
captain alone had a sword and pistol, which he had found concealed in a
drawer, and which had escaped the search of the pirates.
Brusque now took place on the transom of the vessel, where he could
have a full view of the pirate ship. He sat long, earnestly watching
the object of his attention. He hardly knew whether to fear or hope
for the awful explosion that he anticipated. The sudden transition of
two hundred breathing men from life to death, from the full flush of
riotous passion and crime into the presence of their God, was a thought
too horrible to be dwelt upon. Yet, here were other men, and helpless
women and children, whose only chance for life or escape from a fate
worse than death, seemed to depend upon that fearful catastrophe.
Dwelling upon these agitating topics, Brusque sat in the darkness,
gazing upon the pirate ship. In his anxiety, seconds seemed to lengthen
into minutes, and minutes into hours. His impatience almost mastered
him. His heart beat audibly, and his brain seemed swelled to bursting.
He was on the point of starting up to relieve his feelings, when he
saw a stream of light like a rocket shoot out from the side of the
pirate vessel. In an instant, another and another followed, and then
one wide flash enveloped the whole firmament. In the midst of the sea
of fire that seemed thrown into the sky, were the fragments of the
ship, the wheels of cannon, and the mangled forms of men, seeming like
demons, lit up in the red and ghastly glare.
This mighty blaze was almost instantly followed by total darkness, by a
heavy sound, and by a rocking of the ship, as if struck by a gale. In
an instant, the men within, rushed against the hatches, and with one
united effort threw them open. Starting to the deck, they soon levelled
four of the sentinels with their weapons, and the rest, in the sudden
panic, leaped into the sea.
The inmates of the ship now found themselves restored to liberty, as if
by the hand of enchantment. Passing from the deepest despondency, they
indulged in the most violent transports of joy. Brusque made himself
known to his parents, and he and Emilie found out each other in the
darkness. I need not tell the rest, till we get into another chapter;
and that must be deferred to our next number.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: Spectre]
The Spectre of the Brocken.
I will now tell you of certain strange appearances, which are sometimes
produced by clouds, operating like mirrors, and reflecting upon the sky
the images of things on the earth.
In Germany, there is a range of elevations, called the Hartz Mountains.
The Brocken is the loftiest peak, and is said to be about three fourths
of a mile high. The view from the top of it is so extensive as to
embrace a tract of land inhabited by more than five millions of people.
Now these reflecting clouds of which I have spoken, sometimes collect
around this mountain, and bear a very distinct though shadowy image of
whatever may be on the summit of the Brocken, when the sun is rising.
It is remarkable that this image is greatly magnified, so that if a man
is on the mountain, his figure upon the cloud is as tall as a steeple.
The best account of this wonderful spectacle is given by a very learned
Frenchman, called Hauy. He visited the place in 1797. I give his own
account of what he saw, which is as follows:
“After having come here for the thirteenth time, I was at length so
fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing the spectre. The sun rose
about four o’clock, and the atmosphere was quite serene. I was looking
round to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free
prospect of the southwest, when I observed at a very great distance,
toward one of the other mountains, what seemed like a human figure, of
a monstrous size. A violent gust of wind having almost carried off my
hat, I clapped my hand to my head, and the colossal figure did the same.
“The pleasure which I felt at this discovery can hardly be described;
for I had already walked many a weary step, in the hopes of seeing
this shadowy image, without being able to gratify my curiosity.
I immediately made another movement by bending my body, and the
colossal figure before me repeated it. I was desirous of doing the
same thing once more, but my colossus had vanished. I remained in the
same position, waiting to see whether it would return, and, in a few
minutes, it again made its appearance on the mountain.
“I paid my respects to it a second time, and it did the same to me. I
then called the landlord of the Brocken, and, having both taken the
same position, we looked towards the mountain, but saw nothing. We had
not, however, stood long, when two colossal figures were formed in the
same situation, which repeated our compliments by bending their bodies
as we did, after which they vanished.
“We retained our position, kept our eyes fixed on the same spot, and,
in a little while, the two figures again stood before us, and were
joined by a third, which was most likely the double reflection of one
of us. Every movement that we made by bending our bodies these figures
imitated, but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes
weak and faint, and sometimes strong and well defined.”
There are many other interesting stories relating to these reflecting
clouds, but I have not room to tell them here. You will find them in
one of Parley’s books, entitled, “Wonders of the Earth, Sea, and Sky,”
from which I have been permitted to copy this account and the engraving
that accompanies it.
Trifles.
“Father, didn’t you say the world was round?”
“Yes, my son.”
“Well, how can it come to an end if it’s round?”
“William, I wish you wouldn’t talk with your mouth so full of victuals.”
* * * * *
“John, I wish you wouldn’t go to balls and parties--it is very bad
indeed.”
“Father, didn’t you and mother go to balls and parties, when you were
young?”
“Yes, my son--but we have seen the folly of it.”
“Well, I want to see the folly of it too, father!”
[Illustration: View of Malta.]
The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.
(_Continued from page 47._)
CHAPTER II.
_A Wreck at Sea.--Mother Carey’s Chickens.--A Gale of
Wind.--Singular Phenomenon of the Corpo Santo.--Arrival
at the Straits of Gibraltar.--Wonderful Fortifications of
that place._
When we had sailed about half way across the Atlantic, we fell in
with the wreck of a vessel. All her masts were gone, and the sea was
breaking over her in every part. We could not discover her name, nor
to what nation she belonged. When a ship meets with a wreck at sea, it
is customary to set the wrecked vessel on fire, or blow her up with
gunpowder, lest any other vessel should run foul of her in the night;
a casualty which has caused the destruction of many ships, that have
never been heard of afterwards. The wreck we met with lay so low in the
water that we found it impossible to get at her for this purpose. So
the most we could do was steer clear of her. She was surrounded by a
great shoal of black-fish.
Now and then the solitude of the ocean was enlivened by the sight of
a little dark-colored bird, about the size of a swallow, called the
Stormy Petrel, but among sailors known by the name of Mother Carey’s
Chicken. These birds are met with in every part of the ocean, thousands
of miles from the land. They fly very swiftly, and come fluttering
about the ship, but seldom light on the rigging or deck. The sailors
have many superstitious notions concerning them, and always look out
for a storm after their appearance; but I never found there was any
dependence to be placed on such prognostications. They believe also
that these birds never set foot on land, that they lay their eggs at
sea, and hatch them under their wings. But these stories are all
fables. The petrels lay their eggs on the shore, among the rocks and
sand. Their nests are often found in the Bahama Islands.
We had now got about two thirds of the way across the ocean, when the
wind died away, and we lay two or three days becalmed. The sea was as
quiet as a mill-pond, and as smooth as glass. The captain did nothing
but fret and fidget, for the master of a ship cannot endure any delay
on his voyage. About the third day there rose a heavy swell of the sea,
which caused the vessel to roll from side to side in a manner most
uncomfortable to us all. I was surprised at this, as there was no wind
to agitate the water; but the captain informed me that when a gale of
wind is approaching, the swell always comes before the wind. He now
told us to look out for a heavy blow. The mercury in the barometer had
fallen suddenly, which is a pretty sure indication of a storm at hand.
By-and-by, a mass of thick, heavy clouds began to rise in the west, and
soon the heavens were completely overspread. The surface of the water
quickly became agitated by ripples, and the swell increased. The wind
now began to snuffle, then to blow in heavy gusts and sing through the
cordage in a most alarming style. We close-reefed the topsails and
scudded before it. The gale came on harder and harder, and the seas
rolled around us in a most terrific manner. Now and then the crest of a
mountainous wave would dash over the stern and sweep the deck fore and
aft. At such times the sailors were obliged to cling fast to the spars
and rigging, to save themselves from being washed overboard.
In the midst of the gale I was astonished at the sight of a wonderful
flame of fire that came hovering round the ship. It was a bright, thin,
quivering mass of light, as big as a man’s head, somewhat like the sun
when seen through a fog or thin haze. From what quarter it came I could
not discern--whether from the clouds or the sea, but the captain said
it appeared to gather in the air. It hovered over us for some minutes,
and then settled on one of the _lifts_ or ropes which sustain the upper
yards. There it remained two or three minutes, after which it glided
down the stay to the bowsprit, and then disappeared. I must confess I
was greatly amazed at this strange phenomenon, which, happening in the
midst of a terrible storm, was certainly enough to frighten any common
person. The captain, however, told me not to be alarmed, for such
appearances, though not very common, were yet too well known at sea to
cause any fear to an experienced mariner. This strange luminous body
is called by the sailors a _corposant_, a corruption of the Portuguese
words _corpo santo_, “holy body.” It is a sort of meteor, engendered
probably from electrical matter in the air, and never appears but in
heavy gales of wind. Sometimes two of them appear together. After
their disappearance, the sailors believe the strength of the gale to
be broken. In fact, within an hour after the appearance of this, which
I saw, the wind began to lull, and ere long subsided to a moderate
breeze, so that we considered ourselves out of danger, and stood on our
course.
About a week after this, just as I had waked in the morning, I was
aroused by the cry of “Land!” I ran upon deck, and saw what no
man can see for the first time without feelings of indescribable
enthusiasm--the shores of the old world! We were directly abreast of
the straits of Gibraltar. Europe and Africa lay before me, and the
sun was rising behind the lofty ridge of the Atlas mountains. Were I
to live a thousand years, I should never forget this moment, nor the
overpowering emotions that took possession of me at the sight. Few
prospects in the world can be more imposing. The stern and craggy
cliffs of the Spanish coast; the towering wood-crowned peaks of the
African mountains; the noble strait that separates these two famous
quarters of the globe; and the grand and interesting historical
recollections connected with the spot--all combine to fill the mind of
the spectator with the most thrilling emotions. Long did I gaze on the
noble scene without the power to utter a word, as the sun broke from
the mass of rich blue clouds that hung round the head of Mount Atlas,
and poured his golden light on the shaggy masses of forest in Africa
and the rugged and frowning cliffs of Spain. To see such a prospect
once is an epoch in a man’s life; the vivid and overpowering feelings
of the moment are never to be experienced a second time.
As we sailed up the strait, I had leisure to view the shore on both
sides by the help of a telescope. The Spanish coast is rocky, and
generally barren, but in many spots I was able to discern little
patches of green cultivation, scattered about in the valleys between
the dark rock. The African shore is almost entirely covered with woods
up to the mountain-tops. Here and there I could see a wreath of white
smoke slowly curling upward from the thick woods. These were made by
the Moors, who were stripping the cork trees of their bark. Farther up
the strait, we came in sight of the famous fortress of Gibraltar. It
is an enormous rock, connected with the Spanish shore by a low, flat
beach. The rock is cut and tunnelled into immensely long caverns and
galleries, with embrasures for cannon, and is fortified in every part
so strongly as to be considered impregnable. It was taken from the
Spaniards by the English, more than a century ago, but at that time it
was very poorly fortified. The English, finding it so well situated
for guarding the entrance of the strait, expended vast sums of money in
strengthening it, and would never give it up to the Spaniards. It has
sustained many hard sieges since that period, but has hitherto resisted
every attack. There is always a strong garrison of troops kept here,
and the harbor is a regular station for ships of war. A considerable
town has grown up near the rock, and a good deal of trade is carried
on by the merchants of Gibraltar. Vessels from all the Mediterranean
ports bring their goods to this place, and American vessels carry
the productions of our continent to exchange for them; so that an
establishment designed at first only for a military fortress, has
become a flourishing commercial mart.
Boston vessels commonly carry to Gibraltar cargoes of flour, tobacco,
coffee, tar, pipe-staves, &c., and take the Spanish wines and fruits in
return. Sometimes, after disposing of their cargoes at Gibraltar, they
take in ballast and sail for the Cape Verd Islands, where they load
with salt and return home.
CHAPTER III.
_Voyage along the coast of Spain.--Prospect of
Sicily.--Account of an Island thrown up from the bottom
of the sea by a Volcano.--Arrival at Malta.--Quarantine
Regulations._
Though we had been quite alone on the Atlantic, yet as soon as we
entered the Mediterranean we found ourselves in company with a large
fleet of vessels. We had a fair wind up the strait, and kept along with
our companions for two or three days; but as the strait grew wider,
and at length expanded into the broad Mediterranean sea, these vessels
dispersed towards their several ports of destination. We sailed
along the Spanish coast for nearly a week, and found the landscape
everywhere picturesque and striking. The shore is high and abrupt at
first; farther onward it rises into lofty mountains. Here the scenery
became truly grand and sublime. It was mid-winter, and the mountains
of Granada were covered with snow. A lofty ridge, called the Sierra
Nevada, runs parallel to the shore, and rises to the height of 11,000
feet. At this time it presented a most noble sight--an immense wall of
snow, glistening in the bright sunshine and towering up to the clouds.
Winds are commonly regulated by the direction of the shores, especially
where the coasts are mountainous. At Cape de Gatt, where the coast
makes a sudden bend to the north, a change of wind is always expected
by vessels sailing up the Mediterranean; and so it happened with us.
The fair breeze from the west, which had hitherto driven us on our
course, now shifted to a strong easterly breeze, directly in our teeth.
We had also a short chopping sea, peculiar to the Mediterranean, which
brings on sea-sickness to one coming from the Atlantic, although the
waves of the Mediterranean never rise so high as the Atlantic billows.
We beat against the wind some days, till at length it sprung up astern
again, when we ran before it till we came in sight of the island of
Sicily.
We found the mountains of Sicily, like those of Spain, covered with
snow; and considering the bleak wintry prospect which the country
offered at the distance from which we viewed it, we never should have
guessed that the gardens were full of green trees, bending under the
weight of ripe oranges. This however was the fact, as we afterwards
discovered. In steering from this quarter towards Malta, we sailed over
the spot where a volcanic island suddenly rose up from the bottom of
the sea a few years ago; a surprising phenomenon, of which the reader
may like to hear a short account.
This part of the Mediterranean is known to abound in subterranean
fires. Ætna is always burning; the Lipari islands contain volcanoes,
and Vesuvius, with its terrible eruptions, has long been familiar to
every reader. This whole region, both land and sea, probably rests on
an immense bed of fire. Wherever this fire can get vent, it breaks
out; the Lipari islands all present the appearance of having been
formed in this manner. On the south coast of Sicily, the inhabitants
were surprised one day to behold tremendous flames of fire breaking
out of the sea in a spot where the water was known to be very deep.
This alarming eruption continued for several days, with dreadful
explosions, like the discharges of artillery, and showers of ashes and
thick columns of smoke that obscured the light of the sun. When the
eruption had partially subsided, a considerably large island was found
to have emerged from the bottom of the sea. It continued smoking for
many days, and at length several persons had the courage to venture off
in small vessels, and land upon it. They found it to consist of black
scoriæ, cinders and ashes, the substances which are commonly ejected
from volcanoes. Pools of hot water stood here and there in the cavities
of the surface; great heaps of dead fishes were scattered about, and
the smoke of sulphur was steaming up from the hollows and crevices that
abounded in the island. Such was the singular appearance of a spot that
rose up from the sea, as it were out of the bowels of the earth. It
would have been hazardous for a man to take up his permanent abode on
this newly-formed territory, and we do not find that any one had the
inclination to make any long stay on the spot. After standing a few
months, the new island sunk as suddenly as it rose, and the sea over it
appears to be as deep as ever.
[Illustration: _A Volcanic Island thrown up from the Sea._]
The little island of Gozo now came in sight ahead, warning us that we
were approaching our port. At day-break we saw the island of Malta, and
ran for the western extremity, after which we stood along the northern
coast for the harbor of Valette. The island appeared of a moderate
height, but I could hardly discern a tree or any marks of cultivation.
Watch-towers at regular intervals along the shore, and some rude
structures in the interior, were all that appeared to diversify the
landscape. As we approached the harbor, we discovered a fleet of
small boats putting off to meet us, and we were soon surrounded by
them. The men were a wild-looking set, tawny and stout, wearing brown
woollen caps that hung down over their shoulders. They rowed standing,
instead of sitting, as our boatmen do. The boats were very neatly
built, of olivewood, with high and ornamented prows. They were painted
of a bright vermilion in the bows, and it is remarkable that Homer
describes the ancient Grecian ships as painted in the same manner. A
loud clamor and hubbub of voices now rose around us. All the boatmen
had some service to offer. One offered a pilot, another offered to tow
us into the harbor, which is highly necessary here, on account of the
narrowness of the entrance. Others were ready to supply us with fresh
provisions, fruit, &c., and others wanted our clothes to wash. Every
vessel that arrives is beset in the same manner, and the number of
persons who depend for a living upon what they get for these services
must be quite large.
As we approached the entrance of the harbor, we came suddenly in sight
of the city of Valette, with its castle and fortifications. They stand
close to the sea, and burst upon the spectator before he is aware.
We were much struck with their noble and commanding appearance--and
the bells of the city chiming merrily at the time, the agreeable
sensations they inspired were still further heightened. It was a great
mortification to us, however, to find that we were to be subjected to a
quarantine of more than a week. For this purpose our vessel was taken
into that part of the harbor adjoining the lazaretto, where we were
brought to anchor, and treated with a prospect of the shore close at
hand without the privilege of setting foot upon it for a week to come.
The quarantine regulations are very troublesome in almost all parts
of the Mediterranean. The people in this quarter are always afraid of
contagious diseases, particularly the plague, which in former days
committed terrible ravages. The quarantine on vessels from the Levant,
or the eastern part of the Mediterranean, sometimes lasts for forty
days. This restriction, when applied to ships from the United States,
is very useless and absurd; yet it is rigidly enforced, for these
people have heard that a contagious disease, called the yellow fever,
sometimes prevails in America, and as they have little knowledge of
geography, they make hardly any distinction between one portion of the
western continent and another. The quarantine therefore is laid upon
all vessels from America.
We found ourselves in company with fifteen or twenty other vessels
performing quarantine, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Austrian
and Greek. There was an Austrian brig, loaded with beans from
Alexandria in Egypt. She had forty days quarantine, and as the weather
was rainy and the vessel’s deck leaked, the captain was afraid his
cargo would sprout and shoot up into a forest of bean-stalks before he
could get it on shore.
It was now the first of February, a season when, by our recollection,
the country at home must be covered with snow; yet here we found the
fields green, the air soft, and the trees in full foliage. The oranges
were just ripening, and the Maltese boatman brought them to us on board
for four cents a dozen. The Malta oranges are famed for being the
finest in the world, and I must admit that they are worthy of their
reputation. The oranges we get in Boston are gathered before they
are quite ripe, that they may keep the better; but an orange in full
ripeness, fresh plucked from the tree, as far surpasses the imported
fruit, as a ripe apple does a green one. We had, besides, dried figs
strung upon reeds, somewhat in the manner in which we prepare dried
apples. Here I saw for the first time the pomegranate, a fruit larger
than an orange, full of little sweet kernels. So we contented ourselves
with eating fresh fruit and wishing the quarantine at an end.
(_To be continued._)
The New Custom-House, Boston.
Between Long and Central wharves, in Boston, a large edifice is now in
progress, called the New Custom-House. A picture of it as it will be
when finished, engraved by Mr. Devereux, whose office you will find
at No. 47 Court street, is given on the opposite page. The building
is of granite, and already it may be seen that it is to be one of the
finest structures in the city. The lofty fluted columns have already
an imposing effect. They are thirty-two feet in length, and weighed
forty-three tons each--they were obtained in one of the quarries at
Quincy. It required forty or fifty yoke of oxen to bring one of these
enormous pillars to the city.
[Illustration: _New Custom-House, Boston._]
This Custom-House is constructed by the government of the United
States. I suppose most of my readers know the use of a custom-house;
but for the benefit of those who do not, I will explain its object. It
is a place where the customs, or duties, laid on goods brought into
port by ships from foreign countries, are paid and received.
The course of the business is this. When a vessel from England,
or France, or any other place, comes into port, a person from the
custom-house, called a boarding officer, goes into her, and receives
from the captain the ship’s papers. These consist of--1. The
_Manifest_, which is a paper setting forth the cargo, and signed by
the master of the vessel. 2. The _Register_, which is a paper signed
by an officer of the treasury at Washington, and countersigned by the
collector of the port where she belongs--giving a description of the
vessel, with her name, her size, who her owners are, and where she
was built. 3. The _Roll of Equipage_, which contains the names of the
ship’s company, that is, the captain, mate, and hands; and, 4. _A list
of the passengers._
These papers are taken by the boarding officer to the collector of the
port, and the captain is required to enter his ship at the custom-house
within twenty-four hours after his arrival. Then, if all the papers
are right, the goods brought in the vessel may be entered at the
custom-house by the several persons to whom they belong. These persons
must make oath that the invoices are correct, pay the duty or tax on
the goods, and then take them away.
There are public stores attached to the custom-house, to which goods
may be sent, if the master applies for the privilege, or if they are
not called for in five days. During the unlading of a vessel, an
officer of the custom-house, called a tidewaiter, remains on board, and
takes an account of the cargo, so as to see that it corresponds with
the manifest and the entries made by the owners.
The great object of all this is to get money to support the government
with. The tax on some goods is twenty-five per cent., and on some it
is thirty per cent., and on some there is no tax. The amount of goods
received at the Boston custom-house is immense. You may judge of this
by considering that several millions of dollars are taken there every
year. About eighty persons are employed at the custom-house in Boston.
The superintendent of the whole business is called the Collector. The
old custom-house of Boston, now used, is inconvenient; the new one will
be much larger and better.
There is a new custom-house at New York, which is a very different
edifice from this at Boston; it is also much larger, for the business
done there is more than four times as great as that done at the Boston
custom-house. There are many other custom-houses in this country, as
at Philadelphia, Baltimore, and other places where ships come. From
all these, the government of the United States receives about twenty
millions of dollars every year. With this money, and what they get from
the sale of public lands and other sources, they pay the expenses of
the government, which are very great. The army costs a great deal of
money, and so does the navy. I suppose one ship of war will cost half a
million of dollars a year while in active service! Then the President
receives 25,000 dollars a year, and each of the foreign ministers
has 9,000 a year, and the officers of the custom-houses, members of
Congress, and ten thousand postmasters, and a great many other persons,
in the service of the government, must all be paid. So you will see
that if the government receives a great deal of money, it has need of
a great deal. The average expense of our government is 25,000,000 of
dollars, which is about six hundred and fifty tons of silver, and would
be as much as four hundred horses could draw!
[Illustration: Patent Office]
The New Patent Office, Washington
The building of which we here give a representation, is a depository
for the models of such inventions as are patented in the United States.
The old patent office was burnt down a few years ago, and this has just
been erected. It is a handsome and extensive edifice, and well adapted
to the purpose for which it is designed.
The contents of this building display in an eminent degree the
inventive and ingenious character of our countrymen, and especially
of the New England people, for a large proportion of the models here
collected are furnished by New England men. There are machines here for
almost every purpose under the sun. There are ploughs, and harrows, and
coffee-mills, and saws, and water-wheels, and rakes, and corn-shellers,
and stump-removers, and a multitude of other things, all arranged
according to their kinds. In one part are agricultural implements;
in another, are machines for the manufacture of cotton; in another,
those for the manufacture of wool, &c. The number of these inventions
amounts to many hundreds, and some of them display admirable skill and
contrivance on the part of the inventors.
Perhaps some of my readers hardly know why these things are collected
in a great building at Washington. I will endeavor to make them
understand it. If a man contrives a plough, which is on a new
principle, he may send a model of it to the superintendent of the
patent office, and he will grant him LETTERS PATENT, which set forth
that such a model has been so deposited, according to an act of
Congress. This being done, the inventor has the sole right to make and
sell said ploughs, and have the profit arising from the same. Thus he
has what is called a “_Patent Right_” for the plough he has invented.
The reason why the government grants such patents is this: if a man who
invents good and useful things can have the advantage of their sale, he
will be encouraged to invent more useful things, and thus society will
be benefited.
The utility of some inventions to mankind, is immense. Robert Fulton,
of New York, about thirty years ago, invented a steam engine that would
propel a steamboat through the water. This led to steam navigation,
which is the greatest improvement of modern times. A man in England
contrived an engine that would drive a car upon a rail-road track,
and thus rail-roads came into use. Eli Whitney, of Connecticut, about
forty years ago, contrived a cotton gin, for separating the seed from
the cotton, which saved a vast deal of labor, and reduced the price
of cotton one half. Thus it is that ingenious inventions improve the
condition of mankind. But many of these inventions cost vast labor
and expense to perfect them. Fulton spent several years and thousands
of dollars before he completed his steamboat. Therefore it is that,
in most cases, men could not and would not produce these useful
contrivances, if the result of their toil and expense could not be
secured to them. Therefore we see that there is good reason for giving
them encouragement by granting patents. By means of these patents, good
clothes, good food, good houses, good roads, good means of travelling,
become cheaper and easier to be got, and, therefore, it benefits
everybody to have government promote useful inventions by granting
patents.
What sort of Heart have you got?
Most people seem to think only of their external appearance--of their
personal beauty, or their dress. If they have a handsome face, or a
good figure, or a fine attire, they are perfectly satisfied; nay,
more--we often see persons showing vanity and pride merely because
they have beautiful garments on, or because they are called pretty or
handsome.
Now I am not such a sour old fellow as to despise these things--it is
certainly desirable to appear well; but I have remarked that those
persons who are vain of outside show, forget that the real character
of a person is within the breast, and that it is of vastly greater
importance to have a good heart than a handsome person.
The heart within the body is of flesh, but it is the seat of life.
Upon its beatings our life depends. Let the heart stop, and death
immediately follows. Beside this, the heart is influenced by our
feelings. If one is suddenly frightened, it beats more rapidly. Any
strong emotion, or passion, or sensation, quickens the action of the
heart. It is for these reasons,--because the heart is the seat of life,
and because it seems to be the centre or source of our passions and
feelings,--that we often call the soul itself, the heart. Thus the
heart of flesh is a sort of emblem or image of the soul. When I ask,
therefore, what sort of heart you have got? I mean to ask what sort of
soul you have got? We often hear it said that such a person has a hard
heart, and such a one has a kind or tender heart. In these cases we do
not speak of the heart of flesh within, but of the soul. A hard heart,
in this sense, is a soul that is severe, harsh, and cruel; a kind and
tender heart, is a soul that is regardful of the feelings of others,
and desirous of promoting the peace and happiness of others.
You will see, therefore, that it is very important for every individual
to assure himself that he has a good heart. The reasons why it is
important, I will endeavor to place before you.
In the first place, “God looketh on the heart.” He does not regard
our dress, or our complexion, or our features. These do not form our
character; they have nothing to do with making us good or bad. If
God looks into the breast and finds a good heart there, a tender,
kind soul, full of love toward Him and all mankind--a heart that is
constantly exercised by feelings of piety and benevolence, he approves
of it, and he loves it. God does not care what sort of garment covers
such a heart, or what complexion or features a person with such a heart
has got. He looketh on the heart, and finding that good, he bestows
his blessing, which is worth more than all the wealth of this wide
world. Personal appearance is of no value in the sight of God. It is
only because _men_ value it, that it is to be regarded. But upon the
character of the heart, the favor or displeasure of God depends. It
is of the greatest importance, therefore, for each person to see what
kind of heart he has got. If he loves to do mischief; if he loves to
say or do harsh and unkind things; if he loves to wound the feelings of
others; if he loves to see another suffer; if he wishes, in any way, to
injure another in his mind, body, or estate, then he has a bad heart;
and God looks on that bad heart as we look upon a malignant and wicked
countenance. Before God, every heart has a character. We cannot see
into the bosom, but God can. All things are transparent to Him, and he
looketh on the heart as we do upon one another’s faces. And to Him,
every heart is as distinctly marked as men’s countenances are to us.
A wolf has a severe, harsh, and cruel expression in his countenance.
A bad heart has as distinct an expression in the sight of God, as the
wolf’s face to human eyes. God cannot love, and he will not bless such
a heart. He only bestows his love and his blessing on a good heart.
The second reason for having a good heart is, that it not only wins
the favor of God, but of men. However we may fancy that mankind think
only of outside appearance, they do in fact think more of internal
goodness. Mankind, in all ages and countries, love, respect, and
revere the person who has a good heart; the person whose soul is
habitually exercised by piety toward God and love toward mankind, is
always esteemed and loved in return. Such a person is almost sure to
be happy; even if he is destitute of money, he has that which in this
world is of more value--the good will, the sympathy, the kind wishes
and kind offers of his fellow-men. If a person wishes success in life,
therefore, there is no turnpike road to it like a good heart. A man
who seeks to _extort_, to _require_, to _command_ the good will of
the world, will miss his object. A proud person, who would force men
to admire him, is resisted; he is looked upon as a kind of robber,
who demands what is not his own, and he is usually as much hated as
the person who meets you on a by-road at night, and, holding a pistol
in your face, demands your purse. The proud person--the person who
demands your respect, and tries to force you into good will toward
him--turns your feelings against him; but the gentle, the humble, and
the kind-hearted, appeal to the breast with a power we cannot resist.
The person, therefore, of real power, is the person with a good heart.
He wields a sceptre which men would not resist if they could, and could
not if they would.
The third reason for having a good heart is, that while the exercise
of a bad heart is painful, the exercise of a good heart is blissful.
A heart that indulges in envy, malice, anger, revenge, jealousy,
covetousness, becomes unhappy and miserable; a heart that exercises
piety, love, charity, candor, peace, kindness, gentleness, becomes
happy. The exercise of piety and good feelings brings pleasure and
enjoyment to the soul, as cool, fresh water does to a thirsty lip; bad
feelings bring pain and misery to the soul, as bitter and poisoned
water does to the palate and the stomach. A person, therefore, who
indulges in bad feelings, is as unwise as one who refuses pure water
and drinks poison.
The fourth reason for having a good heart is, that it is the surest
way to be handsome! A person with a good heart is almost always
good-looking; and for this reason, that the soul shines through the
countenance. If the heart is angry, the face is a tell-tale, and shows
it. If the heart is exercised with piety, the countenance declares it.
Thus the habits of the soul become written on the countenance; what we
call the expression of the face is only the story which the face tells
about the feelings of the heart. If the heart is habitually exercised
by malice, then a malicious expression becomes habitually stamped upon
the face. The expression of the countenance is a record which sets
forth to the world, the habits, the character of the heart.
I know very well that some persons learn to put a false expression
upon their faces: Shakspeare speaks of one who can smile and smile
and be a villain still. This false veil, designed to hide a bad heart,
is, however, generally too thin to answer its purpose. Mankind usually
detect the veil of hypocrisy, and as flies see and shun a spider’s web,
so mankind generally remark and avoid the hypocrite’s veil. They know
that the spider--the dastardly betrayer--is behind it, ready to make
dupes and victims of those whom he can deceive. The only true way,
therefore, to have a good face, a truly and permanently handsome face,
is to have a good heart, and thus have a good expression. There can
be no genuine and abiding beauty without it. Complexion and features
are of little consequence. Those whom the world call handsome, have
frequently neither regularity of features nor fineness of complexion.
It is that indescribable thing called expression--the pleasant story
which the countenance tells of the good heart within, that wins favor.
There are many other good reasons for having a good heart; but I have
not room to tell them here. I must say a word, however, as to the means
of curing a bad heart and getting a good one.
The first thing is, to find out what a good heart is, and what a bad
heart is; and the best way to do this, is carefully to read the account
given of Jesus Christ in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
There are no pages like these, so full of instruction, and that so
readily impart their meaning to the soul of the reader. They give us
a portrait of our Savior,--and what a portrait! How humble, yet how
majestic! how mild, yet how dignified! how simple, yet how beautiful!
He is represented as full of love toward God, and toward mankind;
as going about doing good; as having a tender and kind feeling for
every human being; as healing the sick, giving sight to the blind,
and pouring the music of sound upon the deaf ear. Love to God, which
teaches us to love all mankind, evidently fills the heart of Jesus
Christ; and his great desire seems to be, that all mankind shall have
hearts filled with the same feeling that governs his. A good heart,
then, is one like Christ’s; a bad heart is one that is unlike Christ’s.
A good heart is one that is habitually exercised by love to God and
charity to man; a bad heart is one that is exercised by selfishness,
covetousness, anger, revenge, greediness, envy, suspicion, or malice.
Having learned what is meant by a good and bad heart, the next thing
is to look into our own breasts and see what kind of a heart we have
got. This is of first-rate importance, and therefore it is that I ask
the question at the head of this article--“_What sort of heart have you
got, Reader?_”
Having, by careful examination, found out what sort of a heart you
have got, then you are prepared to act with good effect. If you find
that you have a good heart, a heart like Christ’s, filled with love
of God and feelings of obedience to God, and with love and charity to
all mankind, evinced by a desire to promote the peace and happiness of
all; then be thankful for this best of gifts, and pray Heaven that it
may continue to be yours. An immortal spirit, with the principle of
goodness in it, is yours--and how great a benediction is that!
But if you discover that you have a bad heart, pray set about curing it
as soon as possible. An immortal spirit with a principle of badness in
it, is surely a thing to be dreaded; and yet this is your condition, if
you have a bad heart. In such a case, repentance is the first step for
you to take. Sorrow--sincere sorrow, is the easy condition upon which
past errors are forgiven by God; yet this condition must be complied
with. There is no forgiveness without repentance, because there is
no amendment without it. Repentance implies aversion to sin, and it
is because the penitent hates sin, that the record of his wrongs is
blotted out. While he loves sin, all his crimes, all his transgressions
must stand written down and remembered against him, because he says
that he likes them; he vindicates, he approves of them. Oh take good
care, kind and gentle reader--take good care to blot out the long
account of your errors, before God, speedily! Do not, by still loving
sin, say to God that you are willing to have those that you have
committed, and those you may commit, brought up in judgment against
you! Draw black lines around the record of your transgressions, by
repentance!
And having thus begun right, continue to go on right. At first, the
task may be difficult. To break in a bad heart to habits of goodness,
is like breaking a wild colt to the saddle or harness: it resists; it
rears up; it kicks; it spurns the bit; it seeks to run free and loose,
as nature and impulse dictate, and as it has been wont to do before.
But master it once, and teach it to go in the path, and it will soon
be its habit, its pleasure, its easy and chosen way to continue in the
path.
To aid you in this process of making a good heart out of a bad one,
study the Bible, and especially that which records the life and paints
the portrait of Christ. Imitate, humbly, but reverently and devoutly,
his example. Drink at the fountain at which he drank, the overflowing
river of love to God.
This is the way to keep the spark of goodness in the heart; and to
cherish this, to keep it bright, exercise yourself as much as possible
in good deeds, in good thoughts, in good feelings. If a bad thought
comes into your heart, turn him out--he has now no business there! Turn
him out as you would a rat from the larder. Keep your hearts pure
before God, for God looketh on the heart!
It is my purpose to follow up this subject hereafter, and to tell you
some tales which will show you more clearly how to make a good heart
out of a bad one.
Professions and Trades.
People live by working for money in order to get food, clothes, houses,
and all the other things which they need or would like to have. If they
should not work, all the food that has already been produced would soon
be eaten up, all the clothes would be worn out, and everything else
would decay; so that the inhabitants of towns, and also those of the
country, would be starved, and die very miserably.
The necessity for each person’s working at some kind of honest labor,
is an obligation laid on us by the Creator; and it is a sin to live in
idleness, without a desire to work. We are also far more happy when we
are working than when we are idle; and this in itself ought to cause us
to follow a course of active industry.
As children are not able to work, they are supported for a number of
years by their parents; but when they grow up, they are expected to
go and work for themselves. Some young persons are so ignorant, or
have such bad dispositions, that they think it would be pleasant for
them to live always by their parents’ or others’ working for them,
and so remain idle all their days. They do not seem to care how much
they take from their fathers or their mothers, who are sometimes so
greatly distressed with the conduct of their children, that they die of
grief. This is very cruel and sinful conduct on the part of these young
persons, which no boy or girl should imitate. It is the duty of all who
have health and strength to labor for their own support.
In this large world there is room for all persons to work at some
kind of useful employment. Some are strong in body, and are fitted
for working in toilsome professions; others are less strong in body,
but have active minds, and they are suited for professions in which
little bodily labor is required. Thus, every young person chooses the
profession for which he is fitted, or which he can conveniently follow.
Young persons cannot, in all cases, follow the business they would
like; both boys and girls must often do just as their friends advise
them, and then trust to their own industry.
As some choose to be of one profession, and some of another, every
profession, no matter what it be, has some persons following it as
a means of living, and all assisting each other. The tailor makes
clothes, the shoemaker makes shoes, the mason builds houses, the
cabinet-maker makes furniture, the printer prints books, the butcher
kills animals for food, the farmer raises grain from the fields, the
miller grinds the grain into flour, and the baker bakes the flour into
bread. Although all these persons follow different trades, they still
assist each other. The tailor makes clothes for all the others, and
gets some of their things in return. The shoemaker makes shoes for
all the others, and gets some of their things in return; and, in the
same manner, all the rest exchange their articles with each other. The
exchange is not made in the articles themselves, for that would not be
convenient; it is made by means of money, which is to the same purpose.
Many persons in society are usefully employed in instructing, amusing,
or taking care of others. Schoolmasters instruct youth in schools,
and tutors and governesses give instruction in private families.
Clergymen instruct the people in their religious duties, and endeavor
to persuade them to lead a good life. Authors of books, editors of
newspapers, musicians, painters of pictures, and others, delight and
amuse their fellow-creatures, and keep them from wearying in their
hours of leisure.
Unfortunately, some people, both old and young, are lazy or idle, and
will not work at regular employments, and others spend improperly
the most of the money which they earn. All these fall into a state
of wretchedness and poverty. They become poor, and are a burden on
society. Other persons are unfortunate in their business, and lose all
that they have made, so that they become poor also. Persons who suffer
hardships of this kind should be pitied, and treated with kindness by
those who are able to help them. Many persons, besides, become poor by
old age and infirmity, and it is proper that they should be taken care
of and supported. A beggar is a poor person, who does not feel ashamed
to seek alms. Any one who is able to labor for a subsistence, should
feel ashamed either to beg or to be classed among the poor.
God has taken care that the wants of all persons who labor, and lead
a regular life, shall be satisfied. These wants are few in number,
and consist chiefly of air, food, water, warmth, and clothing. Some
of these we receive freely, but others we receive only by working
for them. Some persons are contented if they can work for the bare
necessaries of life. If they can get only as much plain food and coarse
clothing as will keep them alive, they are contented. If a person
cannot, by all his industry, earn more than the bare necessaries of
life, it is right to be contented; but if he can easily earn money to
buy comfortable food, comfortable clothing, and other means of comfort
and rational enjoyment, it is wrong to be contented with the bare
necessaries of life.
It is the duty of every one to try to better his condition by skill and
industry in any kind of lawful employment. Let him only take care to
abstain from indulgence in vicious luxuries. One of the most vicious
of luxuries is _spirits_, or liquors, which some people drink to make
themselves intoxicated, or drunk. When a person is in this debased
condition, his senses and intellect are gone, and he does not know
what he is doing. He cannot walk, but staggers or rolls on the ground,
and is a horrid spectacle to all who see him. Drunkenness is an odious
vice, which leads to great misery and poverty; and the best way to
avoid falling into it, is to abstain from tasting or using any spirits
or intoxicating liquors.
What is Poetry?
That is not a very easy question to answer, but I will tell you,
reader, where you can find some poetry. There is a little book just
published by Little & Brown, Boston, and written by J. B. Lowell,
which is full of pure and pleasing poetry--full of beautiful thoughts,
expressed in musical words, and so artfully managed as to excite deep
emotions in the heart. Here is a brief passage which describes one that
died in early childhood.
As the airy gossamere,
Floating in the sunlight clear,
Where’er it toucheth, clinging tightly,
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,
So from his spirit wandered out
Tendrils spreading all about,
Knitting all things to its thrall
With a perfect love of all.
* * * * *
He did but float a little way
Adown the stream of time,
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,
Or listening their fairy chime;
His slender sail
Ne’er felt the gale;
He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet ’twas early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,
No grating on his vessel’s keel;
A strip of silver sand
Mingled the waters with the land
Where he was seen no more.
* * * * *
Full short his journey was; no dust
Of earth unto his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,
He bore not to the grave.
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and ’twas most meet
That he should be no delver in earth’s clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God.
THE RIVER, A SONG.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
_Allegro._
[Illustration: Music]
1
Oh tell me pretty river,
Whence do thy waters flow?
And whither art thou roam-ing,
So pensive and so slow?
2
“My birthplace was the mountain,
My nurse the April showers;
My cradle was the fountain
O’er-curtained by wild flowers.
3
“One morn I ran away,
A madcap hoyden rill--
And many a prank that day
I played adown the hill.
4
“And then mid meadowy banks
I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.
5
“But these bright scenes are o’er,
And darkly flows my wave--
I hear the ocean’s roar,
And there must be my grave.”
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
Story of Philip Brusque.
(_Continued from page 79._)
CHAPTER V.
_Progress of events._--_Necessity of Government._--_A Constitution
is drawn up and rejected._--_Murder._--_Anarchy._--_Emilie
and her lover._
When the morning came, it showed upon the bosom of the sea a few
blackened fragments of the pirate ship, but beside these not a trace
of it was seen. Her whole crew had apparently perished in the awful
explosion.
The people on board the merchant ship were soon called from rejoicing
to the consideration of their situation and the course to be pursued.
Brusque endeavored to persuade them to quit the ship, and take up
their abode on the island. Most of them were refugees from France in
the first place, and recently from St. Domingo; in both cases flying
from the perils which attended the convulsions of civilized society.
Brusque urged them to seek an asylum from their cares and anxieties
in the quiet retreat of Fredonia. Whether he would have succeeded in
persuading them to adopt this course or not, we cannot tell, had not
his arguments been enforced by the condition of the ship: she was found
to be in a leaky condition, and the necessity of abandoning her became
apparent; no time was indeed to be lost. Preparations therefore were
immediately made for landing the people, and for taking to the shore
all the articles that could be saved from the vessel.
In a few days this task was over. All the inmates of the vessel had
been transferred to the island, as well as a great variety of articles,
either of furniture, food, or merchandise. The vessel gradually sank
in the water, and finally disappeared. Thus, about seventy persons
were landed upon the island, without the means of leaving it. So
soft was the climate, so beautiful the little hills and valleys, so
delicious the fruits--that all seemed to forget their various plans
and disappointments in the prospect of spending the remainder of their
lives there.
Nothing could exceed the efforts of Brusque and Piquet to make their
new friends comfortable and happy. Men, women, and children, all seemed
for a time to emulate each other in helping forward the preparations
for mutual comfort. Tents were erected, sleeping apartments with beds
or mats were provided, and in less than a week all the necessaries of
life were distributed to every member of their little colony.
The reflective mind of Brusque had already suggested the necessity
of adopting some system of government, for even this small colony he
knew could not get along without it. Under the pressure of calamity or
emergency, a spirit of mutual accommodation might exist, and for a time
might enable the little society to proceed without disturbance. But
he foresaw that a state of quiet and comfort would bring occasions of
discontent and disorder, which must result in violence, if all could
not be subjected to the sway of some just system of laws. These views
he suggested to the captain of the vessel, to Emilie’s father, and to
several others. It was at length agreed by some of the principal men
that the people should be assembled, and the adoption of a form of
government be proposed. This was done, and Brusque, the captain, and
Emilie’s father were appointed a committee to draw up a constitution.
They attended to this duty, and in a few days the people were called
together to hear the report of the committee.
Brusque proceeded to read the document, and then he made some remarks
in explanation of it. He said that the plan of a constitution which
had just been read was partly copied from that of the United States of
America--a nation which had recently arisen among mankind, and promised
soon to be the most flourishing and happy people upon the face of the
earth. He then went on to say that the constitution just read contained
the following principles:
1. All mankind are born with equal rights and privileges; all are
entitled to the same degree of liberty; all are equally entitled to the
protection and benefit of the laws.
2. All government should spring from the people, and have the good of
the people for its object.
3. That all government implies the abridgment of natural liberty, and
that the people ought to submit to such abridgments, so far as the good
of society required.
The constitution then proceeded to prescribe a form of government,
consisting of three branches: 1st, of a President, who should see
to the general affairs of the colony, and to the execution of the
laws, who should be called the _Executive_; 2d, of three judges, who
should decide all disputes, to be called the _Judiciary_; and 3d, of
an assembly, chosen by the people every year to make laws, called the
_Legislature_. It also established the following principles:
1. Every man of the age of twenty-one years should be a citizen, and be
permitted to vote for members of the legislature and other officers.
2. A majority of votes shall be necessary for a choice.
3. The land of the island shall be divided between the families, in
proportion to their numbers, by the judges, and then each person shall
be protected in his possessions, and the property he acquires.
4. Any citizen shall be competent to fill any office to which he is
chosen.
Such were the outlines of the constitution, as set forth by Brusque
in presence of all the men of the colony. A profound silence followed
the remarks of the orator. But, at length, a man named Rogere rose,
and said that he did not like the proposed constitution. For his part,
he did not see the necessity of any government. He had, in France
only seen iniquity, and folly, and crime, following the footsteps of
government, whether admitted by kings or citizens, and he believed
that the best way was to get along without it. “For my part,” said
he, “I believe that liberty is the greatest political good, and the
moment you begin to make laws, you put fetters upon it. As soon as you
establish a government, you prepare to smother or strangle it. Of what
use is liberty to the eagle when you have broken his wing, or to the
mountain deer when you have cut the sinews of his limbs, or to man when
it is doled out by magistrates, who may say how much we shall have,
and how we may exercise it? Take from man his liberty, and you sink
him as far as you can to the standard of the brute! Give him liberty,
and he is but little lower than the angels! Then why restrain liberty?
Why take it for granted that the first step in society is to fetter
human freedom and trench upon human rights? Let us be wiser than to be
guided by a prejudice; let us venture to depart from the beaten path,
and strike out something new. I close by moving that we dispense with
government altogether; that we rely upon the moral sense of mankind,
which rests upon an innate perception of justice. This is sufficient
for our safety and our happiness.”
Brusque was not a little disappointed to observe, as Rogere sat down,
that there was a pervading feeling of approbation of what he had said.
In vain did he oppose the views of Rogere; in vain did he show that
it was impossible for society to have order without laws, to maintain
justice, peace and security without government. In vain did he appeal
to history and the past experience of mankind. The idea of perfect
freedom was too fascinating to the majority; and the assembly finally
decided, by an overwhelming vote, to reject the proposed constitution,
and to make the experiment of living without laws or government.
The subject, however, became a matter of discussion among the people,
and they were soon divided into two parties, called the Brusqueites
and the Rogereites; the former being in favor of a government, and the
latter in favor of unlimited freedom. Things went on quietly for a
time, for the people were all French, and their good breeding seemed
to render the restraints and obligations of enacted statutes, less
important. Beside, the island abounded in fruit, and there seemed such
a supply of food, as to afford little ground for dispute as to the
possession of property. As for shelter, the climate was so mild as to
render the covering of a tent sufficient for comfort.
But occasions of collision soon arose. Some articles brought from the
ship had been claimed and taken into use by one of the sailors as his
own; but now another sailor insisted that they were his. An altercation
of words followed between the two, and at last they came to blows. In
the struggle, one of them was killed. This event cast a cloud over the
little colony, but it was transient. It was forgotten in a few days.
Other quarrels, however, soon followed; and finally the whole society
was in a state of anarchy and confusion. It was now obvious that reason
had lost its power, and that the weak were exposed to violence and
injustice from the strong.
Among the people of the colony were several rude men, who, finding
that there was no punishment to be feared, began to be very insolent;
and it was not a little remarkable that Rogere usually associated with
these persons, and seemed even to countenance their injustice and their
tyranny. At last, he was evidently considered their leader, and being
much more intelligent than his followers, he was soon able to govern
them as he pleased. In order to secure his ascendency over their minds,
he flattered them by holding forth the prospect of unbounded liberty.
He encouraged them in their acts of licentiousness, and pretended
that this was freedom. He sought to prejudice their minds against
Brusque and the other members of the community who were in favor of a
government of equal laws, by insisting that they were aristocrats or
monarchists, who wished to enslave the people. Thus, by playing upon
the passions of his party, Rogere soon made them subservient to his
will. While he pretended to be a friend of freedom he was now actually
a despot; and while his followers were made to believe that they were
enjoying liberty, they were in fact the slaves of a cunning tyrant.
Nor was this all. While claiming to be the liberal party, the party
that favored human rights and human freedom, they were daily guilty of
acts of injustice, violence and wrong, toward some of the people of the
island.
It was in this state of things that, one pleasant evening, Emilie
walked to the sea-shore, which was at no great distance from the tent
in which she lived. The moon occasionally shone out from the clouds
that were drifting across the sky, and threw its silver light upon the
waves that came with a gentle swell and broke upon the pebbly beach.
The scene was tranquil, but it could not soothe the heart of Emilie,
who had now many causes of anxiety. The disturbed state of the little
community upon the island, the brawls and riots that were occurring
almost every day, and a general feeling of fear and insecurity which
she shared with her friends, had cast a deep gloom over her mind. The
conduct of Rogere had been offensive to her on several occasions, but
that which caused her most vexation and sorrow was the strange demeanor
of Brusque, her former lover. On the night of their deliverance from
the pirates on board the ship, he had made himself known to her,
and their meeting was marked with all the fondness and confidence
of former times. But from that period, he had treated her only with
common civility. He had indeed been most careful to provide for her
comfort and that of her parents. Though he had been very industrious in
promoting the general welfare of the colony, it was apparent that he
felt a special interest in contributing to the peace and happiness of
Emilie and her aged parents. By his care their tent was so contrived as
to afford a perfect shelter, and it was supplied with everything which
circumstances permitted, that could minister to the pleasure of its
inmates. It was daily provided with the finest oranges, the freshest
figs, and the choicest pineapples. And it was evident that this was
all done either by Brusque himself, or by some one at his bidding.
But still, he seldom came to the tent; he never sought any private
conversation with Emilie; and sometimes, when he looked upon her, she
could perceive that his countenance bespoke a deep but melancholy
interest; and no sooner was his feeling noticed, than he hastened to
disguise it.
While Emilie was walking upon the beach, she thought of all these
things; of the unsettled state of the colony, the uncertainty of their
fate, and of the rude manner in which she had been addressed by
Rogere. But her mind dwelt longest and with the deepest interest upon
the mysterious demeanor of Brusque. It was while she was pursuing this
train of thought that she was startled at perceiving the figure of a
man partly hidden in the shadow of a high rock which stood close to the
water’s edge, and which she was now approaching. But we must reserve
the scene which followed for another chapter.
(_To be continued._)
The Sun.
The sun is rising! Did you ever think of the many benefits produced by
the sun? Let us go upon the top of a hill, and see the sun rise, and
consider, for a moment, the effects that are produced.
Do you see that the darkness, which had fallen over the whole face of
nature, is gone? Do you see that even the valley is filled with light?
Does not all this remind you of God, who said, at the beginning of the
world, “Let there be light, and there was light?”
Light, then, spread over the land, is one of the first effects of the
sun’s rising. And do you see that the birds are all abroad now, singing
their songs, and seeking their food? How happy they appear to be! And
do you not feel happy too? Does not everything seem happy to see the
light, and feel that day has come once more?
Do you observe that vast sheet of white vapor that is rising from
yonder valley? It is rising in consequence of the warmer air that is
produced by the rising of the sun. Do you not feel that the shining of
the sun upon you makes you warmer?
Warmth, then, diffused over the earth, is another effect produced by
the rising of the sun. And how pleasant is this warmth! But do you
know, that, if it were not for the warmth of the sun, the trees and
plants and flowers would not grow? Do you know, that, without this
warmth, all the earth would be covered with ice, and that all men and
animals would die?
You see, then, how important the sun is, and how great are the benefits
of the light and heat which it sends abroad over the world. Let us be
thankful to God every morning for the light and heat of the sun. These
are the sources of life to everything that grows or feels.
Night.
The sun is setting in the west! It seems to go down behind the hills.
Darkness is creeping over the valleys. The birds have ceased their
song, and are gathering into the forest or the thick branches of the
trees.
The hen has gone to her shelter, and gathered her chickens under her
wing. The flies and gnats and butterflies are gone to their rest. The
cows and sheep have lain down to their repose.
Stillness seems to have come over the world. The sun has set. It is
dark. It is getting chill and damp. It is night.
Do you see those little shining points in the sky? What are they? We
call them stars, but they are worlds far away, and probably they are
covered with trees, and hills, and rivers, and cities, and people.
We cannot go to them, nor can any one come from them to tell us about
them. They are God’s worlds, and they are no doubt as useful as they
are beautiful.
How wonderful is night! How fearful would it be if it were to last
forever! But we know that the sun will come to-morrow, to give us its
cheerful light and heat. Let us go to rest, then, for night is made for
sleep.
But let us first think of that great and good Being, who has made all
these wonders of nature. Let us put our trust in Him. In his care we
are safe. But we must ask his protection, and seek his forgiveness for
all our faults.
Oh, how fearful would it be if there were no God! How sad would it
be, if God were not our friend! How sad would it be, if we were to be
unkind to others, and to feel that He might not be kind to us! How sad
would it be, if we were so wicked as to feel afraid of Him, the best
and kindest of all beings!
This would indeed be dreadful. But we may all be good if we try to
be so. Even if we have done wrong, we may go to Him, and ask his
forgiveness; and if we ask sincerely, He will not refuse it.
Did you never disobey your father or mother, and, having done so,
have you not begged their pardon? And, having done this, have you not
been forgiven? And is not this forgiveness pleasant to the heart? Let
me tell you, that God is as ready to be kind and forgiving to his
children, as parents are to be so to theirs.
Let no fear of God, then, prevent your loving Him, praying to Him, or
asking his forgiveness. The more you have sinned, the more careful you
should be to look up to Him, and pray to Him, and ask his counsel and
pardon. Those who have been most wicked, have most reason to love God;
for his kindness is great enough to pardon even them.
* * * * *
HOGG’S FATHER.--The father of the poet Hogg, the famous Ettrick
Shepherd of Scotland, was a man of peculiar character in one
respect--he never would confess or allow that he could be beaten or
defeated in anything. One wintry day, he and his son were out on a
hill during a snow-storm, looking after the safety of the sheep, when,
the old man having inadvertently gone too near the brow, the snow gave
way, and he was precipitated to the bottom. The Shepherd, alarmed for
the safety of his father, looked down the side of the hill, and not
only saw him standing on his feet seemingly, unhurt, but he heard him
crying, at the top of his voice, “Jamie, my man, ye were aye fond of
a slide a’ ye’re days; let me see you do that!” The above expression
displayed his self-esteem; he wished to pass the accident off upon his
son for a feat. On another occasion, having slipped his foot on going
up a hill, and fallen prostrate on his nose, he said to an individual
accompanying him, “Eh, I think I had _like_ to have fallen!” Once an
unruly mare having run away with him, a group of men observed him rush
past with a face of great concern and fear; but when the beast had
exhausted its strength, and allowed itself to be once more guided by
the rein, Mr. Hogg came back, making a great show of mastery over it,
and muttering, so as to be heard by the bystanders, “I think I hae
sobered her!”
* * * * *
A certain physician at sea made great use of sea-water among his
patients. Whatever disease came on, a dose of the nauseating liquid
was first administered. In process of time the Doctor fell overboard.
A great bustle consequently ensued on board, in the midst of which the
captain came up and inquired the cause. “O, nothing, sir,” answered a
tar, “only the Doctor has fallen into his medicine-chest.”
[Illustration: _Queen Elizabeth on Horseback._]
Queen Elizabeth, of England.
There are very few persons who are famous in history, about whom more
has been said and written than Queen Elizabeth of England. She was the
daughter of Henry VIII., a severe and haughty king, who died in 1547,
leaving his son Edward VI., to reign in his stead. He died in a short
time, and his elder sister, Mary, succeeded to the throne.
The reformation, as it is called, had begun in the time of Henry VIII.,
and he, with a violent hand, put down the Roman Catholic religion in
his dominions; but Mary was a Catholic, and she revived it, imitating,
and perhaps exceeding the bigotry and intolerance of her father in
repressing it. In speaking of this period, an English historian says,
“The cruelties, indeed, which were perpetrated for several years,
under the pretext of advancing true religion, would almost surpass
belief, did not their record depend upon authority which there is no
gainsaying. Men, women, and even children, died a death of which the
bare contemplation causes the blood to curdle.”
Among the persons who suffered martyrdom at this period, were three
celebrated bishops, Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer. The characters of
Ridley and Latimer, both as scholars and divines, presented at least
as many points of contrariety as of agreement. The first was moderate,
learned, and reflective; the last, bold, simple, frank, and thoroughly
uncompromising. Having been tried and convicted of heresy, they were
ordered to suffer death by burning, and Oxford was named as the city in
which the execution should take place. They were accordingly led out
into a wide street, and tied to the stake; the executioners, probably
with the humane desire of lessening their sufferings, having fastened
round the middle of each a bag of gunpowder. During the interval when
the fagots were in the act of being lighted, Ridley addressed some
words of pious consolation to his companion. The undaunted Latimer
scarcely heard him out: “Fear not, good brother,” replied he, “but be
of good cheer. We shall this day kindle such a torch in England, as I
trust in God shall never be extinguished.” Soon after he had spoken,
the flames reached the gunpowder, and he was blown to atoms. Ridley
suffered longer and more intensely; but after his frame had been
consumed to ashes, it is said that his heart was found entire,--an
emblem, as his contemporaries declare, of the firmness with which he
gave his body to be burned for the truth’s sake.
The fate of Cranmer was, in many respects, more melancholy, perhaps
more instructive, than that of his brothers in suffering. He was first
convicted of high-treason, but obtained, on his earnest supplication
for mercy, the queen’s pardon. Hating the man, both on public and on
private grounds, she desired to destroy his character as well as his
life; and it must be confessed that she had well-nigh succeeded. Being
transferred from the Tower to Oxford, he was arraigned on a charge of
heresy, before a court constituted with a marked attention to form,
and by a commission obtained direct from Rome. He defended himself
with great modesty as well as talent; but from such a court only one
verdict was to be anticipated;--he was found guilty. The fear of death
seems to have operated with extraordinary force upon Cranmer. Again he
implored the queen’s mercy, in terms partaking too much of the abject;
and being beset by many temptations,--by the terrors of the stake on
one hand, by promises of favor and protection on the other,--in an evil
hour his constancy gave way, and he signed a recantation. The triumph
of his enemy was now complete. Notwithstanding this humiliating act,
the sentence of death was confirmed; and he was carried, as custom
required, into the church of St. Mary, where an appropriate sermon was
preached.
During the whole time of divine service, Cranmer kept his eyes
rivetted on the ground, while the tears chased one another, in rapid
course, over his cheeks. The audience attributed his emotion to
remorse; and it was expected, when he indicated a desire to address the
populace, that he would before them acknowledge the enormity of his
transgressions, and ask their prayers. But the persons who harbored
this idea had deluded themselves. After running over a sort of history
of his past career, he came at length to the period of his trial, which
he summed up the narrative in the following words:--“Now I am come
to the great thing which troubleth my conscience more than any other
thing that I ever said or did in my life, and that is, the setting
abroad of writings contrary to the truth; which here now I renounce and
refuse as things written with my hand, contrary to the truth which I
thought in my heart, and writ for fear of death, and to save my life
if might be, and that is all such papers as I have written or signed
since my degradation, wherein I have written many things untrue. And
forasmuch as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, my hand,
when I come to the fire, shall be first burned.” The penitent was as
good as his word. As soon as the flames began to arise, he thrust his
right hand into them, and held it there till it was consumed. His end
resembled, in other respects, those of his fellows in affliction.
During more than three years, these dreadful scenes continued to be
acted, till there had perished at the stake not fewer than two hundred
and ninety individuals, among whom were five bishops, twenty-one
clergymen, eight lay gentlemen, fifty-five women, and four children.
Elizabeth herself narrowly escaped the same fate, inasmuch as Gardiner,
though weary of the slaughter of minor offenders, ventured, more than
once, to hint to Mary that “to cut down the leaves, while the root was
permitted to flourish, was at once discreditable and impolitic.”
After an uneasy reign of five years, and weighed down with a broken
heart--with a husband who loved her not, and a people who hated
her--Queen Mary died, in 1558, and was succeeded by Elizabeth. Being a
Protestant, Elizabeth had been looked upon with hatred and suspicion by
her gloomy sister, and was for a long period kept in prison. Trained in
the school of adversity, she had learned to exercise great command over
herself, and at the very outset of her public career showed that skill
and discretion in government for which she was so much distinguished.
It is not my purpose now to detail the events of her reign, but only
to draw a portrait of her character. She understood the interests of
England, and pursued them with courage, energy and skill. She belonged
to a period when anything and everything was deemed fair by politicians
and statesmen. Elizabeth did not hesitate, therefore, to employ
deception, falsehood, and bad-faith, to accomplish her ends. She,
however, did more to lay the foundation of English greatness than any
other sovereign that has swayed the British sceptre.
As a woman, Elizabeth’s character was detestable. Being herself
handsome, she was still inordinately fond of admiration, and jealous
of those who might be rivals of her beauty. She caused Mary, queen of
Scotland, who had come to England and claimed her protection, to be
tried, unjustly condemned, and at last executed--a feeling of hatred
toward her, on account of her great personal beauty, being one of the
motives for this official murder.
[Illustration: _Style of Dress in the reign of Elizabeth._]
Among those upon whom Elizabeth bestowed her smiles, was the handsome
Earl of Essex. He was very popular, and was led by his vanity to
engage in some treasonable schemes. He was tried, and condemned to be
executed. He had a ring which the queen had given him in some moment of
good humor, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he might send that
ring to her, and she would protect him. Essex, when in prison, the day
of execution drawing nigh, remembered his ring, and giving it to lady
Nottingham, requested her to bear it to the queen. This lady Nottingham
promised to do, but she deceived Essex, and kept the ring. He was
therefore executed, and Elizabeth, who expected her favorite to appeal
to her mercy, imagined, till after his death, that he was too proud
to solicit it. At last the countess of Nottingham was seized with a
violent distemper. She believed that it would prove fatal, and sending
for the queen, unburdened her oppressed conscience by confessing the
artifice of which she had been guilty. “I have not many hours to live,”
continued she, “and I pray your majesty to smooth my pillow, by giving
me your pardon!” The queen gazed at her for a few moments in silent
horror. She then seized her by the shoulder, shook her violently,
and cried, “God may pardon you, but I never can!” Elizabeth then
burst from the chamber; but the shock proved too much for a declining
constitution. She refused all food, lay on the floor day and night, and
spoke only in groans and sighs and inarticulate words. She was then
advised by the archbishop of Canterbury to fix her thoughts wholly upon
God, and made answer that she did so. It was the last sentence which
she uttered; for falling soon afterwards into a lethargic slumber, she
expired without a groan, on the 24th of March, 1603, in the seventieth
year of her age, and forty-fifth of her reign.
If Elizabeth governed her people well, she still exerted a bad
influence in many respects. Great extravagance in dress was the
prevailing foible of the day,--a foible in which the queen herself
set the example; for she is stated to have left, at her decease,
upwards of three thousand different robes, all of them fit for use,
and all occasionally worn. This is the more remarkable, as during the
preceding reign frugality seems to have been a characteristic of the
age. In those days, the yearly rent of a mansion in London, fit for the
occupation of a great officer of state, amounted to thirty shillings
sterling money: the halls of the nobility, as well as the floors of the
peasantry, were strewed with rushes; and even in considerable towns
there were few houses to which a chimney was attached, the fires being
kindled by the side of the wall, and the smoke permitted to escape as
it best could, through the windows. In general, the people slept on
straw pallets, and they used round logs of timber for pillows, and had
almost all their utensils and furniture made of wood.
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 1.
I sit at my desk to record my recollections of my school-fellows. Many
years have now rolled away since those happy days of childhood, when
we gathered daily at the old faded school-door to receive, each one,
his little share of early instruction. Swiftly the years have passed
away since that golden period of time, and as I now gaze with my
dimmed vision through the dusty and cloudy glass of time upon those
departed scenes, I find that many of them are blurred and indistinct
in my memory--that many of them are well-nigh blotted out forever
from my remembrance. Yet will I try to revive them from the dust and
forgetfulness that time has cast over them, even as one carefully
removes the dust that has gathered over an ancient picture, first
bringing out to light one bright feature and then another, till at
length the whole sweet face, in all its bloom and loveliness, is
revealed to sight. The mind is much like an old lumber garret in some
ancient country house. Dust, and cobwebs, and oblivion gather deeply
upon its miscellaneous contents, and year after year continues to add
to the mixed assemblage. Old books and old pictures, time-wrecked
furniture, dismantled articles of husbandry, and crippled instruments
of housewifery, cumber the place in admired confusion. Nothing is
in its place, nothing can be found when sought for and most wanted.
Everything lies hidden and forgotten, like the body of the sweet
bride in the ballad, whose lost figure rested undiscovered in the
old baronial garret, through so many long years after their living
entombment. So the thoughts of youth are laid away in the chambers of
the mind and the hidden nooks of the memory, there to rest, till haply
some accidental association of after years brings them forth to light
and life.
Sweet youth, happy childhood! the greenest spot of life, the only
verdant oasis on the desert of life! We never enough prize thy
happy-heartedness, thy warm affections, thy warm-springing feelings,
until their freshness and bloom have departed. Truly it is an oasis
in the desert--a spot all bright, and green, and blooming! As the
oasis springs up with its verdurous bloom, and its spicy grove and
palm-trees, lifting up their tufted branches to the heavens, and the
clear-flowing fountain pouring its limpid tide with light laugh and
merry song amid the sands of the waste, so does this happy period
of life rise up and contrast itself with the whole period of this
work-day existence. What are all the cankered cares that eat into the
very heart in after life, to that season of sunshine? What the cares
of riches and the toils of gain to the sauntering schoolboy? What the
dark revolutions that convulse the world and overthrow empires, to him?
What the rumors of lost navies and routed armies falling on his ear?
They tell to his heart no sad tale; they leave on his mind no gloomy
impression. He does not measure their magnitude or feel their reality.
The loss of a toy, the fading of a favorite flower, would cause him
more unhappiness; and even these regrets last but for a moment, and the
smile chases the tear from his eyelid ere it can fall. What to him are
ambition, and remorse, and avarice, and crime?--those demons that will
start up around him in later life, and beguile his step, and strive to
fill his mind with darkness. His ambition runs not beyond the present
hour, and he is satisfied and happy if he can but lead in the boyish
race, or bear away the prize in the youthful task. If he fails, he does
not lay up the defeat in his heart, and brood and lament over it in
useless sorrow. What is remorse to him who has done nought to darken
his mind by day, or scare away slumber from his pillow at night? What
is avarice to him who has never sighed for the “yellow gold,” or longed
after untold wealth? He has a bright summer holiday for his own--and is
he not wealthy? He can roam among the green pastures, lose himself in
the deep, untravelled woods, ford the cool river, swim the clear lake,
gather the brightest flowers that grow on hill and valley, and pluck
the sweetest fruits and berries of the wild, with none to interrupt
or question. Is he not more happy in the free enjoyment of these, his
daily rambles and pleasures, than the anxious lord of all these acres?
Does he not enjoy with all his soul the sweet airs, and green woods,
and gay flowers of the spring, the shaded wood-paths of summer, the
ripened fruits and fading glories of autumn, and the merry sports of
winter, with all its sleighing-parties, skating frolics beneath the
winter moon, and the building and battles of the snow-heaped fortress?
All these are unalloyed delights, pouring into the youthful heart more
true joy than any hard-sought and expensive pleasure of afterlife can
ever afford.
Who can ever forget the joy that comes with the bright Saturday
afternoon in the country? The whole school is freed from the thraldom
of the bench and task, and each has to choose, among many delights,
how to employ the golden hours. One little party decides for a
game at ball: so the neat new bats are produced; the well-knit and
high-bounding balls are got ready; the slender wickets are set up; the
“sides” are carefully chosen, and each rival party labors as zealously
for the victory as ever the invincible “old guard” and the gallant
“Scotch Greys” toiled for the bloody prize on the deadly plain of
Waterloo. Some decide for “a race;” and soon the ruddy cheeks glow with
a ruddier bloom, as each panting combatant flings himself, exhausted,
on the high-growing grass by the goal. Others content themselves with
the more quiet allurements of the top, the kite, the hoop, and the
marble. High soars the painted kite, far above the wood-tops and the
village steeple, and round flies the giddy hoop till the child that
guides it has not breath or strength to propel it further. And some
get ready their fishing-gear, and sally forth to the neighboring brook
or pond, properly accoutred with rod and basket. For many an hour do
they continue to wade through the shallow streamlet; they flounder
through the black swamp; they struggle through the tangled thicket,
interlaced with all its twisted roots and running vines; they drop in
their hooks at each well-known pool and eddy; and return home, when the
twilight begins to gather dimly over the landscape, and the shadows of
the old trees lengthen in the slanting sun, each one laden with his
string of speckled or silvery prizes.
Our own inclination usually led us away with the angling party. It
was then our chief and unalloyed pleasure, and served to sweeten many
a tedious task, and many an hour of scholastic drudgery. If at any
time we were degraded to the foot of the class, and our head disgraced
with that vile badge, “the foolscap,” we could console ourself with
the delightful reminiscences of the rod and line. If at any time the
dominie’s rod visited upon our poor back the deficiencies of the head,
that same head would be at work in pleasant thoughts of the long
rod and the angle, and thereby console the afflicted body for the
anguish it had caused it. If a neglected lesson occasioned a temporary
imprisonment in a dark room, our fancy would beguile the dreary hours
with the anticipated joy of the Saturday afternoon, and the brimming
basket of glittering fish. But our reminiscences of those holidays
are overcast by a gloomy cloud, which will throw a shadow over many
years to come, as it has done on many an hour that is past and gone.
The thought of the painful accident we now record, will often obtrude
itself upon the mind when its presence is least welcome.
Charley, our earliest friend, was a noble, light-spirited little
fellow, with a thousand good qualities, and few bad ones. He seemed
to master the most difficult task as if by intuition, and while we
were slowly bungling over its first paragraph, he would run it nimbly
through to the end, and then lend a helping hand to extricate his
friend from the quagmires of learning. He was a sort of admirable
Chrichton, and gained and maintained the lead in all things. He was not
only the best scholar, but also the staunchest champion, the fleetest
runner, and the most adroit angler in the school. Somehow or other,
he seemed to exert a charmed influence over the prey, for they would
at times leap at his hook with avidity, while they turned up their
honorable noses at our own, as if they scorned to perish by any other
band than his.
One bright, Saturday afternoon in summer, we were together, as usual,
employed at the “angler’s quiet trade,” at the border of a broad
and deep river in the neighborhood, regardless of all things but
the glorious nibbles which were constantly twitching the buoys of
our lines beneath the surface. The prey was uncommonly plenty, and
we prolonged our sport hour after hour, till at length the evening
shadows, that crept over the waves, admonished us to depart homeward.
We were on the point of leaving, when, to my unutterable agony, I heard
a heart-rending cry, a plunge into the water, and poor Charley was
lost to me forever! The water was deep and rough, there was no help
at hand, and neither of us could swim. The agony of terror condensed
into that little moment cannot be conceived. It seemed as if, were the
sum of a whole life of wretchedness united in one instant, it could
not have occasioned more intense torment than I then felt. I gazed on
the darkened and turbulent waters as they rolled along, and saw the
supplicating agony of his upcast look, and the convulsive motion of
his limbs as he struggled with the treacherous element, and, without
considering the consequences of the act, I plunged in, in the vain
attempt to seize the arm that was slowly sinking away from my sight;
but it eluded my eager hand, and his cry for help was choked by the
angry waters forever. I had retained my grasp on the low timbers on
which we had stood, and to this alone owed my own preservation. I
immediately raised the alarm, and search was speedily made with the
light of lanterns, but the lost body of poor Charley continued to
slumber that night in the waters. On the morrow it was discovered and
conveyed away to its last habitation, followed by a train of sorrowing
schoolmates, but none walked by the little coffin with so heavy a heart
as myself.
But before I attempt any further description of the scholars and their
adventures, our good old teacher merits a brief notice. Methinks I can
still see his kind, affectionate face, and hear his mild voice again,
though the narrow house has long ago shut its iron door upon his mortal
remains. He was the perfection of human kindness and gentleness, with
a nature far too lenient and forbearing to rule the wild spirits of
a village school. He was a deep and thoroughly read scholar, but,
unfortunately, did not possess the tact to impart his learning to his
pupils. But the fault, after all, rather lay with them, for if one
desired to profit by his instructions, few persons had a more extensive
storehouse of lore from which to communicate to others. He was an able
classical scholar, and was well versed in many modern languages. But
most of his pupils cared more for their amusements than for the sweet
waters of learning, and were too full of mischief to attend to his
teachings. He was much too gentle to apply the rod liberally, and we
stood but little in awe of his presence. During school hours, he would
often become completely lost in his abstruse studies, to the utter
forgetfulness of the madcaps who were contriving all manner of mischief
around him. Many carried little bows and arrows to the schoolroom, and
the little shafts of mimic warfare would sometimes fly in volleys over
his very head, without even disturbing his cogitations. Marbles would
be rolled across the floor, and papers of gunpowder would be cast into
the fireplace, whose explosion would scatter ashes, and fire, and smoke
around. The authors of these transgressions he seldom discovered, so
that they continued to carry on their idle pranks with impunity. It was
no uncommon matter for us to obtain leave from him for a short absence,
and then to hurry off with our fishing-gear for a day’s sport, and no
notice would he take of the absent delinquents.
I remember that there was a fine orchard of rare pears near the
schoolhouse, and against it we made many a foray, sacking the best
trees with unsparing hands. On one occasion, my friend Bill accompanied
me thither, eager to load his pockets with the ripe, yellow fruit that
swung so temptingly on the high branches. He commenced the assault with
a big stone, which he hurled with all his strength against the thickest
of the enemy; but, alas! its return to earth proved nearly fatal to his
scull, upon which it descended with great effect, and left a scar upon
it that has not disappeared even to this day.
But I cannot better describe our master’s good temper, and the
estimation in which he was held even by the very rudest of our number,
than by recording his virtues in verse.
That good old man hath slept
In his grave this many a year,
And many a storm hath wept
O’er his dust the wintry tear;
And many a spring-time flower,
And many an autumn leaf,
Have bloomed and faded o’er him,
In their existence brief.
And though the teacher’s name
His grave-stone scarcely shows,
Yet freshly all his virtue
On memory’s tablet glows.
Nor will the winning sweetness,
And the softness of his heart,
In the sacred land of memory
For evermore depart!
No after life can darken
The light of early days,
For it leaves upon the plastic mind
A print that ne’er decays.
When the cracked and jangling school-bell,
In its little belfry swung
By the pale-faced gentle usher,
At early morning rung;
Then fast along the woodland,
From many a rural home,
Each sauntering, idle troop
Unto its call would come.
And glad were they to meet the smile
Of their old teacher’s face,
As up the well-worn aisle he walked
With grave and reverend pace.
No harsh and bitter voice had he,
Nor stern and scowling frown;
And seldom was the tingling rod
From its dusty shelf brought down.
But kind were all his chiding words,
Affectionate and mild--
He loved his rude and wayward charge
As parent loves its child.
The gloom that weighs the heart,
Life’s mourning and its pain;
The cankered thirst of gold,
And all the cares of gain--
Ambition, pomp, and pride,
That soil the minds of men,
And fill their paths with stinging thorns,
Were strangers to us then.
We mourned not o’er the past,
Nor feared the coming morrow,
And for the golden present
Had little cause of sorrow;
But each one was as merry
As is the roving bee,
Or the sweetest bird that carols
Its songs upon the tree.
The memory of the old school-group
And the teacher, fills the heart,
And still survives when all things else
To oblivion depart.
I. M.
Hunting Wild Animals in Africa.
It is remarkable that, while there is a general resemblance between
the animals throughout the globe, each of its grand divisions has some
species peculiar to itself. Thus, North America has the bison, the
musk ox, and the grizzly bear, and these are found nowhere else. The
lama, jaguar, tapir, and the anteater are peculiar to South America.
Africa has its hippopotamus, giraffe, gnoo, and zebra. Asia has the
chetah, royal tiger, nyl-ghau, yak, and dromedary. New Holland has
its kangaroos, platypus, black swan, and cereopsis. Europe has a few
peculiar species, but most of those which are found there, are also met
with in the northern portions of Asia.
But while each division of the earth seems to afford something of
the animal kind that is at once peculiar and remarkable, it must
be admitted that Africa presents the most wonderful species. It
furnishes us with the giraffe, which is by far the tallest of animals;
it produces the larger species of elephant, which is the largest
of animals; and the African lion, being superior in strength and
fierceness to the Asiatic lion, is the most savage and formidable of
wild beasts.
But it is not on account of their remarkable qualities only that the
animals of Africa are a subject of interest. In that portion of the
globe there are vast plains which are almost uninhabited by man. These
afford abundant sustenance for numberless herds of antelopes, of which
there are many kinds; for droves of quaggas, zebras, wild asses,
ostriches, and other creatures; and here they are permitted to multiply
with little interruption. The lion, panther, and leopard are almost
their only enemies. These occasionally snatch a victim as he comes to
the pool for water, or passes a bush or thicket where the enemy lies in
ambush; but the number destroyed in this way is not sufficient greatly
to check the increase of wild animals upon the plains of Africa. There
are droves of antelopes stretching over the plains as far as the eye
can reach, and amounting to fifteen or twenty thousand in number. It
is not uncommon to see large numbers of zebras, quaggas, and even
ostriches, mingling in the crowd as if they were of the same family.
A New England boy who takes his gun and goes into the woods or fields,
fancies that he has pretty good luck if he can bring home half a dozen
robins with two or three chip squirrels. If he kills a partridge or
a brace of woodcock, he stands very high in his own estimation. I
have myself roamed over the country for half a day, and felt myself
compensated with no larger game than this. But sporting in Africa is
quite a different matter.
Captain Harris, an Englishman, who travelled in the southern parts
of Africa a few years since, has given an interesting account of his
adventures there. The following extract presents one of the scenes
which he describes upon the river Meritsane, at a distance of some five
or six hundred miles north of the Cape of Good Hope.
“The reports of four savages of the Batlapi tribe, who joined us
yesterday, determined us to halt a day for the purpose of hunting.
Richardson and myself left the wagons at daybreak attended by these
men, and crossing the river, took a northwesterly direction through a
park of magnificent camelthorn trees, many of which were groaning under
the huge nests of the social grosbeak; whilst others were decorated
with green clusters of mistletoe, the bright scarlet berries of which
were highly ornamental.
“We soon perceived large herds of quaggas and brindled gnoos, which
continued to join each other, until the whole plain seemed alive. The
clatter of their hoofs was perfectly astounding, and I could compare
it to nothing but to the din of a tremendous charge of cavalry, or
the rushing of a mighty tempest. I could not estimate the accumulated
numbers at less than fifteen thousand; a great extent of country being
actually chequered black and white with their congregated masses. As
the panic caused by the report of our rifles extended, clouds of dust
hovered over them; and the long necks of troops of ostriches were also
to be seen, towering above the heads of their less gigantic neighbors,
and sailing past with astonishing rapidity.
“Groups of purple sassaybys, and brilliant red and yellow hartebeests,
likewise lent their aid to complete the picture, which must have been
seen to be properly understood, and which beggars all attempt at
description. The savages kept in our wake, dexterously despatching the
wounded gnoos by a touch on the spine with the point of an assagai,
and instantly covering up the carcass with bushes, to secure them
from the voracity of the vultures, which hung about us like specks in
the firmament, and descended with the velocity of lightning, as each
discharge of our artillery gave token of prey.
[Illustration: _Hunting Wild Animals in Africa; Nests of the Sociable
Grosbeak, or Weaver, on the trees._]
“As we proceeded, two strange figures were perceived standing under the
shade of a tree; these we instantly knew to be elands, the savages at
the same moment exclaiming with evident delight, _Impoofo, Impoofo_;
and pressing our horses to the utmost speed, we found ourselves for
the first time at the heels of the largest and most beautiful species
of the antelope tribe. Notwithstanding the unwieldy shape of these
animals, they had at first greatly exceeded the speed of our jaded
horses, but being pushed, they soon separated; their sleek coats turned
first blue and then white with froth; the foam fell from their
mouths and nostrils, and the perspiration from their sides. Their
pace gradually slackened, and with their full brilliant eyes turned
imploringly towards us, at the end of a mile, each was laid low by a
single ball. They were young bulls, measuring upwards of seventeen
hands at the shoulder.
“In size and shape, the body of the male eland resembles that of a
well-conditioned ox, not unfrequently attaining the height of nineteen
hands, and weighing two thousand pounds. The head is strictly that of
the antelope, light, graceful, and bony, with a pair of magnificent
straight horns, about two feet in length, spirally ringed, and pointed
backwards. A broad and deep dewlap, fringed with brown hair, reaches
to the knee. The color varies considerably with the age, being dun in
some, in others an ashy blue with a tinge of ochre; and in many, also,
sandy gray approaching to white. The flesh is esteemed, by all classes
in Africa, above that of any other animal; in grain and color it
resembles beef, but is better tasted, and more delicate, possessing a
pure game flavor, and the quantity of fat with which it is interlarded
is surprising, greatly exceeding that of any other game quadruped with
which I am acquainted. The female is smaller and of slighter form, with
less ponderous horns. The stoutest of our savage attendants could with
difficulty transport the head of the eland to the wagons.”
After describing his meeting three hundred elephants in a drove, and
seeing gnoos and quaggas by tens of thousands, Captain Harris proceeds
to give the following account of hunting the giraffe or cameleopard:
“Many days had now elapsed since we had even seen the cameleopard--and
then only in small numbers, and under the most unfavorable
circumstances. The blood coursed through my veins like quicksilver,
therefore, as, on the morning of the nineteenth, from the back of
_Breslar_, my most trusty steed, with a firm wooded plain before me,
I counted thirty-two of these animals, industriously stretching their
peacock necks to crop the tiny leaves which fluttered above their
heads, in a mimosa grove that beautified the scenery. They were within
a hundred yards of me, but I reserved my fire.
“Although I had taken the field expressly to look for giraffes, and
had put four of the Hottentots on horseback, all excepting Piet had
as usual slipped off unperceived in pursuit of a troop of koodoos.
Our stealthy approach was soon opposed by an ill-tempered rhinoceros,
which, with her ugly calf, stood directly in the path; and the
twinkling of her bright little eyes, accompanied by a restless rolling
of the body, giving earnest of her intention to charge, I directed Piet
to salute her with a broadside, at the same moment putting spurs to my
horse. At the report of the gun, and the sudden clattering of hoofs,
away bounded the giraffes in grotesque confusion, clearing the ground
by a succession of frog-like hops, and soon leaving me far in the rear.
Twice were their towering forms concealed from view by a park of trees,
which we entered almost at the same instant; and twice, on emerging
from the labyrinth, did I perceive them tilting over an eminence
greatly in advance. A white turban, that I wore round my hunting cap,
being dragged off by a projecting bough, was instantly attacked by
three rhinoceroses; and looking over my shoulder, I could see them
long afterwards fagging themselves to overtake me. In the course of
five minutes, the giraffes arrived at a small river, the deep sands of
which receiving their long legs, their flight was greatly retarded; and
after floundering to the opposite side, and scrambling to the top of
the bank, I perceived that their race was run.
[Illustration: _Hunting the Giraffe._]
“Patting the steaming neck of my good steed, I urged him again to his
utmost, and instantly found myself by the side of the herd of giraffes.
The stately bull being readily distinguishable from the rest by his
dark chesnut robe and superior stature, I applied the muzzle of my
rifle behind his dappled shoulder, with the right hand, and drew both
triggers; but he still continued to shuffle along, and being afraid
of losing him, should I dismount, among the extensive mimosa groves,
with which the landscape was now obscured, I sat in my saddle, loading
and firing behind the elbow, and then placing myself across his path,
until, the tears trickling from his full, brilliant eye, his lofty
frame began to totter, and at the seventeenth discharge from the deadly
grooved bore, bowing his graceful head from the skies, his proud form
was prostrate in the dust.
“Never shall I forget the tingling excitement of that moment! Alone, in
the wild wood, I hurraed with bursting exultation, and unsaddling my
steed, sank exhausted beside the noble prize I had won.
“When I leisurely contemplated the massive frame before me, seeming
as though it had been cast in a mould of brass, and protected by a
hide of an inch and a half in thickness, it was no longer matter of
astonishment that a bullet discharged from a distance of eighty or
ninety yards should have been attended with little effect upon such
amazing strength. The extreme height from the crown of the elegantly
moulded head to the hoof of this magnificent animal, was eighteen feet;
the whole being equally divided into neck, body, and leg.
“Two hours were passed in completing a drawing; and Piet still not
making his appearance, I cut off the tail, which exceeded five feet
in length, and was by far the most estimable trophy I had gained; but
proceeding to saddle my horse, which I had left quietly grazing by the
side of a running brook, my chagrin may be conceived, when I discovered
that he had taken advantage of my occupation to free himself from his
halter and abscond.
“Being ten miles from the wagons, and in a perfectly strange country,
I felt convinced that the only chance of recovering my pet was by
following the trail, whilst doing which with infinite difficulty,
the ground scarcely deigning to receive a foot-print, I had the
satisfaction of meeting Piet and Mohanycom, who had fortunately seen
and recaptured the truant horse. Returning to the giraffe, we all
feasted heartily upon the flesh, which, although highly scented at this
season with the rank mokaala blossoms, was far from despicable; and
after losing our way in consequence of the twin-like resemblance of two
scarped hills, we regained the wagons after sunset.
“The rapidity with which giraffes, awkwardly formed as they are, can
move, is beyond all things surprising, our best horses being unable
to close with them under two miles. Their gallop is a succession of
jumping strides, the fore and hind leg on the same side moving together
instead of diagonally, as in most other quadrupeds, the former being
kept close together, and the latter so wide apart, that, in riding by
the animal’s side, the hoof may be seen striking on the outside of
the horse, momentarily threatening to overthrow him. Their motion,
altogether, reminded me rather of the pitching of a ship, or rolling
of a rocking-horse, than of anything living; and the remarkable gait
is rendered still more automaton-like by the switching, at regular
intervals, of the long black tail, which is invariably curled above
the back; and by the corresponding action of the neck, swinging, as
it does, like a pendulum, and literally imparting to the animal the
appearance of a piece of machinery in motion. Naturally gentle, timid,
and peaceable, the unfortunate giraffe has no means of protecting
itself but by kicking with its heels; but even when hemmed into a
corner, it seldom resorts to this mode of defence.”
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER I.
_First discoveries of Columbus.--The first interview
between the Spaniards and the Indians.--Simplicity
of the Indians.--Their appearance and manners.--Cuba
discovered.--Disappointment of Columbus in his search for
gold.--Sails for Hayti._
It was on the 12th of October, 1492, that Columbus first set his foot
on the shores of the New World. He landed at a small island belonging
to the Bahamas, which he named San Salvador. With a drawn sword in his
hand, he took possession of the country for his sovereigns, Ferdinand
and Isabella of Spain. I always regretted that Columbus unsheathed
the sword. He only intended it as a ceremony, but it has proved a
fatal reality to the poor Indians. The sword has almost always been
unsheathed between them and their christian invaders.
It is my purpose, in the course of my story, to give a brief view of
the past and present condition of the Red Men of this western world. I
shall first notice the people of the West India Islands; then of South
America; then of North America; giving such sketches and descriptions
as can be relied upon for truth, and which combine entertainment with
instruction.
Irving, in his history of Columbus, thus beautifully narrates the first
interview between the Europeans and the Indians:--“The natives of the
island, when at the dawn of day they had beheld the ships hovering on
the coast, had supposed them some monsters, which had issued from the
deep during the night. When they beheld the boats approach the shore,
and a number of strange beings, clad in glittering steel, or raiment
of various colors, landing upon the beach, they fled in affright to the
woods.
“Finding, however, that there was no attempt to pursue or molest
them, they gradually recovered from their terror, and approached the
Spaniards with great awe, frequently prostrating themselves, and making
signs of adoration. During the ceremony of taking possession, they
remained gazing, in timid admiration, at the complexion, the beards,
the shining armor, and splendid dress of the Spaniards.
[Illustration: _Columbus landing._]
“The admiral particularly attracted their attention, from his
commanding height, his air of authority, his scarlet dress, and the
deference paid him by his companions; all which pointed him out to be
the commander.
“When they had still further recovered from their fears, they
approached the Spaniards, touched their beards, and examined their
hands and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with
their simplicity, their gentleness, and the confidence they reposed
in beings who must have appeared so strange and formidable, and he
submitted to their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence.
“The wondering savages were won by this benignity. They now supposed
that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firmament which bounded
their horizon or that they had descended from above, on their ample
wings, and that these marvellous beings were inhabitants of the skies.
“The natives of the island were no less objects of curiosity to the
Spaniards, differing, as they did, from any race of men they had seen.
They were entirely naked, and painted with a variety of colors and
devices, so as to give them a wild and fantastic appearance. Their
natural complexion was of a tawny or copper hue, and they had no
beards. Their hair was straight and coarse; their features, though
disfigured by paint, were agreeable; they had lofty foreheads, and
remarkably fine eyes.
“They were of moderate stature, and well shaped. They appeared to be
a simple and artless people, and of gentle and friendly dispositions.
Their only arms were lances, hardened at the end by fire, or pointed
with a flint or the bone of a fish. There was no iron among them, nor
did they know its properties, for when a drawn sword was presented to
them, they unguardedly took it by the edge.
“Columbus distributed among them colored caps, glass beads, hawk’s
bells, and other trifles, which they received as inestimable gifts,
and decorating themselves with them, were wonderfully delighted with
their finery. In return, they brought cakes of a kind of bread called
cassava, made from the yuca root, which constituted a principal part of
their food.”
[Illustration: _Columbus distributing presents._]
Thus kindly began the intercourse between the Old World and the New;
but the demon of avarice soon disturbed their peace. The Spaniards
perceived small ornaments of gold in the noses of some of the natives.
On being asked where this precious metal was procured, they answered by
signs, pointing to the south, and Columbus understood them to say that
a king resided in that quarter, of such wealth that he was served in
great vessels of gold.
Columbus took seven of the Indians with him, to serve as interpreters
and guides, and set sail to find the country of gold. He cruised
among the beautiful islands, and stopped at three of them. These were
green, fertile, and abounding with spices and odoriferous trees. The
inhabitants, everywhere, appeared the same--simple, harmless, and
happy, and totally unacquainted with civilized man.
Columbus was disappointed in his hopes of finding any gold or spices
in these islands; but the natives continued to point to the south,
and then spoke of an island in that direction called Cuba, which the
Spaniards understood them to say abounded in gold, pearls, and spices.
People often believe what they earnestly wish; and Columbus sailed in
search of Cuba, fully confident that he should find the land of riches.
He arrived in sight of it on the 28th of October, 1492.
Here he found a most lovely country, and the houses of the Indians,
neatly built of the branches of palm trees, in the shape of pavilions,
were scattered under the trees, like tents in a camp. But hearing of
a province in the centre of the island, where, as he understood the
Indians to say, a great prince ruled, Columbus determined to send a
present to him, and one of his letters of recommendation from the king
and queen of Spain.
For this purpose he chose two Spaniards, one of whom was a converted
Jew, and knew Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Arabic. Columbus thought the prince
must understand one or the other of these languages. Two Indians were
sent with them as guides. They were furnished with strings of beads,
and various trinkets, for their travelling expenses, and they were
enjoined to ascertain the situation of the provinces and rivers of
Asia, for Columbus thought the West Indies were a part of the Eastern
Continent.
The Jew found his Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Arabic of no avail, and the
Indian interpreter had to be the orator. He made a regular speech
after the Indian manner, extolling the power, wealth, and generosity
of the White men. When he had finished, the Indians crowded round the
Spaniards, touched and examined their skin and raiment, and kissed
their hands and feet in token of adoration. But they had no gold to
give them.
It was here that _tobacco_ was first discovered. When the envoys were
on their return, they saw several of the natives going about with
firebrands in their hands, and certain dried herbs which they rolled
up in a leaf, and lighting one end, put the other in their mouths, and
continued inhaling and puffing out the smoke. A roll of this kind they
called a _tobacco_. The Spaniards were struck with astonishment at this
smoking.
[Illustration: _Indians smoking._]
When Columbus became convinced that there was no gold of consequence
to be found in Cuba, he sailed in quest of some richer lands, and soon
discovered the island of Hispaniola, or Hayti. It was a beautiful
island. The high mountains swept down into luxuriant plains and green
savannas, while the appearance of cultivated fields, with the numerous
fires at night, and the volumes of smoke which rose in various parts
by day, all showed it to be populous. Columbus immediately stood in
towards the land, to the great consternation of his Indian guides, who
assured him by signs that the inhabitants had but one eye, and were
fierce and cruel cannibals.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
SHOCKING.--An Irish carman and his wife attended the wake, on
Friday night, over the body of John Hand, whom Cliff killed. To do
so, they left twin infants, fourteen months old, in the cradle at
home; but, becoming intoxicated, they did not return until morning,
when they found their infants dead! The decision of the coroners’
jury was, we understand, that they came to their death by cold and
starvation.--_Detroit Adv._, 1840.
[Illustration: _View of St. Paul’s Bay, Malta._]
The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER IV.
_Landing at Malta.--Description of the city and inhabitants.--
Excursion into the interior.--Visit to the catacombs.--
Wonderful subterranean abodes.--St. Paul’s Bay._
When we were through with the quarantine, we hauled round into the
great harbor of Malta. The city, which is called Valetta, made a most
stately appearance as we passed the castle of St. Elmo. It lies close
to the sea, and the whole mass of buildings bursts upon you at once,
with its long rows of castellated walls, bristling with cannon, tier
upon tier, towering battlements, turrets and bastions and pinnacles in
the most picturesque profusion--a grand and magnificent spectacle. The
harbor was full of ships--men-of-war, merchantmen, and all sorts of
small Mediterranean craft, rigged in the strangest style imaginable.
Whole fleets of row-boats came crowding round us, filled with
people. Some of them had bands of music, playing “Yankee Doodle,”
“Washington’s March,” and “Hail Columbia,” for which they expected we
should give them a quarter of a dollar or so. Others brought fruit,
fresh provisions, sea-shells and curiosities, for sale. Most of
them spoke a little English, and, in their eagerness to sell their
commodities, would make the most ludicrous speeches imaginable. One
comical fellow had a pig for sale, which he praised very highly: “Buy
pig, captain?--nice pig, sweet pig, ’merican pig: won’t heave nothing
overboard, eat brick-dust, eat anything.” It was difficult to get rid
of the importunities of these people. They would offer a thing for a
dollar, and then gradually come down to nine-pence.
When we landed on the quay, we found a still greater crowd besetting
us, offering to carry our trunks, amidst immense confusion and
jabbering. Donkeys and mules were trotting about, but we saw no horses.
We passed through a great gate in a wall, and went up into the city,
by climbing flights of stone steps. The donkeys go up and down with
heavy loads on their backs, and never stumble. All the streets were
narrow, with high stone houses on each side, and full of people. The
main street occupies the summit of the rock on which the city is
built, and all the cross streets run up and down the hill, and are
paved stair-fashion. The city is one of the handsomest in the world,
and looks like an assemblage of palaces. The streets are straight,
and all the houses are built of a light yellow stone. Nothing can
be more picturesque than their architecture. The fronts are studded
with bold masses of carved stonework, balconies, cornices, pilasters,
projections, and sculptured ornaments of various descriptions. The
prospect through one of the streets is a perfect picture. I could not
help contrasting it with our American cities, with their quadrangular
monotony of architecture!
After we had secured our baggage at the hotel, I walked out to take a
view of the city. The population seemed to be all in the streets, and
to live out of doors. The crowd was immense in every public place,
and everything visible was full of character and variety. I do not
believe there is a spot in the world that exhibits a more striking and
motley spectacle than the streets of Malta. This island is the central
point of the whole Mediterranean commerce, which brings it a constant
succession of visitors from all the countries around. The crowd looks
like a fancy ball, where the people dress so as to differ from each
other. Here is the fantastical Greek in his picturesque drapery of red
and white; the turbaned Turk with his bushy and flowing beard; the
swarthy Arab in his coarse _haick_ or cloak; the grave Austrian, the
scowling Moor, the squab Dutchman, the capering Sicilian, the hawk-eyed
and tawny Calabrian, the native Maltese; the Spaniard, the Frenchman,
the John Bull, and the Yankee, all in strange mixture, and with their
various manners and languages. The whole group is perfectly dramatic.
Little boys, about as high as my knee, were running about, dressed
in black small-clothes and those great cocked-hats which we call
“three-cornered scrapers.” The women of the island looked like nuns in
black silk hoods; they cover most of the face, and peep out with one
eye. This habit makes almost all the women squint-eyed.
After I had gone over the greater part of the city and visited its
elegant churches, of which it contains a large number, I set forth for
a walk into the country. I went out at a massive gateway and across
a draw-bridge, which offer the only passage-way into the interior of
the island. I was struck with astonishment at the strength and extent
of the fortifications. It seemed impossible that any force, either of
human arms or cannon-balls, could ever break through the walls. The
French took the place in 1800, and when Bonaparte entered at this gate,
he said it was lucky there was somebody inside to open it, or they
could never have got in. Immense walls and bastions, one above another,
towered over my head. I looked down into one of the ditches; it
appeared to be a hundred feet deep, and there were flower-gardens and
orchards at the bottom. After travelling a few minutes, I saw before me
a long row of arches, fifteen or twenty feet high, which I found to be
an aqueduct: the road passed under it. Here I had the first glimpse of
the country, and I was struck with the odd appearance of everything.
There were no fields nor pastures, such as we have in our country, but
the whole land lay in terraces, faced with thick stone walls, making
little square inclosures, where crops of wheat and other vegetables
were growing. The whole face of the island presented a succession of
stripes of light yellow rock and fresh green vegetation. Here and
there were low hills dotted with dark green locust trees, and a great
many country houses and villas were scattered round. All along under
these walls grew wild fig-trees and immense clumps of prickly pear,
and thousands of lizards were darting up and down with the liveliest
movements. Peasants were passing along the road driving donkeys loaded
with bundles of grass, and now and then I met a chaise drawn by a mule,
thumping over the stony road. I was surprised that any person could be
found willing to risk his bones by such a jolting.
One would suppose, by the looks of the country here, that the
inhabitants had covered it with stone walls to keep the grass from
blowing away. Indeed, the soil is so thin, and the surface so
irregular, that but for these walls, half the island would be washed
bare by the rains. It is a solid rock, with only a foot or two of soil.
Having gone several miles, I reached Citta Vecchia, or the old city,
the ancient capital of Malta. It stands in the centre of the island,
and looks very antique, being a confused assemblage of fantastical
structures, gray with age. It is probably three thousand years old
or more. I went into a little shop kept by an old woman, and amused
myself with staring at the odd appearance of everything. A man sat at
work cutting a pair of sandals out of a raw hide; a little boy, with
a desperately dirty face, was munching a handful of green stuff in a
corner; and a queer-looking blue cat, with half a tail, rolled her
green eyes up at me: she had doubtless never seen a Yankee before. The
old woman sold bread, greens, oranges, wine, &c. I drank a tumbler
of wine, for which I paid a half-penny; it was a dark red wine like
claret, and about the strength of common cider. Some wine is made in
the island, but most of what is used comes from Sicily.
I went to the top of the great church, which has a very lofty dome,
where I had a prospect of the whole island. The view is picturesque
and striking in the highest degree. The island looks like an immense
chess-board, the surface being chequered out into squares of green
verdure and stone wall. Villages without number were scattered about
in every direction, each with the tall dome of a church rising above
its cluster of houses. Many of these churches I visited in my walk, and
was astonished to find every one of them richly adorned in the interior
with gold, silver, and precious stones. The private houses in these
villages are very far from exhibiting the same wealth.
I had a guide with me, who showed me over the cathedral of Citta
Vecchia, and then asked if I wanted to see the catacombs. I had never
before heard of them, but replied in the affirmative; whereupon he
led the way through a narrow street, till he came to a door, at which
he thumped lustily. It was opened by a little tawny-faced fellow in
a monk’s dress. He bustled about and got a bunch of keys, and some
torches and candles. We each took a torch and candle, and followed him
through a series of long narrow lanes, till we came to a great gate
in a wall. Here we struck fire, lighted our torches and candles, and
entered the passage. It looked dark and dismal, and we continued going
down long flights of steps till we came to a sort of landing-place at
a great distance below the surface. I know not how to describe the
scene that I witnessed here. For miles around, there was a labyrinthian
extent of dark passages cut in the rock, winding and zigzagging in
all directions; sometimes expanding into the breadth and loftiness of
spacious halls, and sometimes contracting into a strait so narrow as
hardly to admit a single person.
Along the sides of these galleries were innumerable niches and recesses
cut in the rock as places of deposit for corpses; they were probably
all full, thousands of years ago. Here and there we found a solitary
bone, which I gazed at with feelings of awe as the relic of an ancient
generation. The place appeared to me like a great subterranean city
whose inhabitants had all deserted it. The age of it is unknown; not
even tradition can tell it. It was used as a hiding-place by the early
Christians during times of persecution, and must have been found
admirably suited to that purpose: thousands and thousands of people
might conceal themselves beyond all search in its immense extent of
winding and perplexing avenues, which run into one another, and would
lead any one astray who was not perfectly familiar with all their
turnings and windings.
In one of the large halls we found two ancient hand-mills for corn and
oil, which had been used by the inhabitants of this dark abode. Every
passage and room is full of secret nooks and openings, into which the
inmates might creep for safety in case of surprise. Great numbers of
names and inscriptions are cut in all parts of the rock; and the sides
and ceiling of the narrow galleries are blackened with the smoke of
torches. Strange and overpowering were the sensations that came upon me
as I followed my guide through these drear avenues and halls of death.
In spite of my confidence in him, it was impossible not to feel an
apprehension of being lost among the innumerable turnings and windings
of this dark labyrinth. Now and then we would stop and contemplate the
striking effect of our flickering torches, which threw red gleams of
light along the walls, and seemed to show us indistinct forms flitting
hither and thither amid the darkness beyond.
We stood still, held our breath, and marked the drear silence that
reigned around, where the sound of a footstep or a whisper struck the
ear like an unhallowed intrusion breaking the still repose of the
ancient dead. Then we shouted and listened to the hollow echoes that
rumbled through the rocky mansion, and died away in the distance, among
miles of long galleries and reverberating caverns. No scene could be
more impressive--I almost expected the dead inmates of this gloomy
abode to start up before my face, and greet me with the accents of
three thousand years ago. We traversed one long passage after another,
but the labyrinth appeared to be endless. The excavations are said to
be fifteen miles in extent; they may be twice as long for aught I know:
the only wonder is that any man ever undertook to measure them. After
all I have said, the reader will have no adequate conception of these
wonderful abodes: he must go to the spot to know what they really are.
I never knew the light of day so cheerful, delicious, and exhilarating
as when I got out of this dark place, into the open air; it seemed like
passing from death to life. The little monk was very thankful for a
ninepence which I gave him for his trouble in showing me through the
catacombs.
Going along one of the streets of the town, I saw a statue of St. Paul,
shaking the viper from his hand. This is believed to be the spot where
the house stood in which he lodged while in the island. There is a
bay on the southwestern shore, where, according to tradition, he was
shipwrecked. This I determined to visit, and hired a stout boy, whom
I found in the street, to show me the way. We travelled over a road
on the bare rock, very rough, and which grew rougher every mile. The
country was pretty much like what I have mentioned, parcelled out into
little square inclosures, with low cabins in the sides of the walls,
looking like dog-kennels, but designed as lodging-places for the men
who guard the fields by night. By-and-by the road began to descend, and
I soon found we were close to the sea. I was obliged to clamber down
the ragged rocks, but my companion jumped from cliff to cliff like a
goat. We soon reached the margin of the bay, and he conducted me to a
bold projection in the rocky shore, which tradition has marked out as
the precise spot where the ship which was bearing St. Paul to Rome,
struck the land, as related in the twenty-seventh chapter of the Acts
of the Apostles.
I walked out to the extremity of the point, against which the sea was
dashing, and sat down upon the rock to enjoy the feelings excited by
the history of this interesting place. I gazed for some time upon the
wild scene around me, and called up in imagination the shadows of the
beings who, 1800 years ago, had figured in these events. Here stood the
shipwrecked apostle and beheld the same wild and rugged prospect that
strikes the eye at the present moment, for hardly a single point in the
landscape appears to have undergone any change since his time. There
is a chapel on the shore a few yards from the water, and two or three
castles on the eminences around; these are all the buildings in sight.
Three or four ragged boys were picking up shells on the beach, but
no other living creature was to be seen. I saw the sun sink into the
ocean, and was obliged to hasten my return, lest the city gates should
be closed.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
WIT.--Some one observed to a wag on one occasion, that his coat seemed
to have been made too short; to which he replied, that “it would be
long enough before he got another.”
* * * * *
IN delay, there lies no plenty.
[Illustration: Kingfisher Nightengale]
The Kingfisher and the Nightingale;
A FABLE.
Once upon a time, a meeting took place between a kingfisher and a
mocking-bird. The latter, being dressed in very plain feathers, at
first felt a little humbled by the brilliant plumage of his neighbor.
The kingfisher, perceiving the admiration of the mocking-bird, jerked
his tail and tossed his head, so as to show off all the changing hues
of his feathers to great advantage.
While this was going on between the two birds, a sportsman chanced to
be passing by, and seeing them, paused to watch their proceedings.
Readily understanding the scene, and disgusted with the conceit and
vanity of the kingfisher, he drew up his gun, and shot him down. As he
went to pick up the fallen bird, he made the following reflections:
“This silly kingfisher is like a person who is vain of his dress or his
outward beauty. His skin, when stuffed with tow, is just as valuable
as when the bird’s living flesh and bones are in it; his outside is
all there is of him. But the modest mocking-bird is like a person who
contributes to our pleasure or our instruction, and relies upon the
good he does to others for his standing among mankind. How contemptible
is pride; how amiable and attractive is modesty allied to merit!”
* * * * *
A SAGACIOUS DOG.--A grocer in Edinburgh had a dog, which for some time
amused and astonished the people in the neighborhood. A man who went
through the streets ringing a bell and selling penny pies, happened one
day to treat this dog with a pie. The next time he heard the pieman’s
bell, the dog ran to him with impetuosity, seized him by the coat, and
would not allow him to pass. The pieman, who understood what the animal
wanted, showed him a penny, and pointed to his master, who stood at the
street door and saw what was going on. The dog immediately supplicated
his master by many humble gestures and looks. The master put a penny
into the dog’s mouth, which he instantly delivered to the pieman, and
received his pie; and this traffic between the pieman and the grocer’s
dog continued to be daily practised for many months.
Absence of Mind.
This is that habit which some people have, of thinking of one thing,
while they are doing another. The famous Sir Isaac Newton was a
philosopher, and he thought a great deal about the heavenly bodies, and
such mighty matters. Of course, he could hardly be expected to think
much about common things. However, he did once have a fancy for a lady,
and one evening he went to see her. As he was sitting with her by the
fireside smoking his pipe, he became absorbed in his mathematics, and
in his absence of mind he took hold of the lady’s finger and stuck it
into the fiery bowl of his pipe, thus making it a tobacco-stopper!
I once knew an old lady who would go about the room, looking upon
the shelf, peeping into the table drawer, tumbling over a cupboard
that served as a kind of Noah’s ark, where every strange thing was
deposited--all the time teasing and fretting because she could not find
her spectacles, until at last she discovered that the said spectacles
were snugly sitting astride of her nose!
But this is a trifling instance of absence of mind, compared with
some others. An old maid of Edinburgh, in Scotland, had taken an
unaccountable fancy to a pig, which she kept as a kind of pet about
the house, and often took it into her lap. The poor thing seemed to
be forever pinched with a pain in its bowels, and therefore kept up
an almost perpetual squealing. Still, the kind woman loved it all the
better, and cherished it the more for its very infirmities. The lady
was withal a literary lady, and fond of reading and writing books, and
her head ran upon these operations so much, that she often forgot where
she was, and what she was doing.
One day, she appeared at the door of a neighbor in a good deal of
trouble, with the pig under her arm, squealing with all its might, as
usual; upon which the following dialogue ensued:
_Woman._ Good morning, neighbor! Good morning! I called to see you
about--about--something or other--but in fact I forget what it was I
was after.
_Neighbor._ Oh! you wanted something or other, and you thought you’d
come and ask me what ’twas you wanted?
_Woman._ Why yes--no. Be still, you naughty pig! be still! Yes, I am
looking for something. Stop your everlasting squealing! Oh! I remember!
I’ve lost my pig. Have you seen anything of him?
_Neighbor._ Why, what’s that you have under your arm?
_Woman._ Gracious! I’ve got the pig under my arm all this time! Poor,
dear thing--that I should have forgotten you, while I was all the time
thinking of you! and that I should have lost you while I was clasping
you to my breast! Well done! I must be a genius, as aunt Dorcas says!
Some years ago there lived at the city of Washington a famous
Englishman by the name of Thomas Law. He was very absent-minded, and
often forgot his christian name. One day, he was writing a letter, and
when he came to the end, and wanted to sign his name, he was in great
trouble because he could not remember the first part of it. At last,
Claxton, the door-keeper, chanced to be passing, and Law remembered
that his christian name was the same as Claxton’s. Accordingly he said,
“Claxton, what is your christian name?” “Thomas,” was the answer. “Oh
yes, Thomas,” said Law, and immediately wrote his name, “Thomas Law!”
These instances are somewhat amusing, but I can tell you of an instance
in which absence of mind proved more serious. A famous courtier once
wished to ingratiate himself into the favor of two persons of great
rank and power, but who were deadly enemies to each other. These were
Lord B. and Lord Q. In order to please these two persons, the courtier
wrote a letter to each of them. That of Lord B. was as follows:
My dear Lord B.
I met with Lord Q. last evening at Lady Lackaday’s. It was
the first time I had seen him. I felt instinctively an
aversion similar to that which is inspired by the presence
of a serpent. I can easily enter into your feelings
respecting him. Indeed, I do not see how any one can differ
from your lordship in this matter. It is impossible not to
feel a sympathy with the man who stands in open and manly
opposition to one upon whose forehead “knave” is written by
the hand of his Creator.
I am, dear Lord, yours,
B. L.
The next letter was as follows:
My dear Lord Q.
Lord B. is an ass, and I ask no better proof of it than
that he seems to hate you, whom all the world beside agree
to love and admire. He is stark mad with envy. You have
only to let him alone, and he will make himself ridiculous
before the whole town. This is all you have to do to
destroy your rival. Let him alone! Yours faithfully,
B. L.
Such are the two letters; but unluckily for the success of the
courtier’s crafty schemes, he was addicted to fits of absence of mind,
and when he came to superscribe the aforesaid letters, he addressed the
one intended for Lord B. to Lord Q., and that for Lord Q. to Lord B.;
so that when they were read, each of these persons discovered the trick
and hypocrisy of the courtier.
Varieties.
PUN.--While the repairs were going on in State street, Boston, two
gentlemen of the bar happening to meet, one said, “I think this looks
like putting new cloth upon an old garment.” “I think so too,” replied
the other; “but it will make the _rent_ greater.”
* * * * *
HUMOR.--A number of years ago, an eccentric old gentleman, residing
in a cottage in England, was greatly annoyed by noctural depredators,
who broke the fences in his garden, in order to get at the good things
contained therein. As he did not care so much for the loss of the fruit
as the damage done to the enclosures, and as he was rather fond of
witticisms, he had the following notice put up: “All thieves are in
future to enter by the gate, which will be left open for the purpose.”
* * * * *
HAS A DOG WINGS?--“Father, has a dog got wings?”
“No, my son.”
“Well, I thought so--but mother told me, the other day, that as she was
going along the road, a dog _flew_ at her.”
* * * * *
IRISH WIT.--An honest Hibernian, upon reading his physician’s bill,
replied, that he had no objections to pay him for his _medicines_, but
his _visits_ he would return.
Death of the President.
William Henry Harrison, who became President of the United States on
the 4th of March last, died on the night of the 4th of April, just
thirty days after he had entered upon the duties of his high office.
This event is calculated to cast a gloom over the whole nation, for
Gen. Harrison was generally esteemed a good man, and most persons
believed that he would govern the country in a manner to promote the
happiness of the people. He had lived to be almost seventy years of
age; and now, being elevated to the highest office in the gift of the
people, he is suddenly cut down, and laid in the same dust that must
cover ordinary men. This dispensation of Providence seems almost like
quenching a great beacon-light upon the sea-shore at night, just at the
moment when its illumination had begun to scatter the darkness around.
A solemn thought is suggested by this event. Gen. Harrison has lived
a long life, and has often been in the midst of seeming peril. He has
often been in battle with savages and with the British soldiery. He has
often trodden the forest amid all the dangers and vicissitudes that
beset the traveller there. He has spent many days of toil in the field,
laboring as a farmer. In all these situations and conditions--from
youth to age--he has enjoyed the protecting care of Providence. But
at last he was elevated to a great office; he became the occupant
of a palace; he was the hope of a great nation; he was surrounded
with friends, with mighty men, with skilful physicians, with tender
nurses--with the great, the good, the prayerful--but all in vain. His
time had come--the arrow was sped from the bow, and no human arm could
stay its flight. And this should warn us all to consider well the
lesson conveyed by this event--which is, that life and death are in
the hands of God. He can protect us everywhere--in the cottage or the
log-cabin, in the forest or the field; or he can take us away in the
midst of power and pomp and riches. Let us therefore be ever prepared
for the decisions of his wisdom.
THE APRIL SHOWER, A SONG.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
Patter, patter, let it pour,
Patter, Patter, let it roar,
Down the steep roof let it rush,
Down the hill side let it gush,
’Tis the wlecome April shower
Which will wake the sweet May flower.
Patter, patter, let it pour!
Patter, patter, let it roar!
Let the gaudy lightning flash--
Let the headlong thunder dash--
’Tis the welcome April shower,
Which will wake the sweet May flower.
Patter, patter, let it pour!
Patter, patter, let it roar!
Soon the clouds will burst away--
Soon will shine the bright spring day,
Soon the welcome April shower
Will awake the sweet May flower!
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
My own Life and Adventures.
(_Continued from page 71._)
CHAPTER VII.
_My uncle’s influence.--The influence of the tavern.--State of
society forty years ago.--Liquor opposed to education.--The
church and the tavern.--The country schoolhouse.--Books used
in the school.--A few words about myself._
I pass over a space of several years in my history, and come to the
period when I was about fifteen. Up to this time, I had made little
progress in education, compared with what is done at the present day.
I could indeed read and write, and I knew something of arithmetic, but
my advance beyond this was inconsiderable. A brief detail of certain
circumstances will show the reason of this.
In the first place, my uncle had no very high estimation of what he
called _larnin_; he was himself a man of action, and believed that
books render people dull and stupid, rather than efficient in the
business of life. He was therefore opposed to education in general, and
particularly so in my case; and not only was his opinion equivalent to
law with respect to me, but it was of great force in the village, on
account of his character and position.
He kept the village tavern, which in those days of rum and punch was an
institution of great power and authority. It was common, at the period
of which I speak, for the church or meeting-house and tavern to stand
side by side; but if one day in the week, sobriety and temperance were
preached in the former, hard drinking and licentiousness were deeply
practised in the latter during the other six. The tavern, therefore,
not only counteracted the good effect of the preacher, but it went
farther, and in many cases corrupted the whole mass of society. The
members of the church thought it no scandal to make regular visits
to the bar-room at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and at four P. M.;
the deacon always kept his jugs well filled, and the minister took his
toddy or his tansy bitters, in open day, and without reproach.
In such a state of society as this, the tavern-keeper was usually the
most influential man in the village, and if he kept good liquors, he
was irresistible. Now my uncle was a prince of a tavern-keeper for
these jolly days. He was, in fact, what we call a whole-souled fellow:
generous, honest, and frank-hearted. His full, ruddy countenance
bespoke all this; and his cheerful, hearty voice carried conviction
of it to every listener. Beside, his tavern was freely and generously
kept: it was liberally supplied with good beds, and every other luxury
or comfort common to those days. As I have said before, it was situated
upon the great road, then travelled by the mail stages between Boston
and New York. The establishment was of ample extent, consisting of a
pile of wooden buildings of various and irregular architecture--all
painted a deep red. There was near it a large barn with extensive
cow-houses, a corn-crib, a smoke-house, and a pig-sty, arranged solely
with a view to ease of communication with the house, and consequently
all drawn closely around it. The general effect, when viewed at a
distance, was that of two large jugs surrounded with several smaller
ones.
Before this heap of edifices swung the tavern sign, with a picture of a
barn-yard cock on one side, and a bull upon the other, as I have told
you before: and though the artist that painted it was only a common
house-dauber, and though the pictures were of humble pretensions when
compared with the productions of Raphael, still, few specimens of the
fine arts have ever had more admirers than the cock and bull of my
uncle’s sign. How many a toper has looked upon it when approaching the
tavern with his feverish lip, as the emblem and assurance of the rum
that was soon to feed the fire kindled in his throat; how many a jolly
fellow, staggering from the inn, has seen that sign reeling against the
sky, and mixing grotesquely with the dreamy images of his fancy!
If we add to this description, that in the street, and nearly in front
of the tavern, was a wood-pile about ten feet high, and covering
three or four square rods of ground; that on one side was a litter of
harrows, carts and ploughs, and on the other a general assortment of
wagons, old sleighs, broken stages, and a rickety vehicle resembling
a modern chaise without a top; and if we sprinkle between all these
articles a good supply of geese and pigs, we shall have a pretty fair
account of the famous Cock and Bull tavern that flourished in Salem
nearly forty years ago.
The proprietor of such an establishment could not, in those days, but
be a man of influence; and the free manners and habits of my uncle
tended to increase the power that his position gave him. He drank
liberally himself, and vindicated his practice by saying that good
liquor was one of the gifts of providence, and it was no sin--indeed
it was rather a duty--to indulge in providential gifts freely. All
this made him a favorite, particularly with a set of hard drinkers who
thronged the bar-room, especially of a wet day and on winter evenings.
As I have said, my uncle was opposed to education, and as he grew
older and drank deeper, his prejudice against it seemed to increase;
and though I cannot easily account for the fact, still every drunkard
in the place was an enemy to all improvements in the school. When a
town-meeting took place, these persons were invaribly in opposition
to every scheme, the design of which was to promote the cause of
education, and this party was usually headed by my uncle. And it is
not a little curious that the tavern party also had its influence in
the church, for my uncle was a member of it, and many of his bar-room
cronies also. They were so numerous as to cast a heavy vote, and
therefore they exercised a good deal of power here. As in respect to
the school, so in the house of worship, they were for spending as
little money as possible, and for reducing its power and influence
in society to the lowest possible scale. They even held the minister
in check, and though he saw the evil tendency of intemperance in the
village, he had not nerve enough to attack it, except in a very soft
and mild way, which probably served to increase the vice at which he
aimed; for vice always thrives when holy men condemn it gently.
Now I have said that my uncle was a kind-hearted, generous man, by
nature; how then could he be so narrow-minded in respect to education
and religion? The answer to this question is easy. He was addicted to
the free use of liquors, which not only tends to destroy the body, but
to ruin all the nobler parts of the mind. As he came more and more
under the influence of ardent spirits, he grew narrow-minded, sottish
and selfish. And this is one of the great evils of taking ardent
spirits. The use of them always tends to break down the mind; to take
away from us those noble feelings and lofty thoughts, which are the
glory of man; in short, to sink us lower and lower toward the brute
creation. A determined drunkard is usually a great part of the time but
little elevated above a beast.
Now I have been particular about this part of my story, for I wished
to show you the natural influence of the habits of my uncle, and their
operation upon my own fortunes. I have yet a sadder story to tell, as
to the effect of the village tavern, not only upon myself, but upon
my uncle, and several others. That must be reserved for some of the
sad pages through which my tale will lead you. For the present, I only
point out the fact, that a man who encourages the sale of liquors is
usually unfriendly to the education and improvement of mankind; that
his position tends to make him fear the effect of light and wish for
darkness; that hard drinking will ruin even a generous and noble mind
and heart; and that the habit of dealing in liquor is one to be feared,
as it induces a man to take narrow, selfish, and low views of human
nature and human society. It appears to me that a trade which thrives
when men turn drunkards, and which fails when men grow temperate, is
a trade which is apt to injure the mind and soul of one who follows
it. Even my noble-hearted and generous uncle fell under such sinister
influences.
But to return to the school. I have already described the situation of
the house. The building itself was of wood, about fifteen feet square,
plastered within, and covered with benches without backs, which were
constructed by thrusting sticks, for legs, through auger holes in a
plank. On one side, against the wall, was a long table, serving as a
desk for the writers.
The chimney was of rough stone, and the fire-place was of the same
material. But what it lacked in grace of finish, was made up in size.
I believe that it was at least ten feet wide, and five in depth, and
the flue was so perpendicular and ample, that the rain and snow fell
down to the bottom, without the risk of striking the sides. In summer,
the school was kept by a woman, who charged the town a dollar a week,
boarding herself; in winter it was kept by a man, who was paid five
dollars a month and found. Here about seventy children, of all sizes,
were assembled during this latter portion of the year; the place and
manner of treatment being arranged as much as possible on the principle
that a schoolhouse is a penitentiary, where the more suffering, the
more improvement.
I have read of despots and seen prisons, but there are few of the
former more tyrannical than the birch-despot of former days, or of
the latter, more gloomy than the old-fashioned schoolhouse, under the
tyrant to which it was usually committed.
I must enter into a few details. The fuel for the school consisted of
wood, and was brought in winter, load by load, as it was wanted; though
it occasionally happened that we got entirely out, and the school was
kept without fire if the master could endure the cold, or dismissed if
the weather chanced to be too severe to be borne. The wood was green
oak, hickory, or maple, and when the fire could be induced to blaze
between the sticks, there was a most notable hissing and frying, and a
plentiful exudation of sap at each end of them.
The wood was cut into lengths of about five feet, by the scholars, each
of the larger boys taking his turn at this, and at making the fire in
the morning. This latter was a task that demanded great strength and
patience; for, in the first place, there must be a back-log, five feet
in length, and at least fifteen inches in diameter; then a top-stick
about two-thirds as big; and then a forestick of similar dimensions.
It required some strength to move these logs to their places; and
after the frame of the work was built, the gathering of chips, and
the blowing, the wooing, the courting that were necessary to make
the revolting flame take hold of the wet fuel, demanded a degree of
exertion, and an endurance of patience, well calculated to ripen and
harden youth for the stern endurances of manhood.
The school began at nine in the morning, and it was rare that the fire
gave out any heat so early as this; nor could it have been of much
consequence had it done so, for the school-room was almost as open as
a sieve, letting in the bitter blast at every window and door, and
through a thousand cracks in the thin plastering of the walls. Never
have I seen such a miserable set of blue-nosed, chattering, suffering
creatures as were these children, for the first hour after the opening
of school, on a cold winter morning. Under such circumstances, what
could they do? Nothing, and they were expected to do nothing.
The books in use were Webster’s Spelling Book, Dilworth’s Arithmetic,
Webster’s Second and Third Part, the New Testament, and Dwight’s
Geography. These were all, and the best scholars of the seminary never
penetrated more than half through this mass of science. There was no
such thing as a history, a grammar, or a map in the school. These are
mysteries reserved for more modern days.
Such was the state of things--such the condition of the school, where
I received my education, the only education that I ever enjoyed,
except such as I have since found in study by myself, and amid the
active pursuits of life. But let me not blame the schoolhouse alone; I
was myself in fault, for even the poor advantages afforded me there,
I wilfully neglected; partly because I was fond of amusing myself
and impatient of application; partly because I thought myself worth
ten thousand dollars, and fancied that I was above the necessity of
instruction; and partly because my uncle and his bar-room friends were
always sneering at men of education, and praising men of spirit and
action--those who could drive a stage skilfully, or beat in pitching
cents, or bear off the palm in a wrestling-match, or perchance carry
the largest quantity of liquor under the waistcoat.
Such being the course of circumstances that surrounded me at the age of
fifteen, it will not be surprising if my story should at last lead to
some painful facts; but my succeeding chapters will show.
(_To be continued._)
The Artists’ Cruise.
About the first of August, 1840, an excursion was set on foot, by five
young men of Boston, for recreation and amusement--one full of interest
and excitement, conducive equally to health and pleasure. The plan
was this--to embark in a small pleasure-boat called the _Phantom_,
built and owned by one of the company, who was also well skilled in
nautical affairs, and proceed by easy distances along the coast as far
“down East” as time or inclination would admit--letting the events and
adventures of the day determine the movements of the next.
The company consisted of young artists--lovers of nature--ready to
appreciate all the new and beautiful points that might meet the eye.
The boat was hauled up at Phillip’s beach, Lynn, to which place the
party proceeded, and fitted her out with all the conveniences and
comforts proper for the cruise. Everything being ready, they sailed on
the first of the week, with a fair southwest wind, passed Marblehead
and Salem gaily, and stretched onward for Cape Ann. As night came
on they were becalmed, but it was very clear, and the moon shone
gloriously, as they moved, creeping lazily along, catching a slight
puff at intervals. The musical portion of the company contrived to make
the time pass pleasantly away in singing certain old airs which chimed
in with the feeling and situation of the company. At last the breeze
came again, and about ten at night they found themselves in the little
cove before the quiet town of Gloucester. Here they cast anchor; and
so much pleased were they, that they stayed the next day and enjoyed
the pleasure of a ramble along the rocky shores, fishing for perch, &c.
They found an excellent host at the Gloucester hotel, where they passed
the next night. I cannot do better than to tell the rest of the story
in the words of these adventurers.
“With a bright sun, a fresh breeze, and a calm sea, we left Gloucester
and shaped our course around Cape Ann for the Isles of Shoals, a
group which lie at the farther extremity of Ipswich bay, across which
we merrily steered, embracing the opportunity of initiating the
inexperienced in the duties of amateur seamanship. In a few hours we
ran in between the rocky isles, which, as we gradually neared them,
seemed to rise from out the waves. Anchoring in the midst of a fleet of
fishing boats, we prepared our supper, which was soon despatched with
much mirth, owing to the primitive simplicity of our arrangements. We
passed the night at our anchorage, after witnessing the effect of a
magnificent thunder-storm, and spent the morning in strolling among the
rocks along the shore, and amusing ourselves with the characteristic
traits of the islanders whom we met; their isolated position, and
constant devotion to the single occupation of catching and curing
fish, appearing to interpose a bar to their advancement in any other
qualification. From the Isles of Shoals we had the next day a fair
run to Wood Island, and anchored in Winter harbor, near the mouth of
Saco river--a place of considerable importance at the time of the last
war, owing to the exertions of an enterprising merchant by the name of
Cutts. During the war the British entered the harbor and wantonly sawed
through the keel of three of the largest class of merchant vessels,
then in progress of building, and whose remains are still to be seen.
We had plenty of fowling, fishing, and sporting apparatus, and we here
had ample opportunity for exercising our skill as sportsmen--plover,
curlew, sand-birds, &c. being abundant. In this manner we passed the
time until the afternoon of the next day, when we left for Portland.
“Favored with a fine breeze, we dashed merrily over the waves, which
had now begun to be tipped with foam, and, under the influence of
the freshening wind, had assumed a size that, in comparison with our
miniature bark, might have been termed mountain-high; but there was
no danger, for our craft was as buoyant on the sea as one of its own
bubbles. The weather had gradually been growing “dirty,” as seamen call
it, and we raced into the harbor of Portland with a small squadron
of coasting vessels, all crowding for shelter. The wind during the
night blew a gale from the southeast, which however did not prevent
us from sleeping soundly. Our appetites having assumed a remarkable
punctuality since leaving Boston, reminded us early of breakfast,
and, in spite of wind and rain, we resolved upon cooking a quantity
of birds shot the day previous. Having formed an imperfect shelter by
means of a spare sail, a fire was kindled, coffee made, birds broiled,
and our meal concluded amid a rain so drenching as to be quite a
curiosity in its way. Each person bent over his dish to prevent the
food being fairly washed away, and covered his mug of coffee to avoid
excessive dilution, and used many other notable expedients suited to
the occasion, which will certainly not be forgotten if never again
practised. It was most emphatically a washing-day with us, though not
accompanied with the ill-humor generally reputed to exist upon those
occasions.
“The storm and its effects being over, we received a visit from the
proprietors of the elegant pleasure-boat, Water Lily, who very kindly
invited us to accompany them to Diamond cove, a romantic spot in one of
the many beautiful islands that so thickly stud Casco bay--a place much
frequented by parties of pleasure from the city of Portland. We left
the harbor with a fine breeze, our pennants streaming gallantly. We
were soon upon the fishing-grounds, anchored, and for a moment all was
bustle and excitement, each hoping to be the first to pull a ‘mammoth’
from the deep. Success crowned our efforts, and a boat was despatched
with the treasure to the cove, to be there converted into a savory
chowder; while we again anchored near the rocks of one of the smaller
islands, where fortune favored us, and we soon had a goodly store of
perch for the fry.
“The sun was just sinking as we entered the cove, and the gray shadows
of twilight were fast gathering under the grove of fine old oaks that
crowned the shore. Soon the woods resounded with the shouts and merry
laughter of the party. Misty twilight yielded to the brilliant rays of
the full moon, which, streaming through the openings of the forest,
touched here and there, lighting up the picturesque and moss-grown
trunks with almost magical effect. The word was given, and each one
searched for his armful of brush to light us at our feast, and soon
it crackled and blazed away, lighting up a scene almost beyond
description. The party numbered about fifteen or twenty, including the
Phantom’s crew, and were scattered about in all the various groups
and postures that inclination or fancy might suggest, each with his
plate and spoon, or for the want of them a clam-shell and box-cover,
doing such justice to the feast as an appetite sharpened by fasting,
salubrious sea-breeze and wholesome exercise would induce. Not the
least important feature of the scene was the picturesque costume
assumed by our “Phantoms;” it consisting of white pants, Guernsey
frocks, belts, knives, and small Greek caps tight to the head. Above
us hung the blest canopy of glowing foliage thrown out from those old
oaks; each mass, each leaf was touched and pencilled with a vivid
line of light, whose brightness might compare with that of sparkling
gems. The more distant groups were relieved from the dim and shadowy
background by a subdued and broad half-light. Fainter and fainter grew
the light, till all was lost in the deep and gloomy shadows of the
forest.
“Amid this fairy-like scenery all was mirth, jollity, fun, and frolic;
not a moment passed unenjoyed. At ten o’clock our party broke up, and
we returned to our boats. We here parted with our kind friends, who
were soon on their way to Portland. We seized our flutes, and breathed
forth a farewell with all the pathos we were masters of. This was soon
answered by a smart salute from a cannon, which awoke the echoes of the
cove. Three cheers were given and returned, and all was still.
“The next was a beautiful day, and it being Sunday, we remained at
anchor in the cove, enjoying the silence and repose of nature in that
lovely and sequestered spot. The succeeding morning being fine, we
started with a light southerly wind, which carried us slowly along
among the islands of Casco, and gave us a fine opportunity to observe
all their beauties. The scene was continually changing--new islands
opening upon us almost every moment. Before evening we had made the
little harbor called Small Point, where we remained that night. The
succeeding day we doubled cape Small Point and made the mouth of the
Kennebec, which we entered with a fine breeze, that carried us briskly
up to Bath, where we spent the remainder of the day. Having taken a
pilot, we continued up the river with a fair wind and tide, which took
us as far as Hallowell. Considerable curiosity was here excited, in
consequence of our having come so far in so small a boat, it being
thought a rather hazardous enterprise. In the morning a council was
held, and we determined to return; accordingly this and the succeeding
day were spent in getting back to Bath. We did but little more than
float with the tide, in consequence of its being so calm. The scenery
of the Kennebec has been so often and minutely described, that it is
best to pass over it without comment.
At Bath we were treated with all the attention and kindness we could
wish for. The succeeding day we beat down the river, and doubled the
point, encountering a head sea, which tossed us about, to the great
detriment of our culinary apparatus. We again anchored and passed
the night at Small Point. We proceeded the next day, by a difficult
and somewhat dangerous channel, between ledges and islands as far as
Haskell’s Island, and anchored in the cove. Continuing our course the
next day, we stopped at Portland, saw our friends of the Water Lily,
and proceeded as far as Winter harbor, where we arrived at twelve
o’clock at night. We continued here a day to take advantage of the
fine shooting, and had very good luck. We went as far the next day as
York, where we anchored, cooked our birds, and, with the help of good
appetites, made a glorious supper.
“Leaving the town of Old York, we rowed slowly out of the small river
which forms its harbor, accompanied by numerous fishing-boats, which
came in the evening previous. It was a dead calm, and continued so
about two hours. The time passed however without the usual tedium
attendant upon the want of wind, it being employed in the preparation
and discussion of a hearty breakfast. The wind came at last, a light
breeze and ahead, and we soon exchanged the swinging and rolling motion
of the glassy ground-swell for the regular rise and fall and cheerful
dash of the ripple against the bow, and the music of the breaking
bubbles as they whirled away in the wake. With all our canvass set, we
stretched slowly along the narrow coast of New Hampshire.
“Passing the harbor of Portsmouth, with its lighthouse built upon
a ledge so low that the tide sweeps over its foundation, as is the
case with the famous Eddystone, at nightfall we were off the mouth of
Merrimac river, yet some fifteen or twenty miles from our destined
port. A few clouds that had collected about dark now dispersed, and
the stars shone clear and beautiful from the heavens, while the beacon
lights blazed in rival brightness from the shore. About two in the
morning we approached the entrance of our port, which is situated near
the mouth of a small river which intersects Cape Ann, and which, like
most rivers, has a bar at its mouth. After passing the lighthouse,
being within half a mile of our anchorage, the wind fell suddenly,
and the rapid current swept us aground upon the highest part of the
bar, where the receding tide soon left us high and dry upon the sand.
Being stopped thus abruptly, we gazed about in search of some means
to ‘define our position,’ which measure was presently vetoed by the
rolling in of so thick a fog that in ten minutes everything in sight
could have been touched with a boat-hook. Finding sight unavailing at
this juncture, we resorted to sound, and commenced firing signal guns,
which were heard and answered from the shore, and in a short time
assistance arrived in the person of the keeper of the lighthouse, who
informed us that we should not float again for six hours. Day broke
upon us in this position, and having plenty of time, we despatched
two ashore for provisions in the pilot’s skiff, and in a short time
the sand-bar presented a singular appearance, our baggage of all
kinds being strewed about upon the sand, and in close fellowship with
cooking utensils, loose sails, spare baskets, boxes, rigging, &c. &c.;
for we had entirely unladed the boat, for the purpose of washing and
cleansing the inside from the effects of an unlucky basket of charcoal,
which had been upset in the confusion consequent upon our endeavors
to get into deeper water. Upon the return of our purveyors all hands
displayed great activity in providing and eating breakfast. The fog
still encompassed us, so that we enjoyed all the uproar and fun of the
meal in our own way, as our apparent horizon was hardly more extensive
than a common room. It was a memorable breakfast, that seemed much
like a day’s eating condensed into a single meal, the whole being much
enlivened by the cheerfulness and local anecdotes of our old friend
from the lighthouse, to whom we were indebted for sundry excellent
hints touching the best method of extricating vessels in difficult and
dangerous situations. The tide rose very rapidly, and all the temporary
embarrassments of our situation vanished with our footprints in the
sand. The mounting sun soon burned up the fog, which in dispersing
produced its usual singular and fantastic effects upon the rugged and
precipitous shores that lay on each side; and retaining the services
of our old friend as pilot, we ran through the river, which is about
four miles long, and connected with the harbor of Gloucester by a short
canal, through which we passed, and spent another pleasant day in that
town previous to starting for Boston; which place we had left just
three weeks before. We arrived there the next day, meeting with nothing
worthy of particular notice in the course of it.
[Illustration: _Our vessel ashore on Squam Bar._]
“Such is a brief outline of our excursion, from which we returned much
invigorated in mind and body. A thousand little incidents occurred,
serving to enhance the pleasure of the trip, which it would be
impossible to condense into so small a space as is here allotted us.
We had finer opportunities of obtaining picturesque sketches of our
New England coast scenery, than could be obtained by any other method.
One of our company made a sketch of our mischance upon the bar, and an
engraving of it is presented to the reader. We had a good opportunity
of observing the peculiar traits that characterize the hardy race
that inhabit our rough and rock-bound coast, and always found them a
freehearted, hospitable people, ever ready to yield any assistance we
might need. We were obliged to submit to many little inconveniences,
it is true, which, had they not been voluntary, or had they come under
other than the then existing circumstances, would have been deemed
hardships; but there was so much excitement, so much novelty, such an
endless variety of new objects from day to day to attract and interest
us, that we were a thousand times repaid for all our petty privations.”
* * * * *
PROVERB.--A person who is suspicious, ought to be suspected.
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER V.
_Departure from Malta.--Arrival at Sicily.--Syracuse Ruins.--Ear of
Dionysius._
Our vessel landed her cargo at Malta, and then took in ballast and
sailed for Palermo, in Sicily, to load with fruit. I preferred to
cross immediately over to Syracuse, and take Mount Ætna in my way,
being very desirous not to lose a sight of this celebrated volcano. I
found a Sicilian vessel about to sail, and took passage in her. She
was a _polacre_, having the masts of single sticks from top to bottom,
instead of three or four pieces joined together, like the masts of
English and American vessels. I could not help laughing at the oddities
of the crew: there were fifteen of them, although the vessel was not
above seventy tons burthen. They were the queerest ship’s company I
ever saw; all captains and mates, and no common sailors. Whatever was
to be done was everybody’s business: there was no discipline, no order,
no concert; all was hurly-burly, and scampering here and there, and
tumbling head over heels.
Which was the commander, nobody could tell, for every one was giving
orders. The slightest manœuvre caused a clatter and bawling that made
me think the masts were going overboard. If there was a rope as big as
a tom-cod-line to be pulled, the whole crew would string themselves
along it, yo! heave ho! tug it an inch and a half, puff and blow, thump
and clamor, as if it were a case of life and death. Every man must
have a finger in what was going on, even to cuffing the cabin-boy. The
men squatted down upon deck to their meals all in a group, and fell
to cracking jokes and cutting capers together. The helmsman sat in
a chair to steer, and moved his seat as often as he luffed or bore
away. A little hop-off-my-thumb fellow, with a comically dirty face
and ragged breeches, sat upon a bucket to watch the hour-glass in the
binnacle. We had only seventy or eighty miles to sail from Malta to
Sicily, with a fair wind and a smooth sea, but the fuss and clatter
during the navigation of this short space were prodigious. All hands
were running fore and aft, looking out ahead and astern, bustling
around the man at the helm, peeping at the compass, and jabbering and
gesticulating as if they were in the most imminent danger.
At daylight the next morning, we found ourselves close under the
Sicilian shore, with Mount Ætna in the north, towering up majestically
to the heavens, like a huge pyramid of snow with a black spot at the
top. It was more than seventy miles off. About ten in the forenoon we
arrived at Syracuse, a city which was once ten times as big as Boston,
but is now almost entirely depopulated. It has a noble harbor, but we
found only a few fishing-boats there; and when we landed at the quay,
hardly a living being was to be seen: everything looked solitary,
ruinous, and forlorn. I walked through the streets, but saw no signs of
trade, commerce, or industry. A few people were sitting lazily before
their doors, sunning themselves; and numbers of beggars dogged my heels
wherever I went. Now and then I met a donkey with a pannier of greens,
but no such thing as a wagon or chaise.
When I got to the market-place, I saw groups of people sitting in the
sun or lounging idly about, but no business doing. I could not help
smiling to see a constable, who was strutting up and down to keep the
peace among this pack of lazy fellows. He wore a great, long, tattered
cloak, a huge cocked hat, a sword, and he had a most flaming, fiery
visage, with a nose like a blood-beet. I never saw such a swaggering
figure in my life, before. He happened to spy a little urchin pilfering
a bunch of greens, on which he caught him by the nape of the neck
with one hand, and drawing his sword with the other, gave him a lusty
thwacking with the flat of the blade. The little rogue kicked and
squalled, and made a most prodigious uproar, which afforded great
amusement to the crowd: they seemed to be quite familiar with such
adventures.
I walked out into the country, and was struck with astonishment at the
sight of the ruins scattered all round the neighborhood. They extend
for miles in every direction. Walls, arches, columns, remains of
temples, theatres and palaces met the eye at every step. Here and there
were little gardens among the ruins, where artichokes were growing, but
hardly a human being was to be seen. I came at length to the remains of
a large theatre, consisting of a semicircle of stone steps, and found a
mill stream tumbling down the middle of it. A ragged peasant was lying
lazily in the sun among the ruins. I asked him what building it was,
but he was totally ignorant of the matter, and could only reply that
it was “_cosa antica_”--something ancient. Presently I discovered an
enormous excavation in the solid rock, as big as a house, which excited
my curiosity very strongly. I could not imagine the use of it, till I
luckily met an old Capuchin friar, plodding along in his coarse woollen
gown; and learnt from him that this was the famous “Ear of Dionysius,”
where that tyrannical king used to confine such persons as fell under
his suspicion. It is a most curious place, hollowed out in the shape of
the human ear, and forming a vast cavern: in the top is a little nook
or chamber, where the tyrant used to sit and hear what the prisoners
said. The lowest whisper was heard distinctly in this spot; so that the
prisoners were sure to betray themselves if they held any conversation
together.
While I stood wondering at this strange perversion of human ingenuity,
I was startled by the appearance of a grim-looking fellow, who pulled
out a pistol as he approached me. My first impulse was to grasp my
trusty cudgel, and flourish it at him with a fierce air of defiance,
for I took him to be a robber, of course. To my surprise he burst out a
laughing, and told me he had come on purpose to show me the wonderful
effect of sound in the Ear. He bade me go into the further end of the
cavern, while he fired the pistol at the entrance. I did so, and the
effect was like the roaring of thunder: I was glad to clap my hands to
my ears and run out as fast as I could. I gave the fellow a few cents
for his trouble, and told him I had never before got so much noise for
so little money.
I continued to ramble about among the ruins, which seemed to have no
end. The almond trees were in full bloom, and the orange trees were
bowing down under loads of ripe fruit. Flocks of magpies were flitting
about, but everything was silent and deserted. Now and then I met a
countryman jogging lazily along upon a donkey, or an old woman driving
her beast with a load of vine-stalks, which are used in the city to
heat ovens. I could not help wondering to see so fine a territory lie
utterly neglected; but the indolence of the inhabitants is the cause
of all. A very little labor will earn a loaf of bread, and most of
them are satisfied with this. The climate is so mild, that ragged
clothes occasion no discomfort, and hardly anybody minds going in rags.
The soil is so rich as scarcely to require art or industry in the
cultivation. The oranges and the grapes grow with hardly any care, and
the husbandman lives a lazy life, with but little to do except to pick
the fruit and make the wine.
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
(_Continued from page 119._)
CHAPTER II.
_The West Indies continued.--Discovery of Hayti.--Generosity of the
Cacique.--Testimony of Columbus in favor with the Indians.--Character
of the natives.--Columbus erects a cross.--Indian belief.--Effect of
the Spanish invasion.--The Cacique._
Columbus entered a harbor at the western end of the island of Hayti,
on the evening of the 6th of December. He gave to the harbor the name
of St. Nicholas, which it bears to this day. The inhabitants were
frightened at the approach of the ships, and they all fled to the
mountains. It was some time before any of the natives could be found.
At last three sailors succeeded in overtaking a young and beautiful
female, whom they carried to the ships.
She was treated with the greatest kindness, and dismissed finely
clothed, and loaded with presents of beads, hawk’s bells, and other
pretty baubles. Columbus hoped by this conduct to conciliate the
Indians; and he succeeded. The next day, when the Spaniards landed,
the natives permitted them to enter their houses, and set before them
bread, fish, roots and fruits of various kinds, in the most kind and
hospitable manner.
Columbus sailed along the coast, continuing his intercourse with
the natives, some of whom had ornaments of gold, which they readily
exchanged for the merest trifle of European manufacture. These poor,
simple people little thought that to obtain gold these _Christians_
would destroy all the Indians in the islands. No--they believed the
Spaniards were more than mortal, and the country from which they came
must exist somewhere in the skies.
The generous and kind feelings of the natives were shown to great
advantage when Columbus was distressed by the loss of his ship. He
was sailing to visit a grand cacique or chieftain named Guacanagari,
who resided on the coast to the eastward, when his ship ran aground,
and the breakers beating against her, she was entirely wrecked. He
immediately sent messengers to inform Guacanagari of this misfortune.
When the cacique heard of the distress of his guest, he was so much
afflicted as to shed tears; and never in civilized country were the
vaunted rites of hospitality more scrupulously observed than by this
uncultivated savage. He assembled his people and sent off all his
canoes to the assistance of Columbus, assuring him, at the same time,
that everything he possessed was at his service. The effects were
landed from the wreck and deposited near the dwelling of the cacique,
and a guard set over them, until houses could be prepared, in which
they could be stored.
There seemed, however, no disposition among the natives to take
advantage of the misfortune of the strangers, or to plunder the
treasures thus cast upon their shores, though they must have been
inestimable in their eyes. On the contrary, they manifested as deep
a concern at the disaster of the Spaniards as if it had happened to
themselves, and their only study was, how they could administer relief
and consolation.
Columbus was greatly affected by this unexpected goodness. “These
people,” said he in his journal, “love their neighbors as themselves;
their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and accompanied by a smile.
There is not in the world a better nation or a better land.”
When the cacique first met with Columbus, the latter appeared dejected,
and the good Indian, much moved, again offered Columbus everything
he possessed that could be of service to him. He invited him on
shore, where a banquet was prepared for his entertainment, consisting
of various kinds of fish and fruit. After the feast, Columbus was
conducted to the beautiful groves which surrounded the dwelling of the
cacique, where upwards of a thousand of the natives were assembled,
all perfectly naked, who performed several of their national games and
dances.
Thus did this generous Indian try, by every means in his power, to
cheer the melancholy of his guest, showing a warmth of sympathy, a
delicacy of attention, and an innate dignity and refinement, which
could not have been expected from one in his savage state.
He was treated with great deference by his subjects, and conducted
himself towards them with a gracious and prince-like majesty.
Three houses were given to the shipwrecked crew for their residence.
Here, living on shore, and mingling freely with the natives, they
became fascinated by their easy and idle mode of life. They were
governed by the caciques with an absolute, but patriarchal and easy
rule, and existed in that state of primitive and savage simplicity
which some philosophers have fondly pictured as the most enviable on
earth.
The following is the opinion of old Peter Martyr: “It is certain that
the land among these people (the Indians) is as common as the sun and
water, and that ‘mine and thine,’ the seeds of all mischief, have no
place with them. They are content with so little, that, in so large a
country, they have rather superfluity than scarceness; so that they
seem to live in a golden world, without toil, in open gardens, neither
entrenched nor shut up by walls or hedges. They deal truly with one
another, without laws, or books, or judges.”
In fact, these Indians seemed to be perfectly contented; their
few fields, cultivated almost without labor, furnished roots and
vegetables; their groves were laden with delicious fruit; and the coast
and rivers abounded with fish. Softened by the indulgence of nature,
a great part of the day was passed by them in indolent repose. In the
evening they danced in their fragrant groves to their national songs,
or the rude sound of their silver drums.
Such was the character of the natives of many of the West Indian
Islands, when first discovered. Simple and ignorant they were, and
indolent also, but then they were kind-hearted, generous, and happy.
And their sense of justice, and of the obligations of man to do right,
are beautifully set forth in the following story.
[Illustration: _Columbus erecting a Cross._]
It was a custom with Columbus to erect crosses in all remarkable
places, to denote the discovery of the country, and its subjugation to
the Catholic faith. He once performed this ceremony on the banks of a
river in Cuba. It was on a Sunday morning. The cacique attended, and
also a favorite of his, a venerable Indian, fourscore years of age.
While mass was performed in a stately grove, the natives looked on
with awe and reverence. When it was ended, the old man made a speech
to Columbus in the Indian manner. “I am told,” said he, “that thou
hast lately come to these lands with a mighty force, and hast subdued
many countries, spreading great fear among the people; but be not
vain-glorious.
“According to our belief, the souls of men have two journeys to perform
after they have departed from the body: one to a place dismal, foul,
and covered with darkness, prepared for such men as have been unjust
and cruel to their fellow-men; the other full of delight for such as
have promoted peace on earth. If then thou art mortal, and dost expect
to die, beware that thou hurt no man wrongfully, neither do harm to
those who have done no harm to thee.”
When this speech was explained to Columbus by his interpreter, he was
greatly moved, and rejoiced to hear this doctrine of the future state
of the soul, having supposed that no belief of the kind existed among
the inhabitants of these countries. He assured the old man that he
had been sent by his sovereigns, to teach them the true religion, to
protect them from harm, and to subdue their enemies the Caribs.
Alas! for the simple Indians who believed such professions. Columbus,
no doubt, was sincere, but the adventurers who accompanied him, and the
tyrants who followed him, cared only for riches for themselves. They
ground down the poor, harmless red men beneath a harsh system of labor,
obliging them to furnish, month by month, so much gold. This gold was
found in fine grains, and it was a severe task to search the mountain
pebbles and the sands of the plains for the shining dust.
Then the islands, after they were seized upon by the Christians, were
parcelled out among the leaders, and the Indians were compelled to be
their slaves. No wonder “deep despair fell upon the natives. Weak and
indolent by nature, and brought up in the untasked idleness of their
soft climate and their fruitful groves, death itself seemed preferable
to a life of toil and anxiety.
“The pleasant life of the island was at an end; the dream in the shade
by day; the slumber during the noontide heat by the fountain, or under
the spreading palm; and the song, and the dance, and the game in the
mellow evening, when summoned to their simple amusements by the rude
Indian drum.
“They spoke of the times that were past, before the white men had
introduced sorrow, and slavery, and weary labor among them; and their
songs were mournful, and their dances slow.
“They had flattered themselves, for a time, that the visit of the
strangers would be but temporary, and that, spreading their ample
sails, their ships would waft them back to their home in the sky. In
their simplicity, they had frequently inquired of the Spaniards when
they intended to return to Turey, or the heavens. But when all such
hope was at an end, they became desperate, and resorted to a forlorn
and terrible alternative.”
They knew the Spaniards depended chiefly on the supplies raised in the
islands for a subsistence; and these poor Indians endeavored to produce
a famine. For this purpose they destroyed their fields of maize,
stripped the trees of their fruit, pulled up the yuca and other roots,
and then fled to the mountains.
The Spaniards were reduced to much distress, but were partially
relieved by supplies from Spain. To revenge themselves on the Indians,
they pursued them to their mountain retreats, hunted them from one
dreary fastness to another, like wild beasts, until thousands perished
in dens and caverns, of famine and sickness, and the survivors,
yielding themselves up in despair, submitted to the yoke of slavery.
But they did not long bear the burden of life under their civilized
masters. In 1504, only twelve years after the discovery of Hayti,
when Columbus visited it, (under the administration of Ovando,) he
thus wrote to his sovereigns: “Since I left the island, six parts
out of seven of the natives are dead, all through ill-treatment and
inhumanity; some by the sword, others by blows and cruel usage, or by
hunger.”
No wonder these oppressed Indians considered the Christians the
incarnation of all evil. Their feelings were often expressed in a
manner that must have touched the heart of a real Christian, if there
was such a one among their oppressors.
When Velasquez set out to conquer Cuba, he had only three hundred
men; and these were thought sufficient to subdue an island above
seven hundred miles in length, and filled with inhabitants. From this
circumstance we may understand how naturally mild and unwarlike was
the character of the Indians. Indeed, they offered no opposition to the
Spaniards, except in one district. Hatney, a cacique who had fled from
Hayti, had taken possession of the eastern extremity of Cuba. He stood
upon the defensive, and endeavored to drive the Spaniards back to their
ships. He was soon defeated and taken prisoner.
Velasquez considered him as a slave who had taken arms against his
master, and condemned him to the flames. When Hatney was tied to the
stake, a friar came forward, and told him that if he would embrace the
Christian faith, he should be immediately, on his death, admitted into
heaven.
“Are there any Spaniards,” says Hatney, after some pause, “in that
region of bliss you describe?”
“Yes,” replied the monk, “but only such as are worthy and good.”
“The best of them,” returned the indignant Indian, “have neither worth
nor goodness; I will not go to a place where I may meet with one of
that cruel race.”
(_To be continued._)
SOMETHING WONDERFUL.
The thing to which we refer is a seed. How wonderful that an acorn
should contain within it a little plant, capable of growing up into
an enormous oak, which will produce other acorns, capable of growing
into other oaks, and so on forever! and yet there are seeds not one
hundredth part as big as an acorn, which produce trees almost, if not
quite, as large as an oak.
Or think of a grain of wheat. It is just as useful for food as if it
contained nothing but a little flour mixed with a little bran. In fact,
when it is ground there is nothing else to be seen; but beside these it
contains a little plant, too small to be made out by common sight.
When one of these grains or seeds is put into moist earth, it begins to
suck in water, which softens it and makes it swell. The little plant
inside begins to grow, and in a few days a small, delicate root peeps
out from one end of the seed. The seed may be lying on its side, or
with the root end uppermost; but the little root, whether it comes out
at the top or bottom of the seed, immediately turns downward, and grows
in that direction.
Soon after, a little white shoot comes out at the other end, which
turns upwards, and becomes green as soon as it gets into air and light;
and thus we have a little plant.
In the mean time, the seed itself spoils and decays; or, as St. Paul
calls it, dies. The flour changes into a kind of gummy sugar, which
is sucked up by the young plant as its first nourishment; the husk
shrivels and rots, and the plant grows up until it becomes a thousand
times as large as the seed. At last it produces many other seeds, just
as wonderful as that from which it grew.
In all the works of man, there is nothing like this. A watch is a
remarkable invention, and a man would be set down as mad who should
think it should be made by chance. But how much more wonderful would a
watch be, if it could make other watches like itself! Yet a seed does
this; and every cornfield in harvest-time contains millions of seeds,
each of which is far more wonderful than the best watch.
The reason is, that men make watches, but God makes seeds. It is true
that the skill by which men make watches comes from God, and should
be acknowledged as his gift; but the more wonderful power by which a
seed is made, he keeps in his own hands, that we may know that we have
a Maker and a Master in heaven, and may serve him with reverence and
godly fear.
Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy;
A DIALOGUE.
_Susan._ Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your house. I thought I never
should see your face again. Did you ever know such a long, stupid
storm? nothing but rain, rain, rain for three everlasting days!
_Fanny._ And in vacation-time too! it did seem too bad. If our house
had not been on the street, so that I could see something stirring, I
believe I should have had the blues.
_Susan._ And I _did_ have the blues outright. I never was so dull in my
life, moping about the house. Mother won’t let me touch such books as
I like to read, and the boys went to school all day, so I had nothing
on earth to do but look at the drops of rain racing down the windows,
and watch the clouds to see if it was going to clear up. I assure you
I fretted from morning till night, and mother got out of all patience
with me, and said I was a perfect nuisance in the house; but I am sure
it was not my fault.
_Fanny._ Well! I was a little better off. I sat half the time making
fun of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that turned out in the rain.
There was Mr. Skimmer went by every day with a cotton umbrella; and Mr.
Saveals with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones started out
on one side, as if he wanted to poke people’s eyes out, and a great
slit to let the rain through:--both of them misers, I know! And there
was Miss Goodbody! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, and
won’t take a carriage, though she can afford it, because she says that
would be ridiculous. I wish you had seen her come paddling through the
wet! such shoes, and such stockings! I do think it is unladylike. Then,
when everything else failed to amuse me, there were our neighbors
opposite to be speculated upon.
_Susan._ Ah! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I believe?
_Fanny._ Yes, and there she sat at the window, on purpose to be seen,
stitching away, and reading, and setting herself up as a pattern to the
whole neighborhood.
_Susan._ I would not have such a strict mother as she has for all the
world. I don’t believe she enjoys her vacation at all.
_Fanny._ I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so close.
I should think she was bringing her up to be a seamstress; and yet,
considering that everybody knows Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura
extravagantly. Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on
examination day?
_Susan._ Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would go over and
look at it, but couldn’t take the trouble.
_Fanny._ Why, how you do gape, Susan!
_Susan._ I know it; mother says I have a terrible trick of gaping. But
I do get so tired.
_Fanny._ Tired of what?
_Susan._ I don’t know; I am tired of the vacation, I believe: and
before the term was over I was wishing so for it! I was tired to death
of school, and dare say I shall be so again in a fortnight.
_Fanny._ Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from mamma’s
workbasket. Just see how fast she walks;--ah ha! she is going to the
circulating library; look at that novel under her arm.
_Susan._ I shall tell my mother of that; she thinks everything right
that the Busy family do.
(_Enter Laura._)
_Fanny._ Well, Laura, poor thing! you are so glad to get out of the
house that I suppose you are running away from it as fast as you can.
_Laura._ I am not quite running, I believe, but you know I always walk
fast.
_Susan._ I can’t think why, I am sure.
_Laura._ It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me more good
than if I were to go sauntering along.
_Susan._ Saves time? and in the vacation too? why, of what consequence
is time now, when you have no school-hours to mind?
_Laura._ Because if I don’t take care I shall not get through what I
have planned. Only think how fast the vacation is going! Next Monday
school begins.
_Fanny._ So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the vacation is
almost over. I thought you told the master, when school broke up, that
you wished there was no vacation.
_Laura._ I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would be a dull
time.
_Susan._ I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I should think it
must have been worse yet for you.
_Laura._ Why?
_Susan._ Because your mother keeps you at work all the time.
_Laura._ Indeed she does not. She sent me out to walk this very
afternoon, and she always makes me put my work away at just such hours,
for fear I should sit too close at my needle.
_Susan._ Mercy! do you love to sew? oh, I suppose you are learning
fancy work: well, I don’t know but I might like that for a little while.
_Laura._ No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till I can do
plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking how I should manage to pass
the vacation, and I took it into my head that I would try to make a
shirt by a particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I shall
be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall present my father
with a shirt of my own making.
_Susan._ Did you do all the fine stitching yourself?
_Laura._ To be sure.
_Susan._ I am sure I would not make myself such a slave.
_Laura._ There is no slavery about it; it was my own pleasure; and you
cannot think how fast it has made the time go. I set myself a task
every day, and then, you see, trying to get just so much done by twelve
o’clock, made me feel so interested!
_Fanny._ And the rest of the time you have been reading novels, I see.
_Laura._ No, indeed; I never read one in my life. Did you think this
library-book was a novel?
_Fanny._ Let me see it; “Astoria;” is not that the name of some
heroine? let me look at it a little. (_Turning over the leaves._)
_Laura._ You can’t think how interesting it is. It gives an account of
a place away on the western coast of North America; and of all that
the people suffered to get there; and about the very wildest Indians,
and the trappers, and the Rocky Mountains; and here is a map, you see,
Susan.
_Susan._ Oh, well! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose.
_Laura._ Such books will make your geography pleasanter than ever, I am
sure; do read it.
_Susan._ Not I; I have hardly touched a book or a needle this vacation,
and I have no idea of it. These long summer days are tedious enough
without that.
_Laura._ But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you were only
occupied about something or other.
_Fanny._ And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole vacation
without a bit of amusement? I must say I think there is a little
affectation in that.
_Laura._ Oh no, indeed! I do not like to sit still from morning till
night any better than you do; and mother would not let me if I did. I
have taken a long, brisk walk every day.
_Fanny._ What, alone? I hate walking alone.
_Laura._ Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes walks over the
bridge into the country with me, and we get wild flowers, and she
explains all about them; that we call going botanizing, and it makes
the walks much more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled a
common head of clover to pieces and showed me how curiously it is made
up of ever so many florets, as she calls them; and even the dandelion
is very queer.
_Susan._ And did you go botanizing in the rain too?
_Laura._ No; of course we could not stir out then.
_Susan._ Then I rather think you found the last three days as dull as
any of us.
_Fanny._ Not she, Susan. No doubt it was very pleasant to sit perched
up at the window all day, for the passers to admire her industry.
_Laura._ O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable! if you had not been
at the window so much yourself you would not have seen me.
_Fanny._ But I was not making a display of myself, with a book or a
needle forever in my hand.
_Laura._ No, Fanny; if you had been occupied, however, you would not
have been making such unkind remarks about your neighbors, would you?
Did you not observe that my mother sat at the window with me? The
reason was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the room when it
is cloudy. You know our little breakfast-room has only one window.
_Susan._ So for the last three days you have been reading and poking
your needle in and out from morning till night? Well! it would be the
death of me. (_Gaping._)
_Laura._ Why no; I tell you I do not like sitting still forever, any
more than you do; I like to use my feet every day as well as my hands,
and I presume they expect it. Too much stitching gives me a stitch in
my side; so when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shuttlecock
with father when he came home to dinner, and one day we kept it up to
five hundred and two. Then before tea I used to skip rope along the
upper entry sometimes; and then there was something else--but I suppose
Fanny will tell all the girls in school and make them laugh at me; but
I really enjoyed it best of anything.
_Fanny._ What was it? tell us, do. I hate secrets.
_Laura._ You like to find them out, I am sure; but it is no mighty
secret, after all; and I don’t know why I need be ashamed to tell, for
my father and mother made no objection. I went up into the nursery
every evening before the little ones went to bed, and played blind
man’s buff with them.
_Fanny._ And could you take any pleasure in it?
_Laura._ To be sure.
_Fanny._ Then I must say I had no idea you were such a baby. Mr.
Teachall’s best scholar playing romping games with little children! I
am six months younger than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too
much of a woman for blind man’s buff! I gave that up three years ago!
_Laura._ Well! it seemed to make the children enjoy their fun all the
better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, and did nobody any
harm; so I am content to be called a baby.
_Susan._ I don’t see how you could take the trouble; it tires me just
to think of going racing about the room at that rate. I should as soon
think of sitting down to study French for amusement.
_Fanny._ I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. I declare she
looks as if she had! Who would have thought of that?
_Laura._ I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those last lessons
were before the term ended, and I was afraid I should forget them; so
I have been reviewing the last thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep
what I had got, as she says, and make the next come easier.
_Susan._ A pretty vacation, to be sure! How upon earth did you find
time for it all?
_Laura._ Why, I don’t know. There are no more hours in my day than
there are in yours, Susan. But good-by, girls; I am going to see if
aunt Kindly has come to town again.
_Fanny._ Stop a minute, Laura; I am going shopping, and I want to know
where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean to tease my
mother for one just like it.
_Laura._ Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me
anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me.
_Fanny._ Oh ho! a present, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder
what put it into her head.
_Laura._ I believe she was pleased because, when mother was fitting
out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for them. Your
mother helped too, Susan.
_Susan._ Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed school
a single day: how _could_ you find time then?
_Laura._ I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd moment;
sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was waiting for
something or somebody, and even that helped on the work. I think that
is a great advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the needle
darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our time. Good-by; you
creep so like snails, I should think you would fall asleep. (_Exit._)
_Susan._ Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would not lead such
a life for anything.
_Fanny._ I begin to think I would, Susan! she really makes me ashamed
of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when you know your
mother is always grieving at your laziness. I have heard her tell my
mother twenty times that your indolence makes your life a burden to
you, and that she is mortified when she thinks what kind of woman you
will make.
_Susan._ It is better to be idle than to be always talking about
people, Fanny! (_Pouting._)
_Fanny._ You are incurable, I do believe; but I am not, and I am going
home this minute to find some work, and mind my own affairs.
_Susan._ Why, I thought we were going shopping!
_Fanny._ But I am not in want of anything; I was only going to kill
time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I
will lead Laura’s life a couple of days and see how I like it. I really
think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue will
not get me into so many difficulties. Good-by, Susan.
_Susan._ Good-by. Oh dear! I wonder what I shall do with myself now!
* * * * *
“In this country,” says an English editor, “it is considered the height
of folly for a man to get drunk and lie across a railroad with the idea
of obtaining repose.” The same opinion obtains to a considerable extent
in America.
Antiquities of Egypt.
Egypt is situated in the northeastern part of Africa, and very near to
Asia. The descendants of Noah first settled in the valley of the river
Euphrates, and thence they spread over the land in all directions.
Egypt is about five hundred miles westward of this valley, and being
a very fruitful country, was speedily filled with inhabitants. These
soon began to build cities, and in the space of a few centuries after
the flood, Egypt was the seat of a great and powerful empire. The
people increased with astonishing rapidity; a knowledge of various arts
was diffused among them, schools of learning were established, men
of profound science flourished, and the kings and princes built vast
cities, made artificial lakes, constructed canals, caused vast chambers
as depositories of the dead to be cut out of the solid rock, raised
mighty pyramids which still defy the tooth of time, and carried on
other great and mighty works.
Thus it was that while America was unknown; while nearly all Africa,
nearly all Europe, and more than half of Asia, were uninhabited,
except by wild beasts; and while most of the people and nations on
the globe were rude and uncivilized, the empire of Egypt contained
many millions of people who were far advanced in civilization. Thus
at the earliest period Egypt took the lead in knowledge and science,
and therefore it is called the cradle of learning. Here it was that
Homer and other celebrated Greek scholars, almost 3000 years ago,
went to school, as young men go to Cambridge and New Haven to acquire
learning now-a-days. Here it was that Moses, almost 3400 years ago,
was educated, by direction of Pharaoh’s daughter, in a very superior
manner, thus qualifying him, with the aid of Divine Providence, for the
wonderful task of leading the Jewish nation for forty years through
the wilderness of Arabia.
The history of the Jewish nation, as told in the Bible, gives us a
good deal of information about Egypt in those early days, for the Jews
were held in bondage there, and after they escaped, they settled in
Palestine, a distance of only about 250 miles from Egypt. There was
much intercourse therefore between the two nations, and the history of
one naturally runs into that of the other.
But besides this knowledge of the history of Egypt afforded by the
Bible, much other information is given by the ancient Greek and Roman
historians; in addition to all this, the remains of ancient cities
scattered along the banks of the Nile,--a famous river that runs
through Egypt,--assure us that the half has hardly been told us.
Notwithstanding the wonderful accounts of the splendor and populousness
of ancient Egypt, handed down by antiquity, the existing monuments
prove that these accounts fall short of the truth. And these remains
are not only interesting as proving this, but also because they
illustrate history, and throw much light upon the manners and customs
of the ancient Egyptians.
Among the famous ruins of Luxor, which are found on the borders of the
Nile, and which excite the wonder of every beholder by their splendor
and magnificence, are the ornaments of buildings, which consist of
carvings in marble, portraying various scenes, some relating to
history and some to domestic life. Many of these sculptures exhibit
men fighting, and therefore show how they carried on war 3500 years
ago; there are carvings of men hunting, which show how they pursued the
chase in those times. There are representations which show what kind of
carts and carriages the people had; how they harnessed their horses and
cattle; what kind of weapons they used in war; and many other things
are shown by these remains of antiquity.
But recent discoveries have developed still more curious and
interesting things. Vast chambers or rooms have been discovered, cut in
the rock beneath the ground, where it seems the people used to live.
On the walls of these chambers are paintings, which still preserve
their colors and outlines so perfectly as to be easily understood.
Here the traveller is able to study the manners and customs of ancient
Egypt: here he finds pictures telling how the people dressed; how they
cooked their food; what sort of furniture they had; how they amused
themselves; in short, how they lived, in almost every respect. And
what is curious to remark is this,--that many articles which have
been invented in modern times, appear to have been in use among these
Egyptians at least three thousand years ago. This subject is full of
interest, for by the monuments and paintings of Egypt we have, as it
were, discovered a wonderful book, that tells us a story which has been
more than half hidden for about thirty centuries.
[Illustration: _The Giraffe brought as tribute to Pharaoh._]
But there is no aspect in which these modern discoveries seem so
interesting, as in regard to the light they throw upon numerous
passages in the Bible. I will mention a few instances; the following
is one. Among the animals mentioned as illustrative of the wisdom and
power of Providence, is one called in Hebrew the Reem, a word which
literally signifies “_the tall animal_.” It is thus described in
scripture: “Will the reem be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy
crib? Canst thou bind the reem with his band in the furrow? or will he
harrow the valleys after thee? Wilt thou trust him because his strength
is great? or wilt thou leave thy labor to him? Wilt thou believe him,
that he will bring home thy seed and gather it into thy barn?” (Job
xxxix. 9-12.) Our translators have rendered the word reem, _unicorn_,
which is absurd. Some commentators assert that it is the rhinoceros,
or the buffalo, because the cognate Arabic word is sometimes applied
to a species of gazelle, and the Arabs frequently speak of oxen and
stags as one species. But neither the rhinoceros nor the buffalo can
be called a tall animal, and the analogy between them and any species
of gazelle with which we are acquainted, would be very difficult to
demonstrate. But we find upon the monuments an animal fulfilling all
the conditions of the description, and that is the giraffe, which is
represented several times among the articles of tribute brought to the
Pharaohs from the interior of Africa. The preceding sketch represents
one of these carvings.
A most interesting proof of the accuracy and fidelity of the Bible
narration is furnished by the following considerations. The artists
of Egypt, in the specimens which they have left behind, delineated
minutely every circumstance connected with their national habits and
observances from the cradle to the grave; representing with equal
fidelity the usages of the palace and the cottage,--the king surrounded
by the pomp of state, and the peasant employed in the humblest labors
of the field. In the very first mention of Egypt, we shall find the
scriptural narrative singularly illustrated and confirmed by the
monuments.
“And there was a famine in the land (of Canaan,) and Abram went down to
Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was grievous in the land. And it
came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said
unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou art a fair woman to
look upon; therefore it shall come to pass when the Egyptians shall see
thee, that they shall say, This is his wife; and they will kill me, but
they will save thee alive. Say, I pray thee, thou art my sister, that
it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because
of thee. And it came to pass, that when Abram was come into Egypt, the
Egyptians beheld the woman that she was very fair. The princes also
of Pharaoh’s house saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh, and the
woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house.” (Gen. xii. 10-15.)
[Illustration: Veiled woman]
Now let it be remembered that at present the custom for the Egyptian
women, as well as those of other eastern countries, is to veil their
faces somewhat in the manner here represented. Why then should Abram
have been so anxious because the princes of Pharaoh’s house saw his
wife Sarai? How indeed could they see her face, and discover that she
was handsome, if she had been veiled according to the custom of the
country now? The question is answered by the monuments, for here is a
representation of the manner in which a woman was dressed in Egypt in
ancient times.
[Illustration: Hieroglyph]
It seems therefore that they exposed their faces; and thus the
scripture story is shown to be agreeable to the manners and customs of
the country at the date to which the story refers. It is impossible to
bring a more striking and conclusive proof of the antiquity and minute
accuracy of the Bible record than this.
The period at which the custom of veiling the faces of women was
introduced into Egypt, was probably about 500 years before Christ,
when Cambyses, king of Persia, conquered that country. It was but
natural that the conquered country should adopt the fashions of the
conquering one, particularly as at this period Persia was an empire of
great wealth and power, and likely not only to give laws in respect to
government, but in respect to manners also. The probability, therefore,
that the Bible record was made previous to this event, even had we not
other testimony, is very strong, from the fact that it relates, in the
story of Abraham and his wife, a tale which implies a fashion which
probably never existed in Egypt after the conquests of Cambyses. How
wonderful it is, that these mute monuments, after slumbering in silence
for ages, should now be able to add their indubitable testimony to the
truth of that book, which we hold to be the Word of God!
A Drunkard’s Home.
It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences
sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees
looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a sky
so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet note, and
earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path that led to the
village school was trod by happy children, whose glowing cheeks and
merry voices testified that they partook of the general gladness.
In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed and
smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face, tattered
dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and vice. She
looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful countenance,
and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she carried, lingered
by the fence till the children were out of sight, and then, turning
into another road, proceeded to perform her usual errand to a grocery
called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning had no charm for her.
Her little heart felt none of the lightness and gayety the hearts of
children feel when nature is beautiful around them. She could not laugh
as they laughed; and as the sound of their merry voices seemed still to
linger on her ear, she wondered that she could not be as happy as they.
And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home, of the
cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her mother, of
the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had just passed,
of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often felt; she
thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just seen, and
then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was, till the
tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than ever.
Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of
intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew what made
those happy children so different from herself. She well knew that they
would spend that day in school, learning something useful, while she
would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to quiet the hungry
baby, and please the other children, while her mother was picking
cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was that very morning to carry
home something that would make her mother cross and wholly unmindful of
her destitute children.
When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there, but his
son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the counter,
playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a faltering
voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman, looking upon
her with mingled contempt and pity, said, “What does your mother
drink rum for?” Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad that the boy was
sorry for what he had said. He gave her the liquor, and tied up the
scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy heart and hasty step,
proceeded upon her way.
When she reached her dwelling--and who needs a description of a
drunkard’s dwelling?--her mother met her at the door, and hastily
snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She
then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to gather
some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed before
the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered round to
watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently baked,
they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the empty tin
remained.
The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the
house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her
mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the wants of
her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in trying to
soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just succeeded in
lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been in the meadow,
picking the cranberries which had been preserved during the winter
under the snow, and which could now be sold for a few cents a quart.
Though once a strong and active man, so degraded had he become, that
few persons were willing to employ him, and he resorted to picking
cranberries as the only means left him of obtaining what his appetite
so imperiously demanded.
On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he uttered
a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the crying child and
put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell the cranberries,
and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.
Mary put on her bonnet, and with a trembling heart commenced her walk.
On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them that, as
their father was then at home, they had better keep away from the house
till her return. She then called from door to door; but at every place
her timid inquiry, “Do you want any cranberries here?” met the same
chilling answer, “No.”
At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of them
at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the sun
had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the western
sky. She _must_ go home, and what would her father say if she returned
with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and she determined
to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her father wanted.
After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several
wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much
hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her
own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly retraced
her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the cottage.
Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring where
Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as long as
she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father would be,
if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother, regardless
of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized the jug and
drank a large part of its contents.
It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and, enraged
at seeing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary first, and
then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies of the
latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary, fearing for
the safety of herself and her brothers, crept with them into an empty
closet, where, with their arms round each other, they remained, almost
breathless with alarm, trembling at their father’s loud threats and
their mother’s fearful screams.
At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the low
groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe. The
children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some food,
before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to forget
their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a crust
of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the remainder
of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was too late to
attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the hearth, and
it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry children, with
their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves down to sleep.
In the village in which Mary’s parents lived, the wretched condition of
the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents
seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them to
abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the
temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were then
induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his address.
Whispers and significant looks passed between the acquaintances when
Thomas and his wife entered the church, and scarcely one among the
number thought they could be at all benefited by what they might hear.
But they did not see Thomas’ heart, or know what a wretched being he
felt himself to be. Through necessity, neither he nor his wife had now
tasted spirit for several days, as their means of obtaining it had
failed. The cranberries were all gathered from the meadow, and persons
of their character could not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas
knew he must take a different course, or himself and family would be
sent to the work-house. It was on account of these circumstances that
he this evening consented with his wife to attend the meeting.
When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy, wished
himself away. But by degrees he became more and more interested,
until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling down
his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his
own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so
affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind,
and he inwardly exclaimed, “I _can_ do it--I _will_ do it, if I die
in the attempt;” and at the close of the service, going boldly up to
a group of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of
his wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation
followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake
of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband’s coat as she heard her
name mentioned, and said, faintly, “Not mine, not mine, Thomas.” But
the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily over the
shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of Thomas
and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged themselves to
abstain from all use of ardent spirits.
As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober, industrious
man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had long abandoned
the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and after expressing
his satisfaction at the course he had pursued, invited him to call at
his house on his way home. After some hesitation, Thomas and Nancy
consented; the latter being exceedingly pleased at being invited again
to call on Hannah Stevens.
As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the cradle,
and glanced first at her husband, and then at his companions, with
a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded, however, to one
of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her husband said, “I have
brought you some friends, Hannah.” “Yes,” said Thomas, “and may we
henceforth merit the title.” Nancy hung down her head, as if ashamed
of the thoughts that were passing through her mind. Hannah, noticing
her appearance, feared she did not sympathize much in her husband’s
feelings. “I must encourage the poor woman,” thought she, “or her
husband will be undone. If Nancy does not encourage him by her example,
all will be lost.”
The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and while
Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah threw aside the
quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of her own, but
oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before her, in
its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind her own
pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty dress, so
seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the recollection.
Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and wishing to
increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room to see her
other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and knowing the
strength of a mother’s love, she wished to make use of this strong
principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a sense of duty.
Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment. Nancy was
evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable appearance of
her neighbor’s house, and Hannah seized this opportunity to point out
to her her dreadful neglect of duty. It was a kind, but a faithful
reproof, calculated to awaken in her bosom every feeling of a mother
that yet remained. Nancy did not leave the room until she had promised,
by her own example, to encourage her husband to return to the uniform
practice of sobriety. Thomas and his wife then took leave of their kind
neighbors.
We will leave this happy fireside, and accompany Thomas and Nancy to
their desolate home. As they approached the house, the faint cries
of the neglected baby first struck the parents’ ears. Poor Mary was
endeavoring, as usual, to quiet the little sufferer. There was no
fire upon the hearth, and no light upon the table, but the moonbeams
through the changing clouds were sufficient to reveal the gloom and
wretchedness of the drunkards’ home. Thomas and Nancy could not but
perceive the contrast between the home they had just left and their
own. It was a contrast most sad and humiliating.
Early the next morning, the first person the family saw coming down
the lane was little William Stevens. He had in his hand a basket of
potatoes, which his father had sent to Thomas Millman, with a request
that he would call at his work-shop after he had eaten his breakfast.
This unexpected present gave much joy to this destitute family, and
Mary, with her little brothers, will not soon forget how acceptable
were their roast potatoes that morning, though eaten without butter or
salt.
Thomas called, as he was requested, at William Stevens’ work-shop,
and found there a job which would employ him for a day or two. It
was joyfully and speedily undertaken, and after an industrious day’s
work, he received, at the close, a part of his wages to lay out in
food for his family. Thomas had little to struggle with this day, and
on the whole, it passed by easily and pleasantly. Not so with poor
Nancy. Having less to employ her mind than her husband, she was sorely
tempted, more than once, to send Mary to the Yellow Shop to exchange
what remained of her kind neighbor’s gift for rum. But the thought of
Hannah’s kindness, and her own promise, so solemnly made, restrained
her.
At last, the day wore by, and it was time for Thomas to return. As soon
as the children saw him enter the lane, they ran, as was their custom,
to their hiding-place; for, knowing nothing of what had recently
transpired, they expected to find him intoxicated, as usual.
“Can that be father?” whispered they to each other as they heard a
steady step and a calm voice. The youngest boy peeped out his head to
see.
“Come here, my poor boy,” said Thomas, kindly; “you needn’t be afraid;
I am not drunk.” “Oh, he isn’t drunk! he isn’t drunk!” said Jemmy,
clapping his hands in great joy; “come out, children, father won’t
hurt us.” Half faithless, half believing, the children left their
hiding-place and came around their father.
“Mother hasn’t sent you for any rum to-day, has she, Mary?” “No,
father; I hope I shall never go to that shop again.” “You never shall,
to buy rum, Mary, I promise you. Do you believe me?” Mary looked as if
she did not quite believe, but she said nothing.
* * * * *
A year has passed by since the period when our history commenced. It is
a fine morning in April, as it then was. The children of the village
are pursuing their way to school as pleasantly as they then were. But
where is the little girl, with soiled face, tattered dress, and bare
feet, that then attracted our attention? Look for one of the happiest
girls among that gay, laughing group, and you will find her. Her
dirty, tattered garments are exchanged for neat and comely ones; her
bare feet are covered with tidy shoes and stockings, and in her hand
she carries, not a tin pail, but a basket containing her school-books
and work. The scenes through which this day will carry her will be very
different from those through which she passed a year ago.
A great and blessed change has indeed come over this once wretched
family. They have left the miserable habitation which was once theirs,
and are now living upon a small but excellent farm, whose owner is not
afraid to rent it to so sober and industrious people as Thomas and
Nancy have become. Within the year, Thomas has been able to purchase
comfortable clothing for his family, decent furniture for his house,
and has besides partly paid for two yokes of oxen and four cows.
Look at Thomas at work in his field, and managing his little farm,
thriving at home and respected abroad, and say what would tempt him
to come again under the influence of his former ruinous habits? Look
at Nancy, too, superintending her dairy and supplying the wants of
her family--does she wish for a return of those days when she was the
intemperate mother of hungry, neglected children? But are there not
hundreds of mothers who _are_ at this time what she once _was_? and can
they not, will they not, be induced to become what she _now_ is?
[Illustration: Ass]
The Boastful Ass.
I can hardly tell the reason, but the fact seems to be, that the ass,
an honest and somewhat stupid animal, seems to have given rise to more
fables than any other beast, except the fox. I have already told some
fables in which this long-eared personage is made to utter a great
many wise things. I am now going to tell another fable, in which the
creature is represented as talking rather foolishly.
A man was once going along the road with an ass, whom he treated
somewhat roughly, upon which the beast first whisked his long tail,
and then groaned, and finally spoke outright. “It seems to me, sir,”
said the honest creature, “that you use me very ill, particularly as
I belong to a race of great antiquity, and one that has been honored
above all four-footed beasts!”
“Why, how’s that?” said the man.
“How’s that? indeed!” said the ass. “If you had read the Bible as much
as you should, you would remember that it was one of my ancestors which
conversed with a prophet, and stood in the presence of an angel on a
certain occasion. This is an honor which belongs exclusively to the ass
family, of which I am one, and therefore it seems meet that you should
treat me with proper respect.”
“Well done!” said the countryman; “well done! poor brute. This is ever
the way. It seems to be with asses as with men: when one has no merit
of his own, he always boasts the dignity of his family, or the virtues
of his ancestors. For my part, I know of nothing that sinks a beast
or a man lower, than to see him attempt to cover up his own vices, or
weakness, or folly, by showing off the dignity of his pedigree, or the
respectability of his connections.” Then, giving the ass a somewhat
contemptuous kick, the man passed on.
* * * * *
TRAVELLING BEEHIVES.--In Switzerland, the traveller often sees a man
trudging up the mountains with a hive of bees on his back. The people
move the bees, because they know how good change of place is for them.
This, too, is done almost everywhere in Scotland. In France, they put
their hives into a boat, some hundreds together, which floats down the
stream by night, and stops by day. The bees go out in the morning,
return in the evening, and when they are all at home, and quiet, the
boat floats on.
Architecture of Birds.
There is no topic in Natural History more curious than the architecture
of birds. In the building of nests many species are exceedingly
ingenious. The humming-bird constructs its nest of thefinest silky
down, or of cotton, or of the fibres of the flag-top that the boys call
cat-tail, or of some other similar material. Within, it is lined in
the most delicate manner with downy substances. The outside is covered
with moss, usually of the color of the bough or twig to which the nest
is attached, and giving it simply the appearance of an excrescence.
The delicacy and ingenuity of workmanship in this case, as well as the
skill displayed in the whole management of the affair, could hardly be
excelled by human art.
[Illustration: _Humming-Bird’s Nest._]
There are several species of warblers which are very skilful in the
formation of their nests, but we do not recollect to have met with
anything more remarkable in this way than the nest of a species of
grosbeak found in one of the Asiatic islands.
[Illustration: Nest of the Grosbeak.]
It is shaped somewhat like an inverted bottle, with a long neck,
through which the bird passes up to the snug and downy little chamber
above. The nest consists of soft vegetable substances, basketed and
sewed together in a very wonderful manner. But the strangest part of
the story is to come--the whole is suspended on the leaf of a plant!
How the bird could have built the nest in this position, it is not easy
to say, but we have many evidences that instinct makes that easy to
birds, which is difficult to the industry and ingenuity of mankind.
* * * * *
THE SECRET.--“Mother,” said a girl of ten years of age, “I want to know
the secret of your going away alone every night and morning.” “Why, my
dear?” “Because it must be to see some one you love very much.” “And
what leads you to think so?” “Because I have always noticed that when
you come back you appear to be more happy than usual.” “Well, suppose I
do go to see a friend I love very much, and that after seeing him, and
conversing with him, I am more happy than before, why should you wish
to know anything about it?” “Because I wish to do as you do, that I may
be happy also.”
“Well, my child, when I leave you in the morning and the evening, it is
to commune with my Savior. I go to pray to him--I ask him for his grace
to make me happy and holy--I ask him to assist me in all the duties
of the day, and especially to keep me from committing any sin against
him--and above all I ask him to have mercy on you, and save you from
the misery of those who sin against him.” “Oh, that is the secret,”
said the child; “then I must go with you.”
* * * * *
THE LOGUE FAMILY.--The crier of a country court was upon a certain
occasion required to go to the court-house door, and, as is usual in
the absence of a witness, call out for Philip Logue, one of the sons
of Erin, who was summoned in a case then pending. The man of the baton
accordingly, stepping to the door, sung out at the top of his voice,
“Philip Logue!” A wag of a lawyer happening to be passing the door at
the time, whispered in his ear, “Epilogue, also.” “Epi Logue!” sung
out the crier. “Decalogue,” said the lawyer in an under tone. “Dekky
Logue!” again sung out the crier at the top of his voice. “Apologue,”
whispered the lawyer. “Appy Logue!” reiterated the crier, at the same
time expostulating with the lawyer--“You certainly want the whole
family of the Logues!” “Prologue,” said the persevering lawyer. “Pro
Logue!” rung through the halls of the court-house, from the stentorian
lungs of the public crier, attracting the attention of everybody,
and shocking the dignitaries on the bench themselves, who, not
understanding the cause of his vociferousness, despatched the sheriff,
with all haste, to stop the constable from further summoning the family
of the Logues.
HYMN.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
When morning pours its golden rays,
O’er hill and vale, o’er earth and sea,
My heart unbidden swells in praise,
Father of light and life, to Thee!
When night, from heaven, steals darkly down,
And throws its robe o’er lawn and lea,
My saddened spirit seeks thy throne,
And bows in worship still to Thee!
If tempests sweep the angry sky,
Or sunbeams smile on flower and tree,
If joy or sorrow brim the eye--
Father in Heaven, I turn to Thee!
[Illustration: ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.]
My own Life and Adventures.
(_Continued from page 133._)
CHAPTER VIII.
_Youth a happy period.--My young days.--A summer morning.--A
day’s adventures._
It is a common remark that youth is the happiest portion of life, but,
like many other wise and deep sayings, it passes by us unheeded, till,
at some late period in the great journey, we look back upon our track,
and, by a comparison of the past with the present, are forced to feel
and confess the truth, which we have before doubted. Mankind are ever
tempted to think that there is something better before them; if they
are not happy yet, they still indulge bright expectations. They are
reluctant, even when advanced in years, to believe that the noon of
life’s joys is past; that the chill of evening is already mingling in
every breeze that feeds the breath; that there is no returning morn to
them; that the course of the sun is now only downward; and that sunset
is the final close of that day that has dawned upon them, and lighted
up a world full of hopes, and wishes, and anticipations. It is not till
the shadows, dark and defined, are creeping around us, and forcing us
to deal honestly with ourselves, that we admit the truth--that life
is made up of a series of illusions; that we are constantly pursuing
bubbles, which seem bright at a distance and allure us on to the chase,
but which fly from our pursuit, or, if reached, burst in the hand
that grasps them. It is not till we are already at the landing and
about to step into the bark that is to bear us from the shore, that we
come to the conclusion that human life is a chase, in which the game
is nothing, and the pursuit everything; and that the brightest and
best portion of this chase is found in the spring morning, when the
faculties are fresh, the fancy pure, and all nature robed in dew, and
chiming with the music of birds, and bees, and waterfalls.
It is something to have enjoyed life, even if that enjoyment may not
come again, for memory can revive the past, and at least bring back
its echoes. It is a pleasure to me, now that I am crippled and gray--a
sort of hulk driven a-wreck upon the shore, and if incapable of further
adventures upon the main, at least inaccessible to the surges that rise
and rave upon its bosom--to look out to sea--to mark the sails that
still glide over its surface--and, above all, to busy my fancy with the
incidents of my own voyage upon the great ocean of life.
I love particularly to go back to that period at which my last chapter
closed. I was then full of health, animation, and hope. As yet, my life
was tarnished with no other vices or follies than those that belong to
an ungoverned and passionate boy. My health was perfect. I can hardly
describe the elation of my heart of a spring morning. Everything gave
me delight. The adjacent mountains, robed in mist, or wreathed with
clouds, seemed like the regions of the blest. The landscape around,
tame and commonplace as it might be, was superior to the pictures
of any artist that ever laid his colors upon canvass, to my vision.
Every sound was music. The idle but joyous gabble of the geese at the
brook--the far-off cawing of the crows that skimmed the slopes of the
mountains--the multitudinous notes of jays, robins, and blackbirds
in the orchard--the lowing of cattle--the cackle of the fowls in the
barnyard--the gobble of the ostentatious turkey--were all melody to
me. No burst of harmony from an Italian orchestra, even though Rossini
composed and Paganini performed, ever touched the heart as those humble
melodies of morn, in the little village of Salem, touched mine at the
age of fifteen. At such times my bosom actually overflowed with joy. I
would sometimes shout aloud from mere pleasure; and then I would run
for no other object than the excitement of the race. At such times it
seemed almost that I could fly. There was an elasticity in my limbs
like that of a mountain deer. So exuberant was this buoyant feeling,
that in my dreams, which were then always blissful, I often dreamed of
setting out to run, and after a brief space of stepping upward into the
air, where I floated like some feather upon the breeze.
At evening, I used again to experience the same joyous gust of emotion;
and during the day, I seldom felt otherwise than happy. Considering the
quiet nature of the place in which I dwelt, my life was marked with
numerous incidents and adventures--of little moment to the world at
large, but important to a boy of my years. Saturday was, in that golden
age, a day always given up to amusement, for there was no school kept
then. A description of a single day will give a sufficient idea of my
way of life at this period.
The day we will suppose to be fine--and in fact it now seems to me that
there was no dull weather when I was a boy. Bill Keeler and myself rose
with the sun--and we must, of course, go to the mountain. For what?
Like knights of the olden time, in search of adventures. Bound to no
place, guided by no other power than our own will, we set out to see
what we could see, and find what we could find.
We took our course through a narrow vale at the foot of the mountain,
crossed by a whimpling brook, which wound with many a mazy turn amid
bordering hills, the slopes of which were covered with trees, or
consisted of smooth, open pastures. The brook was famous for trout, and
as Bill usually carried his hooks and lines, we often stopped for a
time and amused ourselves in fishing. On the present occasion, as we
were passing a basin of still water, where the gush of the rivulet was
stayed by a projecting bank, Bill saw an uncommonly large trout. He lay
in the shadow of the knoll, perfectly still, except that the feathery
fins beneath his gills fanned the water with a breath-like undulation.
I saw Bill at the instant he marked the monster of the pool. In a
moment he lifted up and waved his hand as a sign to me, and uttered a
long, low she-e-e-e! He then stepped softly backwards, and at a little
distance knelt down, to hide himself from the view of the trout. All
this time Bill was fumbling with a nervous quickness for his hook and
line. First he ran his hands into the pockets of his trowsers, seeming
to turn over a great variety of articles there; then he felt in his
coat pockets; and then he uttered two or three awkward words, which
signified much vexation.
There was Bill on his knees--it seems as if I could see him
now--evidently disappointed at not finding his hook and line. At last
he began very deliberately to unlade his pockets. First came out a
stout buck-handled knife, with one large blade, and the stump of a
smaller one. Then came a large bunch of tow, several bits of rope, a
gimblet, four or five flints, and a chestnut whistle. From the other
pocket of the trowsers he disclosed three or four bits of lead, a
screwdriver, a dough-nut, and something rolled into a wad that might
have been suspected of being a pocket-handkerchief, if Bill had ever
been seen to use one. The trowsers pockets being thus emptied, our hero
applied himself to those in the flaps of his coat. He first took out
a ball covered with deerskin, then a powder-flask and tinder-box, two
or three corks, and sundry articles difficult to name. From the other
pocket he took his stockings and shoes, for it was May, and we were
both indulging ourselves in the luxury of going barefoot--a luxury
which those only can know who have tried it.
Nothing could exceed the pitch of vexation to which Bill was worked
up, when, turning the last pocket inside out, and shaking it as if
it had been a viper, he found that he had not a hook or line about
him. Gathering up his merchandise, and thrusting the articles back
into their places, he cast about, and picking up a stone, approached
the place where the trout lay, and hurled it at him with spiteful
vengeance, exclaiming--“If I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin--I
hope I may be shot!”
“Stop, stop, Bill!” said I; “don’t be rash.”
“I say I hope I may be shot if I’m ever ketched without a fishhook
agin!--so there!” said he, hurling another stone into the brook.
“Remember what you say now, Bill!” said I.
“I will remember it,” said my companion; and though nothing more was
said of it at the time, I may as well observe now that the fellow kept
his word; for ever after I remarked that he carried a fishhook in his
hat-band, and, as he said, in fulfilment of his vow. Such was the
eccentric humor of my friend, and such the real depth of his character
and feelings, that a speech, uttered in momentary passion and seeming
thoughtlessness, clung to his mind, and never parted from him till
death. Could that poor boy have had the advantages of wise cultivation,
what a noble heart had now beat in his breast! But, alas! he was bound
to a briefer and more inglorious destiny!
We pursued our way up the valley, though loth to leave the rivulet; for
there is a fascination about running water that few can resist--there
is a beauty in it which enchants the eye--a companionship like that of
life, and which no other inanimate thing affords. And of all brooks,
this that I now describe was to me the sweetest.
After proceeding a considerable distance, the valley became narrowed
down to a rocky ravine, and the shrunken stream fretted and foamed its
way over a rugged and devious channel. At last, about half way up the
mountain, and at a considerable elevation, we reached the source of
the rivulet, which consisted of a small lake of as pure water as ever
reflected the face of heaven. It was surrounded on three sides by tall
cliffs, whose dark, shaggy forms, in contrast, gave a silver brilliancy
and beauty to the mirror-like water that lay at their feet. The other
side of the lake was bounded by a sandy lawn, of small extent, but in
the centre of which stood a lofty white-wood tree.
The objects that first presented themselves, as we approached the
lake, was a kingfisher, running over his watchman’s rattle from the
dry limb of a tree that projected over the water, by way of warning to
the tenants of the mountain that danger was near; a heron, standing
half-leg deep in the margin of the water, and seeming to be lost in
a lazy dream; a pair of harlequin ducks that were swimming near the
opposite shore; and a bald eagle, that stood upon the point of a rock
that projected a few feet out of the water near the centre of the lake.
This object particularly attracted our attention, but as we moved
toward it, it heavily unfolded its wings, pitched forward, and with a
labored beating of the air gained an elevation and sailed gloriously
away beyond the reach of sight.
Those were days of feeling, rather than speech. Neither my companion
nor myself spoke of the beauty of that scene at the time; but we felt
it deeply, and memory, to me, has kept a faithful transcript of the
scene. When the kingfisher had sounded the alarm, he slunk away, and
all was still. The morning overture of the birds had passed, for it was
now near ten o’clock. The mournful metallic note of the wood-thrush
was perchance faintly heard at intervals--the cooing of a pigeon, the
amorous wooings of the high-hole, the hollow roll of the woodpecker at
his work, might occasionally salute the ear, but all at such distance
of time and place as to give effect to the silence and repose that
marked the scene. I had my gun, but I felt no disposition to break the
spell that nature had cast on all around. The harsh noise of gunpowder
had been out of tune there and then. Bill and myself sauntered along
the border of the lake, musing and stepping lightly, as if not to
crumple a leaf or crush a twig, that might break the peace, over which
nature, like a magistrate, seemed to preside.
But as we were slowly proceeding, Bill’s piercing eye discovered a dark
object upon the white-wood or tulip tree, that stood in the sandy lawn
at some distance. He pointed to it, and both quickened our steps in
that direction. As we approached it, we perceived it to be an enormous
nest, and concluded it must be that of an eagle. As we came nearer,
the nest seemed roughly composed of large sticks, and occupying a
circumference equal to a cart-wheel. It was at the very top of the
tree, which rose to the height of sixty or seventy feet, and at least
half of that elevation was a smooth trunk without a single limb. But
Bill was an excellent climber, and it was resolved, without a council
of war, that he should ascend and see what was in the nest.
Accordingly, stripping off his coat, and clinging to the tree as if by
suction, he began to ascend. It was “hitchety hatchety up I go!” By a
process difficult to describe--a sort of insinuation, the propelling
power and working machinery of which were invisible--he soon cleared
the smooth part of the trunk, and taking hold of the branches, rose
limb by limb, till, with breathless interest, I saw him lift his head
above the nest and peer into its recess. The best expression of his
wonder was his silence. I waited, but no reply. “What is it?” said I,
incapable of enduring the suspense. No answer. “What is it, Bill--why
don’t you speak?” said I, once more. “Look!” said he, holding up a
featherless little monster, about as large as a barn-door fowl--kicking
and flapping its wings, and squealing with all its might. “Look!
there’s a pair on ’em. They’re young eagles, I’ll be bound, but I
never see such critters afore! The nest is as big as a trundle-bed,
and there’s a heap of snake-skins, and feathers, and fishes’ tails in
it; and there’s a lamb’s head here, that looks in the face like an
acquaintance--and I shouldn’t wonder if it belonged to Squire Kellogg’s
little cosset that he lost last week--the varmint!”
As Bill uttered these last words, his attention, as well my own, was
attracted by a rushing sound above, and looking up, we saw an eagle,
about a hundred yards in the air, descending like a thunderbolt
directly toward Bill’s head. The bird’s wings were close to its body,
its tail above and its head beneath, its beak open and its talons
half displayed for the blow. Entirely forgetting my gun, in my agony
of fear, I exclaimed, “Jump, Bill! for Heaven’s sake jump!” But such
was the suddenness of the proceeding, that ere I could fairly utter
the words, the formidable bird, with a fearful and vengeful scream,
swept down upon his mark. I shut my eyes in very horror. But not so
Bill Keeler; there was no taking him by surprise. As the eagle came
down, he dodged his head beneath the nest, exposing only a portion
of his person, together with the seat of his trowsers. The clash of
the eagle’s beak as he swept by, though it seemed like the clangor of
a tailor’s shears when forcibly shut, did no harm; but we cannot say
as much of the creature’s talons. One of the claws struck the part
exposed, and made an incision in the trowsers as well as the skin, of
about two inches in length.
The rent, however, was too superficial to prove mortal, nor did it
deprive Bill of his presence of mind. Taking no manner of notice of
the damage done, he cocked his eye up at the eagle, and seeing that he
was already preparing for another descent, he slid down between the
limbs of the tree with amazing dexterity, and had approached the lowest
of the branches, when again we heard the rushing sound, and saw the
infuriate bird falling like an iron wedge almost perpendicularly upon
him. Although he was full five and thirty feet from the ground, such
was my agony, that again I cried out, “Jump, Bill--for Heaven’s sake,
jump!”
Bill was a fellow to go on his own hook--particularly in a time of
imminent peril, like the present. Evidently paying no attention to me,
he cast one glance at the eagle, and leaping from the branch, came down
upon the wind. The eagle swept over him as he fell, and striking his
talons into his brimless beaver, bore it away in triumph--dropping it
however at a short distance. As Bill struck the ground on his feet, I
immediately saw that he was safe. After sitting a moment to recover his
breath, he put his hand to his head, and finding that his hat was gone,
exclaimed, “There, the critter’s got my clamshell--why didn’t you fire,
Bob?”
The hat was soon found, and after a little while Bill discovered the
success of the eagle’s first attack upon his person; but although
some blood was shed, the incident was not considered serious, and we
proceeded in our ramble.
We had not advanced far, when, on passing through some bushes near a
heap of rocks, I heard a rustling in the leaves. Turning my eye in the
direction of the sound, I saw a black snake, covered by leaves except
his head and about two feet of his body. He was directly in my path,
and, brandishing his tongue, seemed determined to oppose my progress.
Bill had my gun, but I called to him, and he soon appeared. I pointed
out the snake, but, refusing to fire, he approached the creature with
a bold front; who, seeing that he could gain nothing by his threats,
turned and fled through the leaves with amazing speed. Bill followed
upon his trail, and came up with him just as he was seeking shelter
in the crevice of a rock. He had buried about two feet of his length,
when Bill seized his tail, and, holding fast, prevented his farther
progress. We then both of us took hold and tried to pull him out--but
as he had coiled himself around the protuberances of the rock within,
he resisted all our efforts.
Bill now directed me to bend down to him a pretty stout walnut sapling
that was growing near. I complied with the command, and my companion,
taking a piece of rope from his pocket, doubled the tail of the
snake, and firmly lashed it to the top of the young tree. This being
done--“We’ll let go now,” said Bill, “and see which will hold on the
longest.” So, loosing our hold of the tree and serpent, we stood by to
see the result. The snake was so firmly tied as to render it impossible
for him to escape, and the sapling pulled with a vigor and patience
that were likely to prevail at last. We waited at the place for nearly
an hour, when the serpent slowly yielded, and the sapling jerked him
into the air. There he hung, dangling and writhing, and thrusting out
his tongue, but all to no purpose. Taking a fair aim with the gun, Bill
now fired, and cut the reptile in twain.
We pursued our ramble until late in the day, when, on our return, we
saw a gray squirrel leaping about upon the ground at some distance. The
appearance of this animal in its native woods is singularly imposing.
Its long, bushy tail imparts to it an appearance of extraordinary size,
and renders its wonderful agility a matter of surprise. In the present
instance, as the squirrel saw us from a distance, he ran to a tree,
ascended the trunk, and flew along its branches. From these it leaped
to those of another tree, seeming actually to move like a spirit of the
air. At last it reached a large oak, and disappeared in a hole in the
trunk.
Bill’s jacket was off in an instant, and almost as nimbly as the
squirrel himself he ascended to its retreat. I stood below with my
gun, ready to fire if the creature should attempt to escape. At last
Bill, peeping into the hole, and saying, in a subdued voice, “I see the
varmint!” thrust his hand into the place. It was but a moment before he
hauled him out, and holding him forth with one hand, while he held on
to the tree with the other, he exclaimed, “Fire, Bob--fire--he bites
like--like a sarpent!” Accustomed to obey orders, I immediately fired,
and the squirrel dropped dead to the ground. At the same time I saw
Bill snapping his fingers, as if some stray shot had peppered them. He
soon descended, and showed me that one of the little leaden missiles
had passed through the ball of his thumb; he only remarked, however, “I
should think, Bob, you might kill a squirrel without shooting a friend!”
Such are the adventures of a day in my youth; and such, or similar,
no doubt, have been the experiences of many a Yankee youth before.
I record them here, partly for the satisfaction of reviewing the
sweet memories of the past, and partly to point the moral of this
chapter--that youth is a portion of life to which, in after years,
we usually look back with fond regard, as the happiest, if not the
most useful, part of our existence. Let my youthful friends mark the
observation, and not be unmindful of their present privileges. Let them
enjoy their young days, with thankfulness and moderation, and not be
too sanguine of that future, which will disclose the melancholy truth
that life is a journey, which affords the cares and toils and dangers
of travel, without a resting-place. A resting-place is indeed found,
but it is only given as life ceases. While we live we are journeying;
there is no fixed habitation for man on the earth: he is an emigrant to
another country, and not a settler here. Let us, in attempting to make
our journey as cheerful as we may, still be careful that the place to
which we migrate, and where we must abide, be in a happy country.
The Humming-Birds.
These little fairies of the feathered race--the smallest of birds,
and perhaps the most brilliant--belong exclusively to our American
continent and the adjacent islands. Most of them dwell in the warm
climates, where flowers are ever in bloom, and where spring or summer
hold perpetual sway. One species alone visits our chill New England
climate--the little fellow of the ruby throat. He comes to us in May,
and makes himself familiar with our gardens and trellices, sports amid
the flowers, and holds companionship only with the “flush and the
fair.” His stay is short, for early in September he is gone to more
genial lands.
It is only in tropical countries that the several species of
humming-birds are seen in their abundance, variety, and glory. The
islands that stud the ocean between Florida and the main land of South
America, literally swarm with them. In the wild and uncultivated
parts they inhabit the magnificent forests overhung with parasitical
plants, whose blossoms hardly yield in beauty to the sparkling tints
of these tenants of the air. In the cultivated portions, they abound
in the gardens, and seem to delight in society, becoming familiar and
destitute of fear, hovering often on one side of a shrub or plant while
the fruit is plucked on the other.
[Illustration: Hummingbird]
Lively and full of energy, these winged gems are almost incessantly
in the air, darting from one object to another, and displaying their
gorgeous hues in the sunbeams. When performing a lengthened flight,
as during migration, they pass through the air in long undulations,
raising themselves to a considerable height and then falling in a
curve. When feeding on a flower, they keep themselves poised in one
position, as steadily as if suspended on a bough--making a humming
noise by the rapid motion of their wings.
In disposition, these creatures are intrepid, but, like some other
little people, they are very quarrelsome. In defending their nests,
they attack birds five times their size, and drive them off with ease.
When angry, their motions are very violent and their flight as swift
as an arrow. Often the eye is incapable of following them, and their
shrill, piercing shriek alone announces their presence.
Among the most dazzling of this brilliant tribe is the bar-tailed
humming-bird of Brazil. The tail is forked to the base, and consists of
five feathers, graduated one above another at almost equal distances.
Their color is of the richest flame, or orange red, with a dazzling
metallic burnish. The upper part of the body of the bird is golden
green; the rump is red, and the under surface of emerald green.
[Illustration: _Stokes’ Humming-Bird._]
Stokes’ humming-bird may perhaps be cited as a rival of this little gem
of beauty. The head and whole of the back is covered with scale-shaped
feathers, those on the head being brilliant blue and changing to
violet, those on the back being bright emerald green. The cheeks are
purplish green, with small pink spots. Was there ever any lass of a
fancy ball more gaily decked?
Such are a few of the species of this famous race. There are more than
a hundred kinds, all noted for their littleness and their surpassing
beauty. What a beautiful conception in the Author of nature were these
little fairies! It is as if the flowers had taken wings, and life, and
intelligence, and shared in the sports of animal life. And if we regard
their beauty--the delicacy of their feathers--their energy and power
compared with their size--if we consider the ingenious mechanism of
their structure--can we sufficiently admire the Architect who made them
and bade them go forth to add life, and beauty, and brilliancy to the
landscape, while sharing themselves in the joys of existence?
Madagascar.
On the eastern coast of Africa is one of the largest islands in the
world, called Madagascar. It is 900 miles long, and contains about
twice as much land as England, Wales, and Scotland, or three times as
much as New England. It is some five or six thousand miles southeast
of the United States, and 1800 miles northeast of the Cape of Good Hope.
[Illustration: _Conducting a person who has passed the ordeal of the
Tangena, home._]
It is separated from the continent of Africa by the channel of
Mozambique, through which vessels often pass in going to China. A
long chain of mountains, some of which are 11,000 feet or two miles
high, runs north and south through the island. In these mountains are
volcanoes, though they are not so terrible as in South America.
Madagascar is a pleasant country, and produces many fine things, among
which are sugar, honey, various fruit-trees, valuable gums, silver,
copper, and tin ore; also precious stones, together with other more
useful things, as cattle, corn, poultry, &c. The people are numerous,
and consist of several tribes or races, some resembling negroes,
others appearing like Arabs, but the greater part bearing an affinity
to the people who inhabit the islands of the Pacific Ocean. The whole
population of the island is estimated at about four millions and a
half, or about twice as much as all New England.
About twelve or fifteen years ago, a king by the name of Radama
had subjected to his sway nearly all the tribes. He encouraged the
Christian missionaries from England, by whose means a good deal of
useful knowledge was diffused, and various arts were introduced among
the people. Had his reign continued, it is probable that all the tribes
would have been formed into one well organized and well governed
nation, among whom civilization might have made rapid advances. But,
unfortunately, Radama was poisoned by his queen, and since that time,
though the people are considered as forming one kingdom, they are
in a very disturbed and dismembered state. Many of them are little
better than savages, and indeed all the people are slaves of the most
degrading superstitions. One of the most remarkable customs is that
of trial by the _Tangena_, a poisonous nut, that is given to persons
suspected of any crime. The people are great believers in witchcraft,
and if any one in a family is taken sick, it frequently happens that
some of the members are accused of causing the illness by witchcraft,
and the tangena is therefore given to them. It appears that the poison,
when thoroughly administered, causes the most excruciating pains, and
is almost certain death. If the person has a very strong constitution,
or if he can bribe the officer who administers it to give a weak
dose, he sometimes escapes; but in most cases it is fatal. There is
a vast deal of pompous ceremony attending these trials: there is a
sort of prayer or incantation before the dose is given, and during
its operation, an appeal to the invisible power to punish crime, or
vindicate innocence, as the case may be--though, in point of fact, the
whole system seems to be one of trick, practised by a few artful and
designing men.
If the person resists the effect of the poison, which rarely happens,
he is taken to his house in great state, a procession being formed
like that which is represented in the engraving. It appears from the
accounts of the missionaries who have visited the island, that the
practice of the tangena is so extensive as actually to diminish the
population of the island; and what is remarkable is this, that the
people seem to take a great interest in these trials, and actually
encourage them, seeming to have great delight in them. It is indeed
a fact that cannot be disputed, that in all nations not softened and
civilized by the influence of Christianity, mercy seems to be unknown,
and cruelty affords only a pleasing excitement.
* * * * *
“The clock upbraids us with the waste of time.”
A Philosophical Tea-pot.
_Anne._ Mother, why do you not use that pretty tea-pot that grandmother
gave you?
_Mother._ Why, my dear, do you not remember that the nose is half burnt
off?
_A._ Well, mamma, suppose it is--it does not look very badly, and you
have always told me that as long as things were useful, we must not put
them aside.
_M._ But it is not useful, Anne; that is the only reason why I have set
it up on the high shelf.
_A._ I do not see why it is not useful, I am sure. I think, mamma, you
might as well put away my little spade because the handle is broken off
at the top, or John’s kite because the wind has taken off a piece of
the tail!
_M._ Well, my dear, this sounds very well; but let us consider the
matter a little. Of what use is a tea-pot?
_A._ Why, to hold tea, I suppose!
_M._ Well, what is tea--a solid body?
_A._ Oh no; it is what my book of natural philosophy would call a
liquid. Oh, that book is very interesting; wait a minute while I get
it, mamma--here it is!
_M._ What is one of the properties of liquids?
_A._ Let me see--oh, here I have it. Liquids always tend to an
equilibrium.
_M._ Do you understand what that means, my dear?
_A._ Yes; my mistress explained it to me the other morning. Water or
any other liquid always seeks a level; that is, if water is put into a
bowl, it will be equally as high on one side as on the other. If the
bowl stands uneven, the liquid will still be perfectly level.
_M._ A very good explanation, Anne. But now to the proof. Can you tell
me why, on this principle, my tea-pot is of no use now the spout is
broken?
_A._ Let me see--no, I cannot understand why it is so. The tea-pot
itself is good, and you can fill it just the same as ever!
_M._ Ah! but can you fill it? that is the question.
_A._ Why, mamma, how absurd it would be to suppose I could not fill it!
But let me try; there is nothing like trying, after all. (_She brings
the tea-pot._) Here it is, poor neglected thing. Indeed, I do not see
why I cannot fill it, unless there are holes in the bottom or sides.
_M._ No, I believe it is sound in those respects. But come, here is
some water; try it. But first get the waiter--I do not want my table
wet.
_A._ Oh! never fear, mamma; I will not spill it. (_Pouring the water
into the tea-pot._) There, there, mamma, you see I have got it half
full already. But dear me, how’s this? I declare, the water is running
out of the nose as fast as I pour it in! Why, what does it mean?
_M._ Just think, my dear, of what your philosophy says about liquids,
and you will immediately see why the water runs out of the nose. How
high does the water remain in the tea-pot?
_A._ Just as high as the top of the nose. Ah! I see now; that is the
level of the water, and it can go no higher in the body of the tea-pot
than it does in the nose. Wonderful! Then, mamma, it must be that it is
necessary to have the nose as high as the top of the tea-pot. Oh! now
I understand perfectly why this is of no use. Thank you, mamma; I like
these practical lessons in philosophy. But I am ashamed that I did not
understand it at once.
_M._ This shows you, my dear Anne, that it is not only necessary to
have knowledge, but that it is nearly useless when it is not applied
properly. Hereafter, I hope you will think a little when you study.
_A._ Ah, mamma, I think I shall come to you when I am puzzled; you
explain things so charmingly--better than all the philosophy books in
the world!
_M._ Well, my dear, come to me after you have tried hard yourself to
understand the subject you are studying, and I shall think my time
well spent in simplifying the matter to you. I used to be very fond of
philosophy when I was of your age, because my aunt kindly illustrated
some of the most difficult principles in such a manner as to make me
perfectly understand them. The lesson I have just given you is one she
taught me thirty years ago.
[Illustration: Man on horseback]
Astonishing Powers of the Horse.
The following story, showing what exertion the horse is capable of
undergoing, would be almost incredible, were it not well authenticated.
Many years ago, a violent gale of wind setting in from north-northwest,
a vessel in the road at the Cape of Good Hope dragged her anchors, was
forced on the rocks, and bilged; and while the greater part of the crew
fell an immediate sacrifice to the waves, the remainder were seen from
the shore, struggling for their lives, by clinging to the different
pieces of the wreck. The sea ran dreadfully high, and broke over the
sailors with such amazing fury, that no boat whatever could venture off
to their assistance.
Meanwhile, a planter, considerably advanced in life, had come on
horseback from his farm to be a spectator of the shipwreck. His heart
was melted at the sight of the unhappy seamen, and knowing the bold and
enterprising spirit of his horse, and his particular excellence as a
swimmer, he instantly determined to make a desperate effort for their
deliverance.
He alighted and blew a little brandy into his horse’s nostrils, when,
again seating himself in the saddle, he instantly pushed into the midst
of the breakers. At first both disappeared, but it was not long before
they floated on the surface and swam up to the wreck; when, taking with
him two men, each of whom held by one of his boots, the planter brought
them safe to shore.
This perilous expedition he repeated seven times, and saved fourteen
lives. But on his return the eighth time, his horse being much
fatigued, and meeting a most formidable wave, he lost his balance, and
was overwhelmed in a moment. The horse swam safely to the shore, but
his gallant rider was no more!
The Moon.
It is night! The stars are so distant that they seem to be very small;
but the moon, though really less than the stars, is nearer, and
therefore appears to be larger.
It is a very interesting object, and is even more talked about than
the sun. At one time it seems like a silver bow, hung in the west It
increases in size, till it looks like a large bowl. It grows larger and
larger, till it is quite round, and is then fancied by some people to
resemble a mighty green cheese.
The moon does not shine at all times. Even when it is in the sky above
us, it gives no light during the day, for the sun is so much brighter,
that it appears quite dim. And often at night it is hidden behind the
earth, and gives us no light.
But when it does shine at night, it is indeed beautiful. We cannot look
at the sun with the naked eye, for it is too bright. But we can look at
the moon, and though it seems almost like a ball of melted metal, yet
we can see figures upon it.
Some persons imagine, that they can see the face of a man in the moon,
and others that they can spy the figure of a crooked old woman. But
those who have looked at it with telescopes, tell us, that it is a
world, with mountains, and rivers, and valleys upon its surface. There
is very little doubt that animals and people live upon it.
Would it not be pleasant, if we could sail through the air, and go up
to the moon, and come back and tell the people of this world what sort
of place the moon is, and what kind of folks the _moonites_ are?
But this cannot be. We may travel by railroads over the land, and by
ships across the waters of this world, but we have no ladder long
enough to reach to other worlds. We must therefore, for the present,
stay where we are and be content.
But I was talking of the moon. Can you tell me why a dog will often
bark at it almost all night? If you can, you can do more than any one
else.
But you may ask what good the moon does to us. In the first place, it
is very beautiful, and gives us great pleasure. It is also useful, as
it frequently shines at night, and seems to relieve us partly from the
darkness. The landscape is often charming when viewed by moonlight, and
water never looks so lovely as when the moon is shining upon it.
Beside this, the moon causes that ebbing and flowing of the ocean
called the tides. These keep it from being stagnant and prevent its
becoming putrid. Were it not for the moon, the whole ocean would be
unfit for the fishes that live in it, and they would all die. Men and
beasts, too, would also perish from the unhealthiness of the land, were
not the sea kept pure by the tides.
Importance of Attention:
A DIALOGUE.
_Charles sitting with his book in his hand; his mother at
work._
_Charles._ Mother! is it almost school-time?
_Mother._ No; you have full half an hour.
_Charles._ Only half an hour? Will you hear me try to say this lesson
again?
_Mother._ No, for I am sure you will say it no better than before.
_Charles._ Why, mother?
_Mother._ Because you have not been studying. I have been looking at
you from time to time, and have scarcely seen your eyes fixed once on
your book.
_Charles._ I was only watching Jerry, for fear he would weed up my
young balsams.
_Mother._ I fancy Jerry knows what he is about.
_Charles._ Well; I _will_ study now.
_Mother._ Do you generally whistle when you study, Charles?
_Charles._ Was I whistling?
_Mother._ Yes, and with your eyes fixed on my canary bird.
_Charles._ Well, mother, I can’t help it. This is the hardest and
stupidest lesson that ever was.
_Mother._ And yet you told me your cousin Richard learned it,
yesterday, in twenty minutes.
_Charles._ Then it is I that am stupid, I suppose.
_Mother._ I rather think not. I believe your memory is as good as
Richard’s.
_Charles._ Oh, mother! he always learns his lessons quicker than I do.
_Mother._ And does that prove that his memory is better?
_Charles._ To be sure it does.
_Mother._ When you are at play, does he remember things better than you
do?
_Charles._ Why, no, I believe not.
_Mother._ Did not you tell us as much about the lecture the other
night, when you came home, as he did?
_Charles._ Yes, and more too; father said I did.
_Mother._ That required memory certainly. I do not think you have any
right to lay blame on any natural defect.
_Charles._ Oh, I did not mean to say that; but all I know is that
Richard gets his lessons quicker than I do; and what can the reason be?
He is not three weeks older than I am, and don’t seem a bit cleverer
than I am about other things.
_Mother._ Did you ever happen to sit near him, when he was studying?
_Charles._ Yes, that I have, and I would rather sit next any boy in
school.
_Mother._ Why?
_Charles._ Oh, I don’t know; there’s no comfort in it. He is as dumpy
and cross over his books as a dog with a bone. He won’t let anybody
speak to him.
_Mother._ What, not to ask a reasonable question?
_Charles._ Oh! as to that, he helps me sometimes, when I get stuck; he
is always good-natured enough about that; but what I mean is, if I ask
him to look at anything funny, or want to talk to him about any of our
plays, a minute, he says I disturb him, and take off his attention;
and if I go on, just to fidget him a little, he takes up his books and
marches off somewhere else.
_Mother._ He complains that you take off his attention, does he?
_Charles._ Yes, mother; is not that cross in him?
_Mother._ Richard has learned a very important secret, I see.
_Charles._ A secret? What? one that helps him get his lessons?
_Mother._ Yes.
_Charles._ I wish poor _I_ could find it out.
_Mother._ I can tell it to you in one word which you used just now. It
is as good as “Open Sesame” in the play of the Forty Thieves which you
read the other day.
_Charles._ What can it be?
_Mother._ Attention--Charles--attention! that will open the door of
your mind and let the lesson in.
_Charles._ Oh dear! I wish bawling the word out aloud would answer the
purpose.
_Mother._ I cannot say that it will, so my comparison is not a good
one; but I wished to fix your _attention_, so I referred to something
that had amused you. But, in good earnest, Charles, the only reason why
Richard learns quicker than you do is, that he never allows himself to
think of anything else while he is getting his lesson. You speak of
yourself as studying as long as you are holding the book in your hand,
though in fact you are not studying one quarter of the time. What is
studying, Charles?
_Charles._ Trying to fix something in my mind.
_Mother._ Very good; a better answer than I expected. Now, were you
trying to fix your lesson in your mind while you were watching Jerry?
or while you were scratching with your pencil on that window-seat? or
whistling to my canary bird?
_Charles._ No, indeed.
_Mother._ Yet during the three quarters of an hour you have sat at
the window, with a book in your hand, these have been your principal
employments. Once or twice you began to read the lesson over to
yourself, but something would draw off your _attention_ in the midst;
your thoughts were gone from it in an instant; the slight impression
it had made was effaced; and when you returned to your task, you were
just where you had been ten minutes before. Yet at nine o’clock you
would jump up in dismay, exclaiming, “There, I have been studying this
plaguy lesson more than an hour, and I can’t say it yet. Is it not
enough to discourage a body, mother?”
_Charles_, (_laughing._) That’s just my whine, mother; but the plain
truth of the matter is, I do get discouraged. I don’t see any use in
working so hard.
_Mother._ But you would not have to work so hard--or at least not near
so long, if you would go to work in the right way.
_Charles._ But it is the working at all that I object to, mother. I
don’t know but I might like study better if I could see any use in it;
but as long as I can read and write, I shan’t look like a fool; and
what is the use of cracking my brains about anything more?
_Mother._ I should be very sorry to have you crack your brains with
study, Charles. Do you feel as if there were any danger of it?
_Charles._ Why no, not exactly. But why need I study?
_Mother._ You cannot conceive of any pleasure in acquiring knowledge,
then?
_Charles._ Oh, yes; I like to know all I can by reading interesting
books; I like to read some histories, and biographies, and travels.
That all comes very easy; that is amusement.
_Mother._ Are you sure that while skimming books in this manner, for
amusement, you are really laying up much knowledge that you can make
useful? Do you ever stop to reflect upon it and arrange it?--or is it
all jumbled together in your mind? Have you never made strange blunders
in talking about the very books you had read?
_Charles._ Why, yes, I must own that I have; and I have got laughed at,
sometimes.
_Mother._ That is only one of the evils to which you will be exposed
by being superficial. My dear, you cannot get along even respectably
in well-informed society without disciplining your mind to habits of
attention and reflection; and one great advantage of youthful study is,
that it does so discipline the mind.
_Charles._ Well, you and father talk about “habits of the mind,”
and “disciplining the mind,” and tell me to leave off this habit of
thinking, and that habit of not thinking, just as you tell me to cure
myself of twirling this button on my jacket!
_Mother._ And don’t you understand what we mean?
_Charles._ Oh yes, I see the sense of it.
_Mother._ And do not you think that with perseverance you can
accomplish what we wish? You do not mean to tell us that you cannot
manage your own mind?
_Charles._ But it is so hard! And to go back to this matter of study,
mother; when I talked to sister Ellen about it, yesterday, she said
that if I did not study I never could be a lawyer, or a minister, or
a doctor, or a merchant, or anything of the sort. Now why need I be
either?
_Mother._ What would you like to be?
_Charles._ Just a gentleman.
_Mother._ An idle gentleman?
_Charles._ No, not an idle one. I should like to pass my time in
reading and accomplishments.
_Mother._ What accomplishments do you mean?
_Charles._ Music and drawing; is not that what people mean by
accomplishments?
_Mother._ But are you not aware that it requires study and close
attention to master these little matters of music and drawing,
particularly for those who have not an uncommon taste for them?
_Charles._ Does it? Well, then I would let the music and drawing alone.
I dare say I should find some way of passing my time.
_Mother._ My son, I fear you would indeed, if we could cruelly permit
you to enter on life devoid of some of its best resources against the
temptations that beset the idle. A young man, in the situation which
you have just described, would be almost certain to seek occupation and
excitement from drinking and cards. The strongest religious principles
might save him, but the conflict would be terrible,--the result
doubtful; and I cannot think of the danger without tears.
_Charles._ Dear mother, you do not think I should ever be a wicked man,
do you?
_Mother._ I cannot tell. I cannot bear to think of it. We will talk of
another part of this subject; for it is very necessary that I should.
All this while, you have said nothing of the way in which you are to be
supported in the easy life you propose.
_Charles._ Supported? what am I to live on? On my fortune.
_Mother._ And where is it?
_Charles._ Ah, I have none now; but then there is father so rich, and
only Ellen and I. Of course, he won’t leave his money to anybody else,
will he?
_Mother._ How can you be sure that he will not leave it to an hospital?
You know he has given much to public charities.
_Charles._ Ah, mother, you know he will not neglect _us_!
_Mother._ Stranger things have happened; but, however, I do not think
it at all likely that you will lose your fortune in that way. But why
should you so entirely forget the passage of scripture--“Riches take
to themselves wings?” Ought you not to be prepared with some way of
supporting yourself, supposing that text should be verified in your
case?
_Charles._ But, somehow or other, I don’t believe it will be.
_Mother._ That is a blind, boyish belief to rest upon. How do you know
that your father is now rich?
_Charles._ Why, all the boys in school say he is one of the richest
men in the city. And then, mother, have we not always lived like rich
people?
_Mother._ That may be a sign that we always have been rich, but not
that we shall be--not that we are, Charles!
_Charles._ I don’t understand you, mother.
_Mother._ I must make you comprehend me, my dear boy. Your father
told me I must talk with you to-day, and I intended to wait till you
returned, at night; but this is a better opportunity. Have you not seen
that your father has been more taken up with his business than usual,
for some weeks past? Have you not observed that he was very thoughtful?
_Charles._ Yes, mother; at least, I did after Ellen mentioned it to me,
for she observes more than I do. What is the matter?
_Mother._ Your father will fail to-morrow, Charles.
_Charles._ Fail! and what is failing, mother? I hear people talk about
failing, and say “such a man has failed,” and I know it is something
bad; but what is it?
_Mother._ It is when a man owes more money than he can pay, and gives
up all his property to be divided among his creditors.
_Charles._ And is that what has happened to father? And will he give up
everything he has in the world? That is very bad.
_Mother._ Certainly. He would not have any man lose a cent of money on
his account. Would you wish that he should wrong those who trusted him?
_Charles._ Oh no! I should rather study from morning till night, if
that would do any good.
_Mother._ You perceive, Charles, that it will be necessary for you
to get your mind into right habits of attention; for you will have to
support yourself, at least. It is even possible that your parents, in
their old age, may require some assistance from you. Your father can
hardly hope to acquire even a moderate fortune again, before he will be
an old man.
_Charles._ Oh, mother! it almost makes my head ache to think of all
this, for I don’t seem to understand yet that it is really so, though I
try with all my might to--to--
_Mother._ Realize it?
_Charles._ Yes, that is the word I was after. And what did you do, when
father told you about it, mother? Did you not cry?
_Mother._ I did, when I was alone, Charles; for I have lived in
this house ever since I was married, and I love it; and I love the
furniture, which my parents gave me;--but it must all be sold.
_Charles._ Why, where shall we live?
_Mother._ In a small house of mine at the south-end, where your nurse
used to live. But I shed more tears at first about you and Ellen. We
cannot afford to educate you as we intended.
_Charles._ And there was I complaining this very morning about having
to study!
_Mother._ Your thoughtless words made my heart ache, Charles!
_Charles._ If I have to get my living, why cannot I be a lawyer?
_Mother._ Your father cannot send you to college; your studies must
all be directed towards preparing to enter a counting-room as soon as
possible. Your father’s mercantile friends respect him, for striving to
pay all his debts, and they will help you. But, Charles, you will find
it necessary to give your most earnest _attention_ to your new pursuits.
_Charles._ That I will, mother! I will find out how cousin Richard
manages his mind. Attention! yes, indeed I will. I shall think of
nothing now but what I ought. I shall never waste my time again.
_Mother._ You promise confidently, Charles; and in truth I shall shed
fewer tears, if I find this change in our situation may benefit my
beloved son’s character. It was too plain that the expectation of a
fortune from your father was injuring you. Wipe your eyes, Charles,
and go to school. Your quarter will close next Saturday, and then we
must take you from that expensive school. But wherever you go, I think
you will find that study--real study--will make difficult things soon
become easy; and there will be a pleasure in it you have never known,
while holding your book indolently with a wandering mind.
[Illustration: Horse bells fable]
The Horse and the Bells,
A FABLE.
A wagoner, whose business it was to transport goods from one town to
another, had a fine horse, upon whose saddle he was accustomed to
carry several bells, which kept up a cheerful jingling as he trudged
along the road. The horse got used to these bells, and was so much
pleased with them, that he seemed dull and out of spirits when, for
some reason, they were left off. The wagoner, perceiving that his
horse did not work so well without the bells, restored them to their
place, remarking, that his horse was like himself--he liked music and
merriment, and even hard work came more easy for a little recreation by
the way.
There was much truth and good sense in the observation of the wagoner.
“All work and no play,” says the proverb, “makes Jack a dull boy.”
It is right and proper that we should devote some part of our time
to amusement, for by this means we are cheered and enlivened, and
qualified to engage in our severer duties with good effect. But we
should be careful of two points: first, that we choose innocent
amusements, and second, that we do not permit our recreations so far
to engross our thoughts or our time, as to interfere with the sober
business of life.
[Illustration: Stork]
The Crane Family.
I am not going to talk of Ichabod Crane, or Jeremiah Crane, or of
their wives or families. I shall leave these respectable people for
the present, and say a few words about certain long-legged birds which
are very interesting, though not very familiarly known to most of us.
The storks and cranes are so nearly alike that they might seem to
be cousins. They have both enormously long legs and bills, and seem
particularly well fitted to wading in the water--a thing they can do
without rolling up their pantaloons. Look at this tall fellow at the
head of this article, and tell me if he need be afraid of wetting his
clothes by taking a ramble in a brook.
The engraving represents a crane. Let me first say a few words of his
cousin stork. This bird, that is spoken of in the Bible as one that
“knoweth her appointed time,” is not found among us, but it is well
known in some parts of Europe. In Holland, it arrives in small bands
or flocks, about the first of April, and universally meets with a
kind and welcome reception from the inhabitants. Returning year after
year to the same town, and the same chimney-top, it reoccupies its
deserted nest; and the gladness these birds manifest in again taking
possession of their dwelling, and the attachment they testify towards
their benevolent hosts, are familiar in the mouths of every one. Nor is
the stork less remarkable for its affection towards its young; and the
story is well known of a female bird, which, during the conflagration
at Delft, chose rather to perish with her young than abandon them to
their fate. Incubation and the rearing of the young being over by
August, the stork, in the early part of that month, prepares for its
departure. The north of Africa, and especially Egypt, are the places of
its winter sojourning, for there the marshes are unfrozen, its food is
in abundance, and the climate is congenial. Previous to setting out on
their airy journey, multitudes assemble from the surrounding districts,
chattering with their bills as if in consultation. On the appointed
night, a period which appears to be universally chosen by the migratory
tribes, they mount into the higher regions of the air, and sail away
southwards to their destined haven.
The nest of the stork is formed of twigs and sticks, and the eggs, from
three to five in number, and nearly as large as those of a goose, are
of a yellowish white. Of the countless multitudes in which the stork
assembles in order to perform its periodical migrations, some idea may
be entertained from Dr. Shaw’s account of the flocks which he witnessed
leaving Egypt and passing over Mount Carmel, each of which was half a
mile in breadth, and occupied a space of three hours in passing. When
reposing, the stork stands upon one leg, with the neck bent backwards,
and the head resting between the shoulders. Such also is its attitude
when watching for its prey. Its motions are stately, and it stalks
along with slow and measured steps. Its plumage is pure white.
The cranes bear a close resemblance to the white stork, which we
have been describing, but become even more familiar in some of the
countries they inhabit, and, in consequence of their larger size,
render more essential service in the removal of carrion, offal, and
other nuisances. This important office they share with the vultures,
and, like those birds, are universally privileged from all annoyance,
in return for so meritorious an exertion of their natural propensities.
They seem to be constantly attracted by the heaps of offensive
substances collected in the villages and towns, which they devour
without scruple, and in immense quantities.
The adjutant arrives in Bengal, in India, before the rainy season.
Its gape is enormous, and its voracity astonishing; not that it is
ferocious towards man; quite the contrary, for it is peaceable, and
even timid; but small quadrupeds are swallowed without any scruple. In
the stomach of one, as Latham states, were found a land tortoise ten
inches long, and a large black cat entire.
Of the African Marabou Crane, the voracious and omniverous
propensities are attested by Major Denham; carrion, reptiles, and small
quadrupeds are swallowed at a bolt, with indiscriminate voracity.
Smeatham, who resided at Sierra Leone, has given an interesting account
of this bird. He observes that the adult bird will often measure seven
feet; and that the head, covered with white down thinly dispersed, is
not unlike that of a gray-headed man. It associates in flocks, which,
when seen at a distance, near the mouths of rivers, coming towards an
observer, with their wings extended, as they often do, may readily be
mistaken for canoes on a smooth sea. “One of these, a young bird, about
five feet high, was brought up tame, and presented to the chief of
the Bananas, where Mr. Smeatham lived; and being accustomed to be fed
in the great hall, soon became familiar; duly attending that place at
dinner-time, and placing itself behind its master’s chair, frequently
before the guests entered. The servants were obliged to watch narrowly
and to defend the provisions with switches, but, notwithstanding, it
would frequently snatch something or other, and once purloined a whole
boiled fowl, which it swallowed in an instant. Its courage is not
equal to its voracity; for a child of ten years soon puts it to flight
with a switch, though it seems at first to stand on its defence, by
threatening with its enormous bill widely extended, and roaring with a
loud voice, like a bear or tiger. It is an enemy to small quadrupeds,
as well as birds and reptiles, and slyly destroys fowls and chickens.
Everything is swallowed whole, and so accommodating is its throat, that
not only an animal as big as a cat is gulped down, but a shin of beef
broken asunder serves it but for two morsels. It has been known to
swallow a leg of mutton of five or six pounds, a hare, and also a small
fox.”
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
(_Continued from page 144._)
CHAPTER III.
_The West Indies continued.--Columbus discovers the Antilles.--
Cannibalism reported.--Appearance of the people.--Their
origin.--Arts.--Customs.--Character.--Their extermination._
Columbus discovered the islands of the Caribs during his second voyage
to America, in 1493. The first island he saw he named Dominico, because
he discovered it on Sunday. As the ships gently moved onward, other
islands rose to sight, one after another, covered with forests, and
enlivened with flights of parrots and other tropical birds, while the
whole air was sweetened by the fragrance of the breezes which passed
over them.
This beautiful cluster of islands is called the Antilles. They extend
from the eastern end of Porto Rico to the coast of Paria on the
southern continent, forming a kind of barrier between the main ocean
and the Caribbean sea;--here was the country of the Caribs. Columbus
had heard of the Caribs during his stay at Hayti and Cuba, at the
time of his first voyage. The timid and indolent race of Indians in
those pleasant islands were mortally afraid of the Caribs, and had
repeatedly besought Columbus to assist them in overcoming these their
ferocious enemies. The Caribs were represented as terrible warriors,
and cruel cannibals, who roasted and eat their captives. This the
gentle Haytians thought, truly enough, was a good pretext for warning
the Christians against such foes. Columbus did not at first imagine the
beautiful paradise he saw, as he sailed onward among these green and
spicy islands, could be the residence of cruel men; but on landing at
Guadaloupe he soon became convinced he was truly in a Golgotha, a place
of skulls. He there saw human limbs hanging in the houses as if curing
for provisions, and some even roasting at the fire for food. He knew
then that he was in the country of the Caribs.
On touching at the island of Montserrat, Columbus was informed that
the Caribs had eaten up all the inhabitants. If that had been true, it
seems strange how he obtained his information.
It is probable many of these stories were exaggerations. The Caribs
were a warlike people, in many respects essentially differing in
character from the natives of the other West India Islands. They
were enterprising as well as ferocious, and frequently made roving
expeditions in their canoes to the distance of one hundred and fifty
leagues, invading the islands, ravaging the villages, making slaves of
the youngest and handsomest females, and carrying off the men to be
killed and eaten.
These things were bad enough, and it is not strange report should make
them more terrible than the reality. The Caribs also gave the Spaniards
more trouble than did the effeminate natives of the other islands. They
fought their invaders desperately. In some cases the women showed as
much bravery as the men. At Santa Cruz the females plied their bows
with such vigor, that one of them sent an arrow through a Spanish
buckler, and wounded the soldier who bore it.
There have been many speculations respecting the origin of the
Caribs. That they were a different race from the inhabitants of the
other islands, is generally acknowledged. They also differed from
the Indians of Mexico and Peru; though some writers think they were
culprits banished either from the continent or the large islands, and
thus a difference of situation might have produced a difference of
manners. Others think they were descended from some civilized people
of Europe or Africa. There is no difficulty attending the belief that
a Carthaginian or Ph[oe]nician vessel might have been overtaken by a
storm, and blown about by the gales, till it entered the current of the
trade-winds, when it would have been easily carried to the West Indies.
If they had no women with them, they might have discovered the large
islands or the continent, and procured wives from them. In process
of time, their numbers might have increased so as to form the scanty
population of St. Vincent, Martinico, Guadaloupe, Dominica, and other
small islands where the Caribs were settled.
The Caribs had as many of the arts as were necessary to live at ease
in that luxurious climate. They knew how to build their _carbets_
or houses; how to make their boats, baskets, arms, hammocks, and to
prepare their provisions.
The hammocks of the Caribs strengthens the supposition that they were
descended from some maritime adventurers. They were made of coarse
cotton cloth, six or seven feet long, and twelve or fourteen wide; each
end was ornamented with cords, which they called ribands; these were
more than two feet long, twisted, and well made. All the cords at each
end were joined together, and formed loops, through which a long rope
was inserted, in order to fasten the hammocks to the posts at the side
of the house, and to support the persons within them. These hammocks
were woven by the women, entirely by hand labor, as they had no looms,
and was a very tedious process. But when completed, and painted red, as
was the usual fashion, they were very strong, and quite ornamental in
their carbets.
[Illustration: _Carib Carbet._]
The carbet is thus described by a French missionary: “The Carib
dwelling I entered was about sixty feet long and twenty-four wide. The
posts on which it was erected were rough and forked, and the shortest
of them about nine feet above the ground; the others were proportioned
to the height of the roof. The windward end was enclosed with a kind
of wicker-work of split flags; the roof was covered with the leaves of
the wild plantain, which here grows very large; the laths were made
of reeds. The end of the carbet which was covered had a doorway for a
passage to the kitchen; the other end was nearly all open. Ten paces
from the great carbet was another building, about half the size of the
large one, which was divided by a reed partition. The first room was
the kitchen; here six or eight females were employed in making cassada.
The second room was for a sleeping apartment for such of the women and
children as were not accommodated in the great carbet.
“All the rooms were furnished with hammocks and baskets. The men
had their weapons in the great carbet. Some of the men were making
baskets--two women were making a hammock. There were many bows, arrows,
and clubs attached to the rafters. The floor was smooth and clean; it
was made of well-beaten earth, and sloped towards the side. There was
a good fire, about one third the length of the carbet, round which a
number of Caribs were squatted on their haunches. They were smoking and
waiting till some fish were roasted, and made their salutations to me
without rising.”
The Caribs were hunters and fishermen. Their food was much better
cooked than that of the Indians of the northern continent, who lived by
the chase and fishing, though to us it would not appear very refined.
Their meat and small birds they stuck on a kind of wooden spit, which
was fixed in the ground before the fire, and they turned it, till all
the slices of meat or the birds were roasted.
This was quite a civilized method of management compared with their
treatment of the large birds, such as parrots, pigeons, &c. These they
threw on the fire, without picking or dressing them, and when the
feathers were burnt, they raked the bird up in the cinders till it
was done. On taking it from the ashes, the crust formed by the burnt
feathers peeled off, and the bird was perfectly clean and delicate. It
is said this manner of roasting was much approved by the Europeans who
had an opportunity of trying it.
The Caribs usually spread two tables at their meals; on one was placed
their bread, (cassada,) on the other the fish, fowls, crabs and
pimentado. This pimentado was made of the juice of manioc, boiled, a
quantity of pimento, and the juice of lemon or some other acid. It was
their favorite sauce; they used it with all their meats, but they made
it so hot that nobody but themselves could eat it. A favorite dish with
them was stewed crabs. None of their food was eaten raw; in general
their taste seemed inclined to overdone and high-seasoned dishes.
The manioc, from which the cassada is made, was a great article of food
among the Caribs. The ordinary size of the roots is equal to that of
the beet; they are of the consistency of parsnips, and commonly ripen
in about eight months.
The manioc was planted in trenches, about two feet and a half apart,
and six inches deep. It was necessary to keep the plant free from
weeds. When ripe, the shrub and roots were all dug up together, like
potatoes. When the roots were taken up, the bark or skin was scraped
off, just as parsnips are scraped; then they were washed clean and
grated fine, something like horseradish. Then the grated mass was put
into a strainer of split flags, or the bark of a tree.
The strainer was six or seven feet long, and four or five inches in
diameter. It was woven something like a cotton stocking, in order
that it might be expanded to receive the manioc, and contract for
the purpose of expressing the juice. When filled, it was hung on the
limb of a tree, with a basket of stones fastened to the bottom, which
gradually forced out the juice of the manioc, which is of a poisonous
quality unless it is boiled.
[Illustration: _Caribs preparing Manioc._]
When the manioc was sufficiently dry, they took daily what they wanted,
and having passed the flour through a sieve made of reeds, they then
made it into paste, and baked it upon flat stones. It is a very
nourishing kind of bread, and is to this day used in many parts of
tropical America.
The Caribs had discovered the art of making intoxicating beverages,
so that they really needed a temperance society,--not quite so much,
perhaps, as their civilized invaders. In this respect the Caribs had
far outstripped the inventions of the northern barbarians.
[Illustration: _Carib Vessels._]
No people in the world were more expert than the Caribs in the
management of a boat. They had two sorts of vessels--_becassas_, with
three masts and square sails, and _piroques_, with only two masts. The
last were about thirty feet long by four and a half feet wide in the
middle. The _becassa_ was about forty-two feet long and seven feet wide
in the middle. They had sometimes figures of monkeys painted red at
the stern of their vessels. These vessels were built of the West India
cedar tree, which there grows to a prodigious size. One tree made the
keel of the vessel. It was felled with immense labor, hewed to a proper
degree of thickness, made very smooth, and if any addition to the
height was necessary, planks were added to the sides. This work was all
performed with sharp hatchets made of flint.
Some of these vessels had topmasts, and the Caribs could rig out fleets
of thirty sail at a time. After the French had been some years settled
at Martinico, they were surprised one foggy morning by the appearance
of a fleet on their coast. The whole island was instantly in alarm
and commotion; every man seized his arms, thinking a large squadron
from Europe was come to attack the island. But the fog cleared away,
and there, close-hauled in shore, were twenty sail of becassas and
piroques, filled with Caribs, who had come for a friendly trading visit.
The Caribs were usually rather above the middle stature, well
proportioned, and their countenances were rather agreeable. Their
foreheads had an extraordinary appearance, as they were flattened by
having a board bound tight on the forehead when they were infants,
and kept there till the head had taken the fashionable form. The
forehead then continued flat, so that they could see perpendicularly
when standing erect, and over their heads when lying down. These were
the objects aimed at, and so they, at least, had a reason for their
ridiculous custom; which is more than can be said of all the customs of
modern refined society.
They had small black eyes, beautiful teeth, white and even, and long,
glossy, black hair. The hair was always kept well anointed with oil of
palmachristi. It was difficult to judge of the color of their skin,
because they were always painted with rouco, which gave them the
appearance of boiled lobsters. The coat of paint preserved their skins
from the hot rays of the sun, and from the stings of the musquito and
gnat. It was thus far a useful invention, but they also considered it
highly ornamental. When they wished to appear exceedingly grand, they
added black mustaches, and other black strokes on their red-painted
faces, with the juice of the geripa apple.
The men wore ornaments, called caracolis, in their ears, noses, and
the under lip. The metal of which these ornaments were formed came from
the South American continent, but no one but an Indian could ever find
it. It is exceedingly brilliant, and does not tarnish. A full-dressed
Carib wore a caracolis in each ear. The ornament was in the form of a
crescent, suspended by chains about two and a half inches long, which
were fastened in the ear by a hook. Another caracoli of the same size
was attached to the gristle which separates the nostrils, and hung over
the mouth. The under part of the lower lip was pierced, and thence hung
another caracoli, which reached to the neck; and in the last place,
they had one six or seven inches long, enchased in a small board of
black wood, and suspended from the neck by a small cord.
When they did not wear the caracolis, they inserted little pieces of
wood in their ears, &c., that the holes might not grow up; sometimes
they stuck the feathers of parrots in these holes, and thus looked
very queerly. They had a habit of sticking the hair of their children
full of feathers of different colors, which was done very prettily,
and looked quite appropriate with their round, red faces, and bright,
laughing eyes.
The women were smaller than the men, but equally well-formed. They had
black hair and eyes, round faces, their mouths were small, and teeth
beautiful. They had a gay and lively air, and their countenances were
smiling and very agreeable; but they were in their behaviour perfectly
modest.
Their hair was tied at the back of their heads, with a cotton fillet.
They wore belts and a little apron called a _camisa_. It was made of
cotton cloth, embroidered with beads, and had a bead fringe. They wore
scarfs of cotton cloth, about half a yard wide, called a _pagn_. It
was wrapped twice round the body under the armpits, and then was tied,
and the ends hung down to the knee. They wore necklaces, composed of
several strings of beads, and bracelets of the same. They had buskins
also, which were ornaments for the legs, very tasteful, and in high
fashion. The females performed most of the cooking, and made the
hammocks; and they had likewise to carry all the burdens which were
borne in baskets. A man would have been dishonored forever if he had
spun or woven cotton, or painted a hammock, or carried a market-basket.
But all the hard labor was performed by the men, and they were very
kind to their wives and children.
They had some singular customs respecting deceased persons. When a
Carib died, he was immediately painted all over with the red paint, and
had his mustaches, and the black streaks on his face, made very deep
and shining. He was next put into a hole surrounded with mats, and kept
till all his relations could see and examine the body. No matter how
distant they lived, if on another island, they must be summoned and
appear, before the dead body could be buried. But the thick coat of
paint preserved it from decay for a long time.
In their wars, I have told you, the Caribs were murderous and cruel.
They often poisoned their arrows, and probably often eat their
captives. They fought with bows and arrows, and clubs. But when their
angry passions became cool, they treated their prisoners with humanity,
and never tortured them like the northern savages.
In some instances these islanders were faithless and treacherous. In
1708 the English entered into an agreement with the Caribs in St.
Vincents, to attack the French colonies in Martinico. The French
governor heard of the treaty, and sent Major Coullet, who was a great
favorite with the savages, to persuade them to break the treaty.
Coullet took with him a number of officers and servants, and a good
store of provisions and liquors. He reached St. Vincents, gave a grand
entertainment to the principal Caribs, and after circulating the brandy
freely, he got himself painted red, and made them a flaming speech. He
urged them to break their connection with the English. How could they
refuse a man who gave them brandy, and who was red as themselves? They
abandoned their English friends, and burnt all the timber the English
had cut on the island, and butchered the first Englishman who arrived.
But their crimes were no worse than those of their christian advisers,
who, on either side, were inciting these savages to war.
But the Caribs are all gone, perished from the earth. Their race is no
more, and their name is only a remembrance. The English and the French,
chiefly the latter, have destroyed them.
There is, however, one pleasant reflection attending their fate. Though
destroyed, they were never enslaved. None of their conquerers could
compel them to labor. Even those who have attempted to hire Caribs for
servants, have found it impossible to derive any benefit or profit from
them; they would not be commanded or reprimanded.
This independence was called pride, indolence, and stubbornness by
their conquerors;--if the Caribs had had historians to record their
wrongs, and their resistance to an overwhelming tyranny, they would
have set the matter in a very different light. They would have
expressed the sentiment which the conduct of their countrymen so
steadily exemplified--that it was better to die free than to live
slaves.
So determined was their resistance to all kinds of authority, that it
became a proverb among the Europeans, that to show displeasure to a
Carib was the same as beating him, and to beat him was the same as to
kill him. If they did anything it was only what they chose, how they
chose, and when they chose; and when they were most wanted, it often
happened that they would not do what was required, nor anything else.
The French missionaries made many attempts to convert the Caribs to
Christianity, but without success. It is true that some were apparently
converted; they learned the catechism, and prayers, and were baptized;
but they always returned to their old habits.
A man of family and fortune, named Chateau Dubois, settled in
Guadaloupe, and devoted great part of his life to the conversion of
the Caribs, particularly those of Dominica. He constantly entertained
a number of them, and taught them himself. He died in the exercise of
these pious and charitable offices, without the consolation of having
made one single convert.
As we have said, several had been baptized, and, as he hoped, they
were well instructed, and apparently well grounded in the christian
religion; but after they returned to their own people, they soon
resumed all the Indian customs, and their natural indifference to all
religion.
Some years after the death of Dubois, one of these Carib apostates was
at Martinico. He spoke French correctly, could read and write; he had
been baptized, and was then upwards of fifty years old. When reminded
of the truths he had been taught, and reproached for his apostasy,
he replied, “that if he had been born of christian parents, or if he
had continued to live among the French, he would still have professed
Christianity--but that, having returned to his own country and his own
people, he could not resolve to live in a manner differing from their
way of life, and by so doing expose himself to the hatred and contempt
of his relations.” Alas, it is small matter of wonder that the Carib
thought the christian religion was only a _profession_. Had those who
bore that name always been Christians in reality, and treated the poor
ignorant savages with the justice, truth and mercy which the Gospel
enjoins, what a different tale the settlement of the New World would
have furnished!
* * * * *
A GOOD REPLY.--A countryman drove up his cart to a grocer’s door, and
asked him what he gave for eggs. “Only seventeen cents,” he replied,
“for the grocers have had a meeting and voted not to give any more.”
Again the countryman came to market, and asked the grocer what he gave
for eggs. “Only twelve cents,” said the grocer, “for the grocers have
had another meeting and voted not to give any more.” A third time the
countryman came and made the same inquiry, and the grocer replied, that
“the grocers had held a meeting and voted to give only ten cents. Have
you any for sale?” continued the grocer. “No,” says the countryman;
“the hens have had a meeting too, and voted not to trouble themselves
to lay eggs for ten cents a dozen.”
* * * * *
PET OYSTER.--There is a gentleman at Christ Church, Salisbury, England,
who keeps a pet oyster of the largest and finest breed. It is fed on
oatmeal, for which it regularly opens its shell, and is occasionally
treated with a dip in its native element; but the most extraordinary
trait in the history of this amphibious pet is, that it has proved
itself an excellent mouser, having already killed five mice, by
crushing the heads of such as, tempted by odoriferous meal, had the
temerity to intrude their noses within its bivalvular clutches. Twice
have two of these little intruders suffered together.--_Eng. Journal_,
1840.
[Illustration: Shetland pony]
The Shetland Pony.
This diminutive breed of horses, many of which are not larger than a
Newfoundland dog, is common in Shetland, and all the islands on the
north and west of Scotland; also in the mountainous districts of the
mainland along the coast. They are beautifully formed, and possess
prodigious strength in proportion to their size. The heads are small,
with a flowing mane and long tail, reaching to the ground.
They are high-spirited and courageous little animals, but extremely
tractable in their nature. Some of them run wild about the mountains,
and there are various methods of catching them, according to the local
situation of the district which they inhabit.
The shelties, as they are called, are generally so small, that a
middling-sized man must ride with his knees raised to the animal’s
shoulders, to prevent his toes from touching the ground. It is
surprising to see with what speed they will carry a heavy man over
broken and zigzag roads in their native mountains.
When grazing, they will clamber up steep ascents, and to the extreme
edge of precipices which overhang the most frightful abysses, and there
they will gaze round with as much complacency as if on a plain.
These horses, small as they may be, are not to be considered a
degenerate breed, for they are possessed of much greater physical
strength in proportion to their size than larger horses. They are
called garrons in the highlands of Scotland.
Many years ago, when turnpikes were first established in Scotland,
a countryman was employed by the laird of Coll to go to Glasgow and
Edinburgh on certain business, and furnished with a small shelty to
ride upon. Being stopped at the gate near Dunbarton, the messenger
good-humoredly asked the keeper if he would be required to pay toll,
should he pass through carrying a burthen; and upon the man answering
“Certainly not,” he took up the horse in his arms, and carried him
through the toll-bar, to the great amusement of the gate-keeper.
A gentleman, some time ago, was presented with one of these handsome
little animals, which was no less docile than elegant, and measured
only seven hands or twenty-eight inches in height. He was anxious
to convey his present home as speedily as possible, but, being at a
considerable distance, was at a loss how to do so most easily. The
friend said, “Can you not carry him in your chaise?” He made the
experiment, and the shelty was lifted into it, covered up with the
apron, and some bits of bread given him to keep him quiet. He lay quite
peaceable till he reached his destination; thus exhibiting the novel
spectacle of a horse riding in a gig.
A little girl, the daughter of a gentleman in Warwickshire, England,
playing on the banks of a canal which runs through his grounds, had the
misfortune to fall in, and would in all probability have been drowned,
had not a little pony, which had long been kept in the family, plunged
into the stream and brought the child safely ashore, without the
slightest injury. The engraving at the head of this article exhibits
this interesting scene.
A gentleman had a white pony, which became extremely attached to a
little dog that lived with him in the stable, and whenever the horse
was rode out, the dog always ran by his side. One day, when the groom
took out the pony for exercise, and accompanied as usual by his canine
friend, they met a large dog, who attacked the diminutive cur, upon
which the horse reared, and, to the astonishment of the bystanders, so
effectually fought his friend’s battle with his fore feet, that the
aggressor found it his interest to scamper off at full speed, and
never again ventured to assail the small dog.
Shelties sometimes attain a great age. There was in the small village
of Haddington, Eng., a very small black pony, not exceeding eleven
hands high, of the Shetland breed, which in the year 1745, at only
two years of age, was rode at the battle of Preston Pans, by a young
gentleman, who afterwards sold it to a farmer near Dunbar. This pony,
at forty-seven years of age, looked remarkably fresh; trotted eight
miles an hour for several miles together; had a very good set of teeth;
eat corn and hay well; was able to go a long journey; and had not,
to appearance, undergone the least alteration, either in galloping,
trotting, or walking, for twenty years preceding.
* * * * *
CURIOUS.--In a book of accounts, belonging to a small dealer, who had
become bankrupt, in the west of England, were found the following names
of customers to whom credit had been given: “Woman on the Key; Jew
Woman; Coal Woman; Old Coal Woman; Fat Coal Woman; Market Woman; Pale
Woman; A Man; Old Woman; Little Milk Girl; Candle Man; Stable Man;
Coachman; Big Woman; Lame Woman; Quiet Woman; Egg Man; Littel Black
Girl; Old Watchman; Shoemaker; Littel Shoemaker; Short Shoemaker; Old
Shoemaker; Littel Girl; Jew Man; Jew Woman; Mrs. in the Cart; Old Irish
Woman; Woman in Cow street; A Lad; Man in the country; Long Sal; Woman
with Long Sal; Mrs. Irish Woman; Mrs. Feather Bonnet; Blue Bonnet;
Green Bonnet; Green Coat; Blue Britches; Big Britches; The woman that
was married; The woman that told me of the man.”
* * * * *
“I hope I don’t intrude,” as the knife said to the oyster.
[Illustration: Instinct]
Instinct.
As M. Moreau de Johnes was riding through a wood in Martinique some
years since, his horse reared and exhibited the greatest degree of
alarm, trembling in every limb with fear. On looking around to discover
the cause of the animal’s terror, he observed a serpent, called _fer
de lance_, standing erect in a bush of bamboo, and he heard it hiss
several times.
He would have fired at it with his pistol, but his horse became quite
unmanageable, and drew back as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes
fixed on the snake. M. de Johnes, on looking around for some person
to hold his horse so that he might destroy the viper, beheld a negro,
streaming with blood, cutting with a blunt knife the flesh from a wound
which the serpent had just inflicted.
The negro entreated M. de Johnes not to destroy it, as he wished to
take the animal alive, to effect a cure on himself, according to a
superstitious belief; and this M. de Johnes allowed him to do.
Varieties.
LITTLE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.--About three o’clock, one cold, dark, damp day,
at the end of December, I met a little chimney-sweeper in England, who
had come with his father that morning from a town eight miles off, to
sweep the various chimneys about. He was nearly ten years old.
“Do you go home to-night, my little fellow? Where is your father?” “He
went forward to the village of D----, and I am to follow.” “Are you
afraid to go?” “No, I don’t feel afraid.” “I hope you are a good boy
and don’t swear--do you say your prayers?” “Yes, always, every night
and morning.” “Do you like sweeping chimneys?” “As to that, I don’t
think any one could like it much; but there are nine children of us,
and we two eldest boys must help father; and mother is good, and gets
us breakfast early; and father is good to us, and we do pretty well.”
“Do you go to Sunday school?” “Some of us always go.” Here ended our
conversation.
About four o’clock a message came, “May the chimney-sweeper’s boy sleep
here?--he cries, and says it is so wet and dark.” After a minute’s
thought, we replied, “Yes, if he is willing to be locked up in the
stable till morning.” With this he was well content; and after a clean
bed of straw was made, he seemed delighted with his new quarters.
After the key had been turned a few minutes, an old servant coming by
heard a voice--a steady, pleading voice; and on listening, she heard
the child distinctly repeating collect after collect, and various
church prayers. She went round, and looking in, saw our poor boy,
kneeling by his bed of straw, with his hands clasped, and praying very
earnestly. She said, “The tears came in my eyes as I watched the little
fellow, and to see him rise from his knees, and so happily lay himself
down to sleep.”
In the morning, they watched the child, when he repeated just the same
before he left the stable. Upon coming out, the servants asked him,
“Who taught you to say your prayers as you do?” “Mother,” he replied.
“Then your mother’s a good scholar?” “No, she can’t read a word--none
in our house can read.” “How then did she learn all these prayers?”
“Mother goes to church every Sunday, and says them after the parson,
and so she learns them; and every night we all kneel round her that
are old enough to speak, before she puts us to bed, and she says them
first, bit by bit, and we all say them after her; and sometimes she
learns a new one, and then she teaches us that. She tells us always to
say our prayers when we are away from her, and so I do.”
* * * * *
A SHOWER OF ASHES.--A late number of Silliman’s Journal contains the
following memorandum, handed in by Rev. Peter Parker, M. D., who was a
passenger in the ship Niantic, from Canton for New York:
“Ship Niantic, L. F. Doty, master, April 5th, 1840, being in lat. 7
deg. 5 min. north, lon. 121 deg. 10 min. east, at 2 h. A. M., sixty
miles west from Mindanuo, one of the Philippine islands, came up a fine
breeze from the northeast, which was attended with a shower of dust,
resembling that of ashes. It came so thick that it obscured the moon
and stars, which were all out very clear before. It filled the sailors’
eyes so full that they were obliged to retreat from the deck below.
It lasted about one hour, and cleared away. At daylight the Niantic
looked like an old furnace, completely covered, from the royal-masthead
down to the water’s edge. The decks I should judge were one quarter of
an inch thick with the ashes. We took up one half bushel, and might
have saved three or four. It fell in small quantities, at different
times, for two or three days after. On the 14th of April, spoke the
English barque Margaret, whaler; reported likewise on the 5th of April
had a similar shower of ashes, being at the time three hundred miles
north-northeast of us. He informed me that on the 12th of April he
visited several villages on the island of Madura, entirely deserted by
the people, from one of which he had taken two brass cannon and several
other articles. This led us to think that some volcanic eruption had
lately happened in that neighborhood. After the 9th, perceived no more
ashes in proceeding northward.”
* * * * *
CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.--“Is Mr. Bluster within?” “No; he is out of
town,” remarked the servant. “When can I see him?” “I don’t know;--have
you any especial business with him?” “Yes, there is a small bill which
I wish to settle.” “Well,” said the servant, “I don’t know whether he
will return this week or not.” “But I wish to pay the bill, as I am to
leave the town immediately.” “Oh! you wish to pay him some money--he is
up stairs, I’m thinking; I will call him. Take a seat, sir; Mr. Bluster
will be with you in a moment!”
* * * * *
FATAL ATTACK OF A SERPENT.--A letter from Martinique, in the Journal
of Guadaloupe, states, that M. De Pickery, merchant, was met while on
a hunting excursion by an enormous serpent, which attacked him, and
inflicted several severe wounds in his legs. He defended himself with
great courage; but, although timely succor was administered to him, he
died four hours after. The serpent was nearly seven feet in length, and
when opened there were found in it one hundred and sixty-two little
ones. (1840.)
TEARS.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
_Slow & Pathetic._
[Illustration: Music]
Tears, tears may speak of grief,
More deep than words e’er spake,
And yet tears bring relief,
When else the heart would break.
Tears, tears may tell of pleasure,
Too sweet for words to show;
For the heart is like a measure--
Too full, ’twill overflow.
Then give, oh give me tears!--
For sorrow’s load they lighten--
And rainbow joy appears,
Amid their showers to brighten.
ROBERT MERRY’S
MUSEUM.
EDITED BY
S. G. GOODRICH,
AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.
VOLUME II.
BOSTON:
BRADBURY & SODEN,
10 School Street.
1841.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1841.
The Siberian Sable-hunter, 1, 33, 69, 103, 156
The Wolf that pretended to be robbed, 7
Beware of Impatience, 8
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter, 8, 44, 74, 144
Sketches of the Manners, Customs,
and History of the Indians
of America, 14, 54, 121, 135, 161
Lion Hunting, 16
Merry’s Life
and Adventures, 17, 39, 65, 97, 149, 178
Toucan, 19
The Newfoundland Dog, 21
The Mysterious Artist, 24, 51
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates, Nos. 2 & 3, 27, 140
Egyptian Schools, 30
Varieties, 31
The Boy and the Lark,--a Song, 32
Origin of Words and Phrases, 43
Hymn, 50
Anecdote, 50
The Sparrow and Robin, 51
The Alligator, 60
Braham’s Parrot, 61
Mungo Park and the Frogs, 62
A Child lost in the Woods, 63
The Sun, 63
Autumn,--a Song, 64
Habit, 73
The Oak and the Reed, 80
Sincerity, 81
The Hyena, 84
Jewish Women, 84
Story of Philip Brusque, 85, 100, 130
An Incident from Ancient History, 89
Effects of Prohibition, 89
Saturday Night, 90
Oliver Cromwell, 92
Musings, 93
Anecdote of an Atheist, 94
Who made this? 94
Wisdom of the Creator, 94
Yankee Energy, 95
Who made Man? 95
Power of God, 95
The Bird’s Adieu,--a Song, 96
Wisdom of the Creator, 106
Washington, a Teacher to the Young, 107
The Poet and the Child, 111
The Ostrich, 112
What do we mean by Nature? 112
A Vision, 114
The Sun and Wind, 116
The Kamskatka Lily, 116
Habits which concern Ourselves, 117
Anecdotes of Haydn, 118
The Fox and Raven,--a Fable, 119
I don’t see why, 120
Charles and his Mother, 124
John Doree, 127
Letter to the Publishers, 127
Bees, 128
Up in the Morning early,--a Song, 128
London, 133
Aurelian and the Spider, 133
Exotic Fruit and Flowers in England, 134
Benevolence of the Deity, 134
The Rhinoceros, 137
Briers and Berries, 138
The Crows’ Court of Law, 138
The Story of the Supposed Miser, 139
The Mouth, 139
The Pilot, 148
A Little Child’s Joy, 151
The Mammoth, 152
Geordie and the Sick Dog, 152
The Tongue, 158
What is Selfishness? 159
A Thought, 159
Winter,--a Song, 160
A Long Nap, 171
Lord Bacon, 172
Habits which concern Others, 173
The Black Skimmer of the Seas, 175
The Squirrel, 176
Gothic Architecture, 177
The Apple,--a German Fable, 181
The Pretender and his Sister, 182
Winter, 183
The Hand, 184
Nuts to Crack, 185
To the Black-eyed and Blue-eyed
Friends of Robert Merry, 186
Winter,--a Song, 188
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841,
by S. G. GOODRICH, in the Clerk’s Office of the
District Court of Massachusetts.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.
[Illustration: Sable hunter]
The Siberian Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER I.
In the northern part of Asia, there is a vast country called Siberia.
It is nearly destitute of mountains, and consists of a great plain,
stretching out to an immense extent, and being in many parts almost
as level as the sea. In some places it is barren and bare, but in
others it is covered with forests. Sometimes these are of pine, cedar,
hemlock, and other evergreens, and grow so thickly as to make it
difficult to pass between the trees.
Several great rivers cross this country, the chief of which are the
Irtish and Obi, the Yenisei, and the Lena. These are almost as large as
our great rivers of America. They flow from south to north, and empty
themselves into a wide sea called the Arctic Ocean.
Siberia is a cold and desolate region, where the summer is short, and
where winter reigns about two thirds of the year. There are few towns
or cities, especially in the north, and thus large portions of the
country are both uncultivated and uninhabited. There are vast tracts
given up to solitude, or visited only by wolves, bears, and other
savage animals, or are occasionally crossed by wandering parties of
Tartars, who are the chief inhabitants of the country, and who are
almost as wild as our American Indians.
This great country, which is more extensive than the whole of Europe,
and about three times as large as the entire territory of the United
States, belongs to Russia. It is under the government of the emperor of
that country, who, you know, reigns over a larger portion of the earth
than any other ruler.
It would seem that it could be no great advantage to hold possession of
such a cold and dreary land as Siberia; but yet it produces a good deal
of gold, silver, and copper, and the southern portions, having a rich
soil, yield vast quantities of grain. The Tartars are fond of rearing
horses and cattle, and so abundant are these creatures in some places,
that a horse sells for two dollars and a half, and an ox for a dollar
and a quarter! Oatmeal is sold for five cents a bushel, and a man may
live for ten dollars a year! But though articles seem so very cheap, it
must be remembered that a man must labor for about four cents a day; so
that, after all, he has to work pretty hard for a good living.
But what I have been saying relates to the southern part of Siberia,
where the climate is milder and the soil rich; as you go northward,
the cold increases, and vegetation diminishes. At last you come to
a country where there are few people, and where, as I have said
before, the whole region seems to be given up to savage animals. In
the loneliness of the forests here, the wolf and bear roam at their
pleasure, being the sovereigns of the country. Yet it is in these very
regions that a great source of wealth is found--for here are various
animals which yield fine and beautiful furs. The most celebrated and
valuable are produced by a species of weasel, called the sable--one
skin of which sometimes sells for a hundred and fifty dollars. Beside
the sable, the black fox, whose skin sells for twenty to seventy-five
dollars, martens of two or three kinds, and other animals, are found,
which produce valuable furs; and it is to be considered that it is the
very coldness of the country which renders the furs so excellent.
Creatures living here have need of very warm shirts and jackets,
and nature, like a kind mother, takes good care of her children.
Considering that the animals of the north of Siberia live among regions
of snow and frost, where summer comes only for a few weeks in the
year, and winter holds almost perpetual sway, she gives the sable, and
the marten, and the fox, and even the wolf and bear, such nice warm
clothes, that kings and queens envy them, and hunters are sent two
thousand miles to procure these luxuries.
Thus it is that Siberia, after all, yields a great deal of wealth,
and the emperor of Russia therefore holds on to it with a greedy
grasp. But it is not for its productions alone that he holds it;
for the emperor has a large family--about fifty millions in Europe
and Asia--and as he is a hard master, some of them are pretty often
rebellious; and to punish them, he sends them to Siberia. This is a
kind of prison,--though a large one,--where those are banished who have
incurred the displeasure or dislike of his majesty. So numerous are
these exiles, that Tobolsk, one of the largest towns, and lying in the
western part of the country, is to a great extent peopled by them and
their descendants. It is about some of these exiles that I am going to
tell you a story.
A few years since, a Polish officer, by the name of Ludovicus Pultova,
was banished to Siberia, by Nicholas, the present emperor of Russia.
His offence was, that he had engaged in the struggle of 1830 to
liberate Poland, his native country, from the tyranny exercised over it
by its Russian masters. The Poles had hoped for aid in their efforts
from other nations; but in this they were disappointed, and they were
overwhelmed by the power of the emperor. Thousands of them fled to
other lands, to escape the fate that awaited them at home; others were
shot, or shut up in dungeons; and others, amounting to many hundreds,
were sent to Siberia.
The wife of Pultova was dead, but he had a son and daughter, the first
about eighteen years of age, and the other sixteen, at the time of
his banishment. It was no small part of his misery that they were not
permitted to accompany him in his exile. After a year, however, they
contrived to leave Warsaw, where they had lived, and, passing through
many dangers and trials, they at last reached their father at Tobolsk.
This city is about as large as Salem in Massachusetts, and consists
of a fort and citadel, with numerous dwellings around them, on a
hill, and another portion on the low ground, bordering on the river
Obi. The people, as I have said before, are chiefly exiles, or their
descendants; and as it has been said that tyranny never banishes fools,
so the society embraces many persons of talent and merit. Some of them,
indeed, were celebrated for their genius, and numbers of them were of
high rank and character. But what must a city of exiles be?--composed
of people who have been separated from their native land--from their
homes, their relatives--from all they held most dear; and that, too,
with little hope of return or restoration to their former enjoyments?
Most of them, also, are stripped of their property, and if they
possessed wealth and independence before, they come here to drag out a
life of poverty, perhaps of destitution.
Such was in fact the condition of Pultova. He was, in Warsaw, a
merchant of great wealth and respectability. When his countrymen
rose in their resistance, he received a military commission, and
distinguished himself alike by his wisdom and bravery. In the fierce
battles that raged around the walls of the city before its fall, he
seemed almost too reckless of life, and in several instances hewed
his way, at the head of his followers, into the very bosom of the
Russian camp. He became an object of admiration to his countrymen, and
of equal hatred to the Russians. When Warsaw fell, his punishment was
proportioned to the magnitude of his offence. He was entirely stripped
of his estates, and perpetual banishment was his sentence.
It is not easy to conceive of a situation more deplorable than his, at
Tobolsk. The friends that he had there, like himself, were generally
oppressed with poverty. Some shunned him, for fear of drawing down the
vengeance of the government; for the chief officer of the citadel was
of course a spy, who kept a vigilant watch over the people: and there
are few persons, reduced to servitude and poverty, who do not learn
to cower beneath the suspicious eye of authority. What could Pultova
do? Here was no scope for his mercantile talents, even if he had the
means of giving them exercise. His principles would not allow him to
join the bands of men, who, driven to desperation by their hard fate,
took to the highway, and plundered those whom they could master. Nor
could he, like too many of his fellow-sufferers, drown his senses in
drunkenness. Could he go to the mines, and in deep pits, away from
the light of heaven, work for three or four cents a day, and that too
in companionship with convicts and criminals of the lowest and most
debased character? Could he go forth to the fields and labor for his
subsistence, where the wages of a man trained to toil, were hardly
sufficient for subsistence?
These were the questions which the poor exile had occasion to revolve
in his mind; and after his son and daughter joined him, and the few
dollars he had brought with him were nearly exhausted, it became
necessary that he should decide upon some course of action. Nor were
these considerations those alone which occupied his mind. He had also
to reflect upon the degradation of his country--the ruin of those
hopes of liberty which had been indulged--the wreck of his personal
fortunes--and the exchange, in his own case, of independence for
poverty.
It requires a stout heart to bear up against such misfortunes, and at
the same time to support the heavy burden which is added in that bitter
sense of wrong and injustice, which comes again and again, under such
circumstances, to ask for revenge or retribution. But Pultova was not
only a man of energy in the field--he was something better--a man of
that moral courage which enabled him to contend against weakness of
heart in the hour of trouble. I shall best make you understand his
feelings and character by telling you how he spoke to his children, a
few weeks after their arrival.
“My dear Alexis,” said he, “you complain for want of books, that you
may pursue your studies and occupy your mind: how can we get books in
Siberia, and that without money? You are uneasy for want of something
to do--some amusement or occupation;--think, my boy, how many of our
countrymen are at this very hour in dungeons, their limbs restrained by
chains, and not only denied books and amusement, but friends, the pure
air, nay the very light of heaven! Think how many a noble Polish heart
is now beating and fluttering, like a caged eagle, against the gratings
that confine it--how many a hero, who seemed destined to fill the world
with his glorious deeds, is now in solitude, alone, emaciated, buried
from the world’s view, and lost to all existence, save that he still
feels, suffers, despairs--and all this without a friend who may share
his sorrow! How long and weary is a single day to you, Alexis; think
how tedious the hours to the prisoner in the prolonged night of the
dungeon!”
“Dear father,” said Alexis; “this is dreadful--but how can it help our
condition? It only shows us that there is deeper sorrow than ours.”
“Yes, Alexis; and from this contrast we may derive consolation.
Whether it be rational or not, still, by contemplating these deeper
sorrows of our fellow-men, and especially of our fellow-countrymen,
we may alleviate our own. But let me suggest another subject for
contemplation: what are we to do for food, Alexis? My money is entirely
gone except five dollars, and this can last for only a few weeks.”
“Why, father, I can do something, surely.”
“Well, what can you do?”
“I do not know--I cannot say; I never thought of it before. Cannot you
borrow some money?”
“No; and if I could I would not. No, no, Alexis, our circumstances have
changed. It is the will of God. We are now poor, and we must toil for a
subsistence. It is a grievous change--but it is no disgrace, at least.
We are indeed worse off than the common laborer, for our muscles are
not so strong as his; but we must give them strength by exercise. We
have pride and long habit to contend with; but these we must conquer.
It is weakness, it is folly, to yield to circumstances. If the ship
leaks, we must take to the boat. Heaven may prosper our efforts, and
bring us, after days of trial, to a safe harbor. But my greatest
anxiety is for poor Kathinka.”
“Fear not for me,” said the lovely girl, rushing to her father and
kneeling before him--“fear not for me!”
“Kathinka, I did not know you was in the room.”
“Nor was I till this moment; but the door was ajar, and I have heard
all. Dear father--dear Alexis--fear not for me. I will be no burthen--I
will aid you rather.”
“My noble child!” said the old man, as he placed his arms around the
kneeling girl, and while his tears fell fast upon her brow, “you are
indeed worthy of your mother, who, with all the softness of woman, had
the energy of a hero. In early life, while contending with difficulties
in my business, she was ever my helper and supporter. In every day of
darkness, she was my guiding-star. She has indeed bequeathed her spirit
to me in you, Kathinka.”
“My dear father, this is indeed most kind, and I will endeavor to make
good the opinion you entertain of me. See! I have already begun my
work. Do you observe this collar? I have foreseen difficulties, and I
have wrought this that I may sell it and get money by it.”
“Indeed!” said Pultova, “you are a brave girl;--and who put this into
your head?”
“I do not know--I thought of it myself, I believe.”
“And who do you think will buy this collar, here at Tobolsk? Who can
pay money for such finery?”
“I intend to sell it to the governor’s lady. She at least has money,
for I saw her at the chapel a few days since, and she was gaily
dressed. I do not doubt she will pay me for the collar.”
At these words a bright flush came to the old man’s cheek, and his eye
flashed with the fire of pride. The thought in his mind was--“And can
I condescend to live upon the money that comes from the wife of the
governor, the officer, the tool of the emperor, my oppressor? And shall
my daughter, a descendant of Poniatowsky, be a slave to these cringing
minions of power?” But he spoke not the thought aloud. A better and
wiser feeling came over him, and kissing his daughter’s cheek, he went
to his room, leaving his children together.
A long and serious conversation ensued between them, the result of
which was a mutual determination to seek some employment, by which they
could obtain the means of support for their parent and themselves. A
few days after this had elapsed, when Alexis came home with an animated
countenance, and finding his sister, told her of a scheme he had formed
for himself, which was to join a party of fur hunters, who were about
to set out for the northeastern regions of Siberia. Kathinka listened
attentively, and, after some reflection, replied--“Alexis, I approve of
your scheme. If our father assents to it, you must certainly go.”
“It seems to me that you are very ready to part with me!” said Alexis,
a little poutingly.
“Nay, nay,” said the girl; “don’t be playing the boy, for it is time
that you were a man. Think not, dear Alexis, that I shall not miss
you; think not that I shall feel no anxiety for my only brother, my
only companion, and, save our good parent, the only friend I have in
Siberia.”
Alexis smiled, though the tear was in his eye. He said nothing, but,
clasping Kathinka’s hand tenderly, he went to consult with his father.
It is sufficient to say, that at last his consent was obtained, and
in a few days the young hunter, by the active efforts of his sister,
was equipped for the expedition. The evening before he was to set out,
he had a long interview with Kathinka, who encouraged him to procure
the finest sable skins, saying that she had a scheme of her own for
disposing of them to advantage.
“And what is that precious scheme of yours?” said Alexis.
“I do not like to tell you, for you will say it is all a girl’s
romance.”
“But you must tell me.”
“Indeed--I must? Well, if I _must_ I will. Do you remember the princess
Lodoiska, that was for some time in concealment at our house during the
siege of Warsaw?”
“Yes; I remember her well. But why was she there? and what became of
her? And did father know that she was there? or was it only you and
mother and me that saw her?”
“Too many questions at once, Lex! I will tell you all I know. The
princess was accidentally captured by father’s troop in one of its
excursions to a neighboring village. She had fled from Warsaw a few
days before, when the insurrection first broke out, and she had not yet
found the means of going to St. Petersburgh. Father must have known who
she was, though he affected not to know. He kept the secret to himself
and his family, fearing, perhaps, that some harm would come to the lady
if she were discovered. It was while she was at our house that our
blessed mother died. Father, you know, was at that time engaged with
the Russians, without the walls. The princess and myself only were at
mother’s bedside when she breathed her last. Her mind was bright and
calm. Indeed, it seemed to me that there was something of prophecy in
her spirit then. A look so beautiful I never saw. ‘Sweet lady,’ said
she, taking the hand of the princess, ‘I see how this dreadful strife
will end. Poor Poland is destined to fall--and many a noble heart must
fall with her. I know not that my gallant husband may survive; but if
he do, he will be an exile and an outcast. For him, I have few fears,
for I know that he has a spirit that cannot be crushed or broken. In
Siberia, he will still be Pultova. But, princess, forgive if a mother’s
heart, in the shadow of death, sinks at the idea of leaving children,
and especially this dear girl, in such circumstances. What will become
of Kathinka, if my fears prove prophetic?’
“The lady wept, but answered not for some time. At last she said,
looking into mother’s face, which seemed like that of an angel--‘I
feel your appeal, dear lady, and I will answer it. Your husband has
indeed put my life in peril, by bringing me here; but he did it in the
discharge of duty, and in ignorance of my name and character. He has at
least given me safety, and I owe him thanks. I owe you, also, a debt
of gratitude, and it shall be repaid to your child. You know my power
with the emperor is small, for I have been a friend to Poland, and this
has almost brought me into disgrace at court. But fear not. If Kathinka
should ever need a friend, let her apply to Lodoiska.’
“Such were the exact words of the princess. Our mother soon after died,
and in a few days I contrived the lady’s escape,--which was happily
effected. Father never spoke to me on the subject. He must have known
it, and approved of it, but perhaps he wished not to take an active
part in the matter.”
“This is very interesting,” said Alexis; “but what has it to do with
the sable skins?”
“A great deal--they must go to the princess, and she must make a market
for them at court.”
“And who is to take them to her?”
“You--you perhaps--or perhaps I.”
“You? This is indeed a girl’s romance. However, there can be no harm in
getting sable skins, for they bring the best price.” After much further
conversation between the brother and sister, they parted for the night;
and the next day, with a father’s blessing and a sister’s tenderest
farewell, the young hunter set out on his long and arduous adventures.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: Wolf]
The Wolf that pretended to be robbed.
A wolf once made complaint that he had been robbed, and charged the
theft upon his neighbor the fox. The case came on for trial before a
monkey, who was justice of the peace among the quadrupeds in those
parts. The parties did not employ lawyers, but chose to plead their
cause themselves. When they had been fully heard, the judge, assuming
the air of a magistrate, delivered his sentence as follows:--
“My worthy friends and neighbors,--I have heard your case, and examined
it attentively; and my judgment is, that you both be made to pay a
fine; for you are both of bad character, and if you do not deserve
to be punished now, it is very likely you will deserve to be so very
soon. That I have good grounds for this decree, is sufficiently
evident by the fact, that Mr. Wolf’s jaws are even now stained with
blood, and I can see a dead chicken sticking out of Sir Fox’s pocket,
notwithstanding the air of injured innocence which he wears. And
beside, one who gets an evil reputation can think it no hardship if he
is occasionally made to suffer, for a crime he did not commit.”
This fable teaches us to beware of an evil reputation; for it may cause
us to be punished for the misdemeanors of others. Thus, if a person
gets the character of a liar, he will not be believed when he tells the
truth; and where a theft is known, it is of course laid to some one who
has been caught in stealing before.
Beware of Impatience.
There’s many a pleasure in life which we might possess, were it not
for our impatience. Young people, especially, miss a great deal of
happiness, because they cannot wait till the proper time.
A man once gave a fine pear to his little boy, saying to him, “The pear
is green now, my boy, but lay it by for a week, and it will then be
ripe, and very delicious.”
“But,” said the child, “I want to eat it now, father.”
“I tell you it is not ripe yet,” said the father. “It will not taste
good, and, beside, it will make you sick.”
“No it won’t, father, I know it won’t, it looks so good. Do let me eat
it!”
After a little more teasing, the father consented, and the child eat
the pear. The consequence was, that, the next day, he was taken sick,
and came very near dying. Now all this happened because the child was
impatient. He couldn’t wait, and, accordingly, the pear, that might
have been very pleasant and harmless, was the occasion of severe
illness. Thus it is that impatience, in a thousand instances, leads
children, and pretty old ones too, to convert sources of happiness into
actual mischief and misery.
There were some boys once who lived near a pond; and when winter came,
they were very anxious to have it freeze over, so that they could slide
and skate upon the ice. At last, there came a very cold night, and in
the morning the boys went to the pond, to see if the ice would bear
them. Their father came by at the moment, and seeing that it was hardly
thick enough, told the boys that it was not safe yet, and advised them
to wait another day before they ventured upon it.
But the boys were in a great hurry to enjoy the pleasure of sliding
and skating. So they walked out upon the ice; but pretty soon it went
crack--crack--crack! and down they were all plunged into the water! It
was not very deep, so they got out, though they were very wet, and came
near drowning; and all because they could not wait.
Now these things, though they may seem to be trifles, are full of
instruction. They teach us to beware of impatience, to wait till the
fruit is ripe; they teach us that the cup of pleasure, seized before
the proper time, is turned into poison. They show us the importance of
patience.
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER VI.
_Journey to Mount Ætna.--Mule travelling.--Neglected state of
the country.--Melilla, the town of honey.--Narrow escape
of the author.--Prospect of Ætna.--A Sicilian village and
country-house described.--Comparison of Sicily with New
England._
I left Syracuse in the morning, to pursue my journey toward Mount Ætna.
There was no road for wheel-carriages, although the distance to the
mountain is but about thirty miles, and the city of Catania, which is
as large as Boston, stands directly at the foot of the mountain. If
this island was inhabited by Americans, they would build a railroad
between the two cities in a year’s time; and hundreds of people would
be travelling upon it every day. But the Sicilians are so lazy, and so
negligent of improving their country, that there is only a mule-path
through the wood and along the sea-shore for the whole distance. I
found a company of muleteers ready to set out for Catania, with about
twenty mules laden with goods, and I hired one of their beasts for a
couple of dollars. The mules travelled slowly, going at a very small
trot or quick walk: they were stout, strong-backed creatures, and
carried heavy loads on their backs. The path was rough and wild, full
of ups and downs, and strewed with rocks; but the mules were very
sure-footed, and trotted along, jumping like cats from rock to rock,
and clambering up and down rough places as if they had hooks to their
toes. I had heard before that a mule never slips nor stumbles, but I
was astonished to see what rough and craggy spots they would get over
without the least difficulty. A horse would have broken his neck and
all his legs in attempting to go a quarter of a mile on such a road as
we travelled.
We went along in a string, Indian file, as the phrase is. The head
mules had bells on their saddles, which made a perpetual tinkling.
These bells were very useful in many parts of the journey: sometimes
the rear mules lagged behind, stretching out the train to a great
length. When the course lay among woods, rocks, and bushes, the track
was hardly discernible, and those in the rear would have strayed
from the leaders but for the sound of the bells. It was the 27th of
February, yet the weather was as mild as the latter part of May, in
New England. The almond-trees were covered with blossoms, and the
fig-trees were beginning to bud. An almond-tree is about the size of a
peach-tree, and when in bloom, looks almost exactly like it. Fig-trees
are of all sizes, up to that of a large apple-tree.
It is melancholy to see this fine country so neglected and deserted. We
hardly saw a human being upon the road, or houses anywhere; for miles
beyond Syracuse, the ground was strewed with ruins, all overgrown with
grass, weeds, and prickly pears. Here and there we saw a vineyard, but
this was not the season for grapes; the vines were bare, and propped up
with cane-poles. A few olive-trees were scattered about: these trees
are about the size of a willow, and their leaves are green all the
year round. The olives were now nearly full-grown. About ten o’clock
in the forenoon, we saw a little town called Melilla on the side of
a mountain, about six miles off, but we passed by without entering
it; and met with no inhabitants, except a peasant riding on an ass.
Melilla produces the finest honey in the world, and this gave the
town its name. All along the road in this neighborhood, we saw great
abundance of wild thyme and other fragrant flowers, which furnish the
busy bees with rich materials for their labors. In a wild part of the
road further onward, we met a company of half a dozen men with guns
advancing toward us. I asked the muleteers if they were not robbers,
and was told that they were _gens d’armes_, whose business it was to
guard the road from robbers. Travelling in Sicily was formerly very
dangerous, but it is less so at present.
By-and-by we came to a very rocky place, where I saw a deep gully
passing right across the road. I was about to dismount and lead my
mule over it, not imagining he would think of passing it with a rider
on his back,--when he gave a sudden leap and bounded over the chasm
in an instant, alighting on his fore feet with such a shock that he
pitched me completely over his head. Luckily one of my feet caught in
the stirrup, and this hindered me from being thrown straight forward
and dashed head first upon the rock, which would have killed me in an
instant. But the catching of the stirrup gave me a whirl to the left,
so that I fell against the low branches of a wild fig-tree, and escaped
with only a slight bruise. The men behind jumped off their beasts and
ran to pick me up, judging me to be dead, or my limbs broken at least;
but I was on my feet before they had time to help me. On learning the
cause of the accident, they advised me, in future, always to keep my
seat, however difficult the road might appear, for they assured me a
mule knew much more than a man about these matters. I ran after my
beast, which, I found, had not gone far; he was standing stock-still,
waiting for me, and doubtless understanding the whole affair perfectly
well. I could not help thinking that he gave a roguish twinkle of the
eye as I got on his back again; but this might be fancy.
We continued our course through this wild region for an hour or two
longer, when we came to a pretty high ridge of hills. We clambered
slowly up the ascent, and on reaching the top, a most magnificent view
burst upon my sight. A wide bay stretched out its blue waters before
us, beyond which rose, sublimely, the huge bulk of Mount Ætna, its
towering summit clad in a sheet of snow, which glistened like silver
in the bright sun. At the foot of the mountain I could just discern a
cluster of white spots at the edge of the shore, which they informed me
was the city of Catania. It was about twenty miles distant. The lower
part of Ætna was almost black, but I could see no smoke rising from the
crater; it was too far off for this, the distance being nearly fifty
miles. Further off, over the sea, we saw the mountains of Calabria,
capped with snow, and half hidden by the clouds.
As we descended the hills and approached the sea-shore, the road grew
worse and worse. We climbed over broken rocks, gullies, and the beds
of mountain torrents, and through wild thickets of bushes, where we
could hardly squeeze our way. After a while, we came to a field where
laborers were ploughing: this was the first instance of agricultural
labor I had yet seen on the journey. The oxen were fine stout animals,
with immensely long horns; the plough was of wood, and the clumsiest
machine of the kind I ever saw. The rough, rocky chain of hills now
sloped away into a fine champaign country, where the soil appeared
very rich. As we proceeded, the color of Mount Ætna gradually changed;
its black sides were now spotted with dark red patches, which proved
to be small mountains that had burst out of the great one, in fiery
eruptions. Presently, we could distinguish the smoke proceeding from
the crater at the top; it streamed off like a white cloud horizontally,
but with so slow a movement that it gave me some idea of its immense
distance. It was one of the grandest sights I ever beheld.
About one o’clock the road wound through a thick wood of olive-trees,
upon an eminence. Going down this steep descent, we found at the foot
a little hamlet, consisting of four or five houses and an oil-mill. We
stopped here to rest our mules, and I strolled round the place. The
mill was a tall, square tower of stone; great numbers of oil-jars lay
scattered about upon the ground: the sight of them made me think of the
Forty Thieves. In one part of the mill, I found a large quantity of
oranges packed in boxes for shipping; very probably they found their
way to Boston in the course of the spring. The houses were rude stone
edifices, of one story. I went into one of them for curiosity: the
door stood wide open. In the kitchen, I found a great clumsy fireplace
like a blacksmith’s forge, and two or three awkward wooden stools,
but nothing like a table, except a sort of dresser, on which stood
an earthen dish or two, and a few cups. Heaps of straw were lying
about, and a few trumpery things, all at sixes and sevens. Pigeons were
roosting overhead and flying about the room. It was the oddest looking
kitchen I was ever in. Another room had a bed and a chair; and these
were all the articles of furniture which the house contained.--Such is
the description of an ordinary country-house in this part of the world.
Could one of these Sicilian peasants be put in possession of the house
of a New England farmer, and behold his chairs and tables, his silver
spoons and crockery, his desks and bureaus, and other comfortable
and ornamental furniture, he would think himself a rich man. But the
Sicilian, although he dwells upon a soil three times as fertile as that
of New England, and which is never encumbered with ice or snow, remains
poor amidst all the bountiful gifts of nature. A mild climate makes him
indolent, and he uses just strength enough to scratch the ground and
throw the seed into it; the fertility of the soil does all the rest;
and the most of his time is spent in doing nothing, or in unproductive
amusement.
Two or three cows stood chewing their cud by the road; half a dozen
ragged peasants lay on the ground, lazily basking in the sun, and two
or three others were watching their donkeys, who were drinking out of a
stone trough. A few half naked children were playing about the house;
and everything presented a picture of shiftless poverty and indolent
neglect. It struck me as very remarkable, that Providence should so
impartially balance the good and evil distributed throughout this
world. To one people are given a delicious climate, fertile soil, and
the richest productions of nature; while they are denied the gifts of
industry, enterprise, and perseverance, which are equally productive
sources of wealth. To another people are given an unfriendly climate
and hard soil; but these very things force them to labor and exert
their faculties, causing in the end industrious and persevering habits,
ingenuity and skill, which are more valuable than mines of gold. It is
only by travelling and seeing other countries, that we can learn to be
contented with our own.
CHAPTER VII.
_Perilous adventure in crossing a river.--A Sicilian ferry-boat.--
Enormous size of Ætna.--Inhabitants of the mountain.--Another
accident with the mules.--Arrival at Catania._
Having rested our mules and munched a bit of dinner, we set out again,
meaning to arrive at Catania before night. We passed by some beautiful
green fields and groves of olives, but a short time afterward the track
led us toward the sea, and we came to a bare, sandy plain. Here was a
river in our way, with a wretched straw hut on the bank, inhabited by a
man who kept a ferry-boat. We dismounted and crossed in the boat, but
the mules were led up the stream to go over a ford at some distance.
After passing this stream, we found the country wilder than ever: it
consisted of sand-hills, overgrown here and there with low bushes and
coarse grass, like the land at Cape Cod. Presently we came to another
river, where there was no boat, nor house, nor human being, to be seen.
One of the muleteers approached the stream with a long pole, to sound
the depth of the water. It was not very deep, but the bottom was a
quicksand, and the sounding-pole sunk into it till he found there was
no firm bottom. He went up and down the bank, trying other places, but
could not find a spot that was passable.
We were now in a great perplexity. I could not imagine any possible
means of getting across; the muleteers held a noisy talk together
about what was to be done, and at last led the way along the bank down
stream. I asked where we were going, and was told that at the mouth of
the river was a sand-bar, firm enough to allow us to cross upon it.
In about a quarter of an hour, we came to the sea-shore. There was a
smooth, sandy beach all along the coast, and the tide ran out of the
river with a pretty rapid current. The bar was several feet under
water, and the heaving of the sea, with the rapidity of the tide, made
a great surf. I thought it a very dangerous thing to ride out into the
ocean through the surf of a sand-bar, for the purpose of crossing a
river, but there was no other way, and we pushed on. The head mule was
frightened as he entered the sea, and seemed unwilling to proceed. One
of the muleteers dismounted, and led him by the bridle into the surf,
wading up to his middle in the water. By a good deal of coaxing and
pulling, he made him advance. The mules are so accustomed to follow
one another in a string, that the head one is sure to lead all the
rest wherever he goes, so the whole file of them plunged in after
him. When I had got a considerable distance out on the bar, my animal
became frightened at the waves that were tumbling about his legs, and
he sidled off into deep water. I expected hardly anything less than to
be drowned, for, on finding the water rising up to his back, he grew
so bewildered that he was unable to tell which way he was going, and
would have carried me directly out to sea if I had not pulled in the
reins with all my might, and brought him to a full stop. After allowing
him to recover his breath a little, I drew his head round in the proper
direction, and forced him onward; by repeated trials, I regained a
shallower spot, where he grew more quiet, and finally got to land. All
the others crossed the bar in safety.
The country after we passed the river was sandy and wild, abounding
in marshes and lagoons, where we saw a great many wild ducks. Late in
the afternoon we came to another stream, much broader and deeper than
any of the others. There was a large ferryboat like a mud-scow, which
carried us over, mules and all. The animals made a terrible uproar
on board, kicking, pushing and biting each other at a furious rate.
The boat had neither oars nor sail, but was moved by a rope stretched
across the stream from shore to shore. The banks of the river were soft
and clayey, and there was a clumsy sort of wharf for a landing-place,
made of sticks and bushes tied together.
This river was anciently named Syn[oe]thus; at present it is called
Giarretta. It is remarkable for containing amber, which is carried
down to the sea in its waters, and afterwards thrown up on the beach
by the waves, for many miles along the coast. A great many persons are
constantly searching along the beach for this precious material. After
my arrival at Catania, I saw a fisherman who had just picked up four
or five highly valuable lumps. They were of a beautiful yellow color,
and of the most transparent clearness I ever saw. It is well known
that this article is made into beads and other ornamental work, but
the nature of its origin has never been satisfactorily shown. From the
masses being often found in the shape of tears or globules, like bulbs
of turpentine or gum, it was formerly supposed to be some hardened
vegetable matter; but no tree has ever been discovered exuding amber.
Sometimes insects are imbedded in the lumps, and this has led many
persons to imagine that the insects manufacture it, as the bees make
wax. It is remarkable that it is never found originally on land, and
nowhere except on the sea-beach. This part of the Sicilian coast, and
the Prussian shore of the Baltic, produce the most of it. It is also
found on the shores of the Adriatic and the coast of Maryland.
It was some time before we got ready to start from the ferry after
crossing. The mules had become so antic from their squabble in the
boat, that they continued to bite and kick and jostle one another,
squealing and _whirrying_ most terribly. Several of them threw off
their loads in the hurly-burly, and we were forced to bang them lustily
with sticks before they would be quiet. At last we mounted and set
off again, and I was glad to hear that there were no more rivers to
cross on the way to Catania. A little boy, who sat on one of the mules
between two great packs, kept singing all the way. Some of the flat
marshy spots were all overgrown with canes, such as we use for fishing
rods: they were fifteen or twenty feet high. The country people make
use of them to prop their vines, as we set up poles for beans. I saw
many laborers in the vineyards along the road, setting the vine-props;
these are taken down when the grapes are gathered, and the tops of
the vine-stalks are cut and dried for fuel. During the winter, the
vine looks like a dead and worthless stump, but it sprouts anew in the
spring, and by midsummer shoots up to the top of the pole.
Every step of our journey brought us nearer to the great volcano, which
more and more excited my wonder as I approached it. I could now plainly
distinguish the numerous hills which stud its whole lower surface like
warts. Many villages appeared scattered about in various parts of the
mountain. I never before had any idea of its enormous magnitude. There
are thousands of people who live at a great height upon this mountain,
and have never been off it during their lives. Yet it is always smoking
at the summit, and often bursts out in fiery eruptions, that lay waste
whole towns and destroy many of the inhabitants.
Long after the sun had set to us, I continued to see the snowy top of
Ætna brightened with his declining rays. As it grew dark, our road led
us down to the sea-shore again, and we travelled many miles along the
sandy beach. The mules were sadly tired with their long journey; every
five minutes one of them fell from utter weariness and inability to
sustain his load. The muleteers set them on their legs again, gave them
a sound beating, and drove them onward. In the dark, I rode against the
mule who was trotting before me: the beast, either being more vicious
than the others, or rendered cross by fatigue, gave a kick, which was
intended for my animal, but missed him, and struck me on the left leg.
The pain of the blow was so great that I fell instantly from the saddle
upon the ground, and should have been left there in the dark, if I had
not bawled out loudly. The whole train was stopped when the accident
was known. My first belief was that my leg was broken; upon feeling
the bone, however, no fracture could be perceived; and, after a good
deal of chafing, the pain somewhat abated, and I was helped again into
the saddle. I jogged on slowly, keeping a sharp look-out for fear of
another accident, having had adventures enough to satisfy me for one
day. This affair delayed our progress so that we did not reach Catania
till late in the evening, when it was much too dark to see anything of
the city. I must therefore reserve my description of the place for the
next chapter.
[Illustration: Balboa discovering the Pacific.]
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER IV.
_Discovery of the Pacific Ocean.--Plans of Columbus.--Avarice
of the Spaniards.--Balboa.--Weighing the gold.--The
young Indian’s speech.--Indian mode of fighting.--Balboa
ascends the mountain.--First view of the Pacific._
Columbus had first seen land in the New World on the 12th of October,
1492. Six years after he surveyed the coast of the American continent
by Paria and Cumana. Territory was the grand object with the noble mind
of Columbus; he wished to colonize this great country by the settling
of Europeans, and thus introduce Christianity and civilization among
the Red Men. But the adventurers that followed him sought gold as their
only object, and employed the sword as the only means of converting the
natives.
The Spaniards who first landed on the continent, saw before them a
magnificent country, vast forests, mighty rivers, long ranges of
mountains--a dominion wide enough for the widest ambition of conquest,
or the richest enjoyment of life; but no treasure. Still their avarice
was kept in a perpetual fever by the Indian stories of gold in
profusion farther to the west, and their fancy was excited by tales of
a sea beyond, which they said stretched to the extremities of the globe.
The first European who set his eye on the Pacific Ocean, was Vasco
Thenez De Balboa. His family was of the order of Spanish gentry. He was
a man of great enterprise, personal strength, and of a daring courage.
He had been disappointed in his expectations of obtaining wealth at
Hayti, where he had settled, and an expedition sailing to Darien, he
accompanied it. A colony was already established on the eastern side of
the isthmus of Darien; but the savages in the vicinity had been found
so warlike, that the settlers did not venture to explore the interior.
Indian rumors of the golden country continued to inflame the Spaniards.
They heard of one king Dabaibe, who was said to be living in a city
filled with treasure, and who worshipped an idol of solid gold. Balboa
put himself at the head of his countrymen, and marched to conquer the
rich city. But they had first to conquer the surrounding caciques, who
would not permit the Spaniards to pass through their territories. At
length, Balboa formed an alliance with Comogre, a mountain chieftain,
who had three thousand warriors.
The son of Comogre brought a present to the Spanish troops of sixty
slaves and four thousand pieces of gold. In distributing the gold,
some difficulty occurred, as is usually the case where people are all
selfish; the quarrel grew furious, and swords were drawn. The young
Indian looked on, first with astonishment, then with scorn. Advancing
to the scales in which they were weighing the gold, he threw them on
the ground, exclaiming--“Is it for this trifle that you Spaniards
quarrel? If you care for gold, go seek it where it grows. I can show
you a land where you may gather it by handfuls.”
This speech brought all the Spaniards around him, and he proceeded to
detail his knowledge. “A cacique, very rich in gold,” said he, “lives
to the south, six suns off.” He pointed in that direction. “There,”
said he, “you will find the sea. But there you will find ships as large
as your own, with sails and oars. The men of these lands are so rich,
that their common eating and drinking vessels are of gold.” This was to
the Spaniards their first knowledge of Peru.
Balboa determined to search for this rich country. He collected a
hundred and ninety Spanish soldiers, a thousand friendly Indians, and
some bloodhounds, and began his march into the wilderness. The Indian
tribes were instantly roused. The Spaniards had scarcely reached the
foot of the Sierra, when they found the warriors, headed by their
caciques, drawn up in a little army.
The Indians, like the ancient Greeks, first defied the enemy, by
loud reproaches and expressions of scorn. They then commenced the
engagement. Torecha, their king, stood forth in the front of his
people, clothed in a regal mantle, and gave the word of attack. The
Indians rushed on with shouts; but the Spanish crossbows and muskets
were terrible weapons to their naked courage. The Indians were met by a
shower of arrows and balls, which threw them into confusion. They were
terrified, also, at the noise of the guns. They thought the Spaniards
fought with thunder and lightning. Still, the Indians did not fly till
their heroic king and six hundred of their warriors were left dead on
the spot. Over their bleeding bodies, Balboa marched to the plunder of
their city.
Balboa, with his army, now commenced the ascent of the mountains. It
took them twenty days. After toiling through forests, and climbing
mountains that seemed inaccessible, his Indian guide pointed out to
him, among the misty summits of the hills that lay before him, the
one from which the Pacific was visible. Balboa determined to have the
glory of looking upon it first. He commanded his troops to halt at the
foot of the hill. He ascended alone, with his sword drawn, and having
reached the summit, cast his eyes around. The Pacific Ocean was spread
out before him!
Balboa had invaded the Indian country in search of gold, and murdered
the natives to obtain it; but at that time such conduct was not
considered very wicked. The Indians were looked upon with horror,
because they were savages, and Balboa believed himself a good Christian
because he was a Catholic. He fell on his knees, and, weeping, offered
his thanksgiving to Heaven, for the bounty that had suffered him to see
this glorious sight. He doubtless thought God was well pleased with him.
His troops had watched his ascent of the mountain, with the eagerness
of men who felt their fates bound up in his success. When they saw his
gestures of delight and wonder, followed by his falling on his knees
and prayer, they became incapable of all restraint. They rushed up the
hill like wild deer. But when they saw the matchless prospect around
them, they, too, shared the spirit of their leader; they fell on their
knees and offered up their thanksgiving to God. Yet at the same time
they doubtless contemplated plundering and destroying the Indians. They
had not learned to do to others as they would have others do to them.
[Illustration: Lion hunting]
Lion Hunting.
Most people are more disposed to run away from lions than to run after
them, unless indeed they are safely locked up in cages. But only think
of going to hunt lions in the wilderness! Yet such things are done in
Africa, where lions are frequently met with.
In the southern part of that country is a tribe of negroes called the
Bechuana. The men of this tribe are accustomed to carry a long staff
with a bunch of ostrich feathers tied at one end, which is used to
shade themselves from the sun. It is in fact a kind of parasol, but
whether it is designed to save their complexion, I cannot say. It
seems, at any rate, that the ladies do not use it. But beside serving
as a parasol, this feathered staff has another and important use. As I
have said, these people sometimes go in pursuit of the lion, and when
a party of hunters meet one, they go near to him, and as he springs on
one of them, the hunter quickly plants the handle of the staff in the
ground and retreats. The fierce lion leaps upon the staff and rends the
ostrich feathers in pieces. While he is thus engaged, the other hunters
come suddenly upon him from behind, and despatch him with their daggers.
* * * * *
“Isn’t your hat sleepy?” inquired a little urchin of a man with a
shocking bad one on. “No; why?” inquired the gentleman. “Why, because
it looks as if it was a long time since it had a _nap_.”
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER IX.
_Completion of my education.--Manly sports.--An accident.--The
bed of pain.--Recovery from sickness.--A new companion._
In the last chapter I have given an account of a day in spring. I
might now proceed to relate the adventures and amusements of a day
in summer, then of autumn, and lastly of winter; and each of these,
it would appear, had its appropriate occupations and diversions. But
I am afraid that I shall weary my readers with long stories. I shall
therefore proceed with matters more immediately affecting my fortunes,
and tending to get to the end of a long journey.
I must go forward to the period when I was about sixteen years of age,
and when I had finally taken leave of the school. I had passed through
the branches taught there at the time; but these were few, as I have
already stated, and I was far from having thoroughly mastered even
them. I had, in fact, adopted a habit of skimming and slipping along,
really learning as little as possible. Not only was I indulged by my
uncle and his household, but there was a similar system of tolerance
extended toward my faults and follies, even by the schoolmaster. It is
true that sometimes he treated me harshly enough; but it was generally
in some fit of spleen. If he was gloomy and tyrannical to the school,
he was usually lenient to me. He even excused my indolence, and winked
at my neglect of study and duty.
It would seem that such general favor, should cultivate in the heart
of a youth only kind and generous feelings; but it was not so with
me. The more I was indulged, the more passionate and headstrong I
grew; and perhaps, in this, I was not unlike other young people. It
seems that there are wild passions in our very nature, which are like
weeds, ever tending to overgrow the whole soil. These passions need to
be eradicated by constant care and correction, just as weeds must be
pulled up by the roots and thrown away. Of what use is it to plant a
garden, if you do not hoe it and rake it, thus keeping the weeds down,
and allowing the proper plants to flourish? And of what advantage is
it to go to school, to be educated, if the thorns and briers of vice
and passion are not destroyed, and the fruits and flowers of truth and
virtue cultivated and cherished?
Being no more a school-boy, I now thought myself a man. Bill Keeler had
left my uncle, and was apprenticed to a shoemaker; but in the evening
I often contrived to meet him, and one or two other companions. Our
amusements were not such as would tell well in a book. Too often we
went to the bar-room of my uncle’s inn, and listened to the vulgar
jokes and coarse fun that were always stirring there, and sometimes
we treated each other with liquor. I cannot now but wonder that such
things should have given me any pleasure; but habit and example have
a mighty influence over us. Seeing that others drank, we drank too,
though at first the taste of all spirits was odious to me. I got
used to it by degrees, and at last began to like the excitement they
produced. And strange to say, the bar-room, which originally disgusted
me, became rather a favorite place of resort. I was shocked at the
oaths and indecency for a time; the huge puddles of tobacco spittle
over the floor, and the reeking flavors of tobacco smoke and brandy,
disgusted me; the ragged, red-nosed loungers of the place, the noise,
the riot, the brutality, which frequently broke out, and which was
called by the soakers, having a “good time,” were actually revolting;
but my aversion passed away by degrees. Under the strong infection
of the place, I partially adopted its habits; I learned to smoke
and chew tobacco, though several fits of nervous sickness warned me
of the violence I was doing to my nature. I even ventured to swear
occasionally; and, if the truth must be told, I followed out, in
various ways, the bad lessons that I learnt.
It is painful to me to confess these things, but I do it for the
purpose of warning those for whose benefit I write, against similar
errors. Wherever young people go frequently, there they are learning
something; and as a bar-room is a place to which young men are often
tempted, I wish to advise them that it is a school, in which profanity,
coarseness, intemperance, and vice, are effectually taught. It is a
seminary where almost every thief, robber, counterfeiter, and murderer,
takes his first and last lesson. A man who loves a bar-room where
liquors are sold, has reason to tremble; a young man who loves bar-room
company, has already entered within the very gate that leads down to
ruin. That I have escaped such ruin myself, is attributable to the
kindness of Providence, rather than to any resistance of evil which
originated in my own breast. If Heaven had deserted me, I had been lost
forever.
It was one night after we had been drinking at the tavern, that my
companions and myself issued forth, bent on what was called a _spree_.
Our first exploit was to call up the doctor of the village, and ask him
to hasten to Miss Sally St. John, who has been noticed before in these
memoirs, insinuating that she was desperately ill. Our next adventure
was to catch the parson’s horse in the pasture, and tie him to the
whipping-post, which stood on the green before the meeting-house. We
then proceeded to a watermelon patch, and, prowling about among the
vines, selected the largest and finest, and ripping them open, strewed
the contents over the ground. We then went to a garden belonging to
a rich old farmer, who was celebrated for producing very fine pears.
The window of the proprietor looked out into the garden, and as he had
the reputation of exercising a vigilant watch over his fruit, we felt
the necessity of caution. But we were too much elated by our liquor
and success in sport, to be very circumspect. We got over the tall
picket fence, and two or three of us ascended one of the trees. We had
begun already to pluck the fruit, when the window of the old farmer
slid silently upward, and a grizzled head was thrust out. It was soon
withdrawn, but in a few moments the barrel of a long gun was pushed
forth, and a second after it discharged its contents, with a sound
which, at that silent hour, seemed like the voice of thunder.
I was on the tree, with my back to the marksman, and presented a fair
target to his aim. At the very instant of the discharge, I felt a
tingling in my flesh; immediately after a dizziness came over my sight,
and I fell to the ground. I was completely stunned, but my companions
seized me and hurried me away. Clambering over stone walls, and pushing
through a nursery of young trees, they secured their retreat. At a
safe distance the party paused, and after a little space I recovered
my senses. I found myself in great pain, however, and after a little
examination it appeared that my left arm was broken. As carefully as
possible I was now taken toward my home. It was about midnight when we
reached it, and my uncle, being informed that I was hurt, attempted to
come to me. But he had been in bed but a short time, and according to
his wont, about this period, he had taken a “night-cap,” as he called
it, and was utterly incapable of walking across the floor. Some of
the people, however, were got up, and one went for the physician. The
answer returned was, that some madcaps had been there and played off
a hoax upon the doctor, and this application was no doubt intended as
another, and he would not come. I therefore lay till morning in great
distress, and when at last the doctor came, he found that not only my
arm was broken, but that my back was wounded, as if I had been shot
with bullets of salt! Several small pieces of salt were actually found
imbedded in my skin!
I was hardly in a state to give explanations; in fact, my reason
already began to waver. Strange visions soon flitted before my eyes:
an old grizzled pate seemed bobbing out of a window, and making faces
at me; then the head seemed a watermelon with green eyes; and then it
turned into a bell-muzzled fowling-piece, and while I was trying to
look down its throat, it exploded and scattered my brains to the four
winds! Here my vision ended, and with it all remembrance. I fell into
a settled fever, and did not recover my senses for two weeks. When
my consciousness returned, I found myself attended by a man of the
village, named Raymond, a brother of the minister, and whom I had long
known. He was sitting by my bedside, with a book in his hand; but as I
opened my eyes, I noticed that, while he seemed to be reading, his eyes
were fixed on me with an anxious interest. In a moment after he spoke.
“Are you better, Robert?” said he, in a tone of tenderness. I attempted
to reply, but my tongue refused to move. Raymond saw my difficulty, and
coming to the bedside, told me to remain quiet. “You have been ill,”
said he, “very ill, but you are better. Your life depends upon your
being kept perfectly quiet.”
Thus admonished, I closed my eyes, and soon fell asleep. The next day
I was much better, and entered into some conversation with Raymond,
who I then found had been my regular attendant. The physician soon
after came, and pronounced me out of danger. “You are better, my young
friend,” said he; “I think you are safe; but this getting salted down
like a herring, and tumbling off of pear trees at midnight, is an
awkward business, and cannot be often repeated with impunity.” This
latter remark being uttered with a significant smile, recalled to my
mind the occasion of my sickness, and a sudden blush of shame covered
my face. Raymond noticed my confusion, and by some remark immediately
diverted my attention to another topic.
In a few days I was able to sit up in my bed, and was nearly free
from pain. My arm, however, was still useless, and I was in fact very
feeble. I could talk with Raymond, however, and as his conversation
was always engaging, the time did not pass heavily. Raymond was a man
of extensive reading, and great knowledge of the world, but, owing
to excessive sensitiveness, he had settled into a state of almost
complete imbecility. He thought and spoke like a philosopher, yet in
the active business of life, in which he had been once engaged, he
had entirely failed. He was indeed regarded in the village as little
better than insane or silly. He had no regular employment, and spent
his time almost wholly in reading--his brother, the minister, having
a good library. As he was very kind-hearted, however, and possessed a
good deal of medical knowledge, he was often employed in attending upon
sick persons, and for his services he would never receive any other
compensation than his own gratification, in the consciousness of doing
good, might afford.
It was a mercy to me that I fell into the hands of poor Raymond, for
my mind and heart were softened by my sickness, and by the humiliation
I felt at having been detected in a disgraceful act, and so signally
punished. His counsel, therefore, which was full of wisdom, and which
he imparted in a way, at once to instruct and amuse, sunk into my mind
like the seed sown in spring time, and upon a prepared soil; and I have
reason to believe that I may attribute not only the recovery of my body
from disease, but the correction of some of the vices of my mind, to
his conversations at my sick bedside. I believe I cannot do my readers
a better service than to transcribe some of these conversations,
as nearly as my memory will restore them, and this I shall do in a
subsequent chapter.
Toucan
Is the name of the bird whose picture is here given. I beg my reader
not to laugh at his enormous bill, for it is such as nature has given
him, and he is no more to blame for it than a person with a long nose,
is to blame for having such a one. Bonaparte said that a man with a
long nose almost invariably possessed good sense; and this holds true
in respect to the toucan; for I assure you he is a very clever fellow
in his way. I will tell you all about him and his family.
The toucans are natives of South America, and are very abundant in
the forests of Brazil. They only dwell in the warm parts of the
country, and they select those portions which are the richest in their
productions. It is among spicy groves, and where fruits and flowers are
to be found at all seasons of the year, that the toucan family have
chosen to make their home. Surely this seems a mark of their sagacity.
[Illustration: Toucan]
The toucan is about eighteen inches in length, and its general color
is black, though it is marked with crimson and yellow, and is a very
stylish bird. The bill is almost as long as the body, but it is less
bony than the bills of other birds; it is, in fact, a great part of it
but a thin paper-like substance. Those portions which need to be strong
are not solid bone, but consist of two thin laminæ, sustained by bones
within, and crossing each other like the timbers which support the
sides and roof of a house.
I have intimated that the toucans are pretty sensible birds, and I
shall now attempt to prove it. As their legs are very short and far
apart, they cannot walk very well on the ground, so they spend a
great portion of their time upon the wing, or upon the trees. They have
strong, sharp claws, well fitted for climbing; so they are very much
addicted to hopping about among the branches of trees, and they may be
often seen, like woodpeckers, running up and down the trunks. It is for
this climbing propensity that they have got the name of _Zygodactilic_
birds,--a long word, which no doubt signifies a great deal.
Another proof of the good sense of the toucan is furnished by his
always sitting and flying with his head to the wind when it blows
hard--for the reason, that, if he presented the broadside of his
proboscis to the gale, it would bother him to keep himself from being
completely blown away. Beside this proof of his sagacity, I may
add, that the toucan holds the monkeys, who are very abundant and
troublesome in his country, in great detestation; and well he may, for
the monkey is fond of birds’ eggs, and is a great robber of birds’
nests. Now the toucan likes eggs himself, and the plundering monkey
often deprives the toucan of his breakfast, by getting at the nest
first. It is not wonderful that squabbles often ensue between these
rival thieves--for two of a trade can never agree, you know. Of course,
the robbers care as little for the poor bird that is robbed, as lawyers
for their clients--but they think a great deal of themselves, and when
interest is touched, they resent it manfully. There is something in
a monkey and a toucan over a bird’s nest that seems like two lawyers
over a case. Their mutual object is to eat up the eggs, but it makes a
mighty difference which gets them. If the monkey gets the case, toucan
gives him a tweak with his enormous bill, which gripes like a pair of
tongs. If toucan gets the case, monkey slaps him across his beak with
the palm of his hand, and often with such force as to make toucan
scream outright. It must be admitted that if toucan has a large bill to
bite with, he also presents an ample mark for the revenge of monkey.
Whether these squabbles show the good sense of toucan, I will not
decide, but he can plead the example of one of the learned professions,
that of the law, which ranks among the first in society, and exerts
more influence over mankind than all others put together.
Another evidence of toucan’s good sense is this,--that he eats
everything he likes, if it suits his constitution. There is a delicious
little fruit in his native clime, called toucan-berry, which is good
for his health, so he feasts upon it when he can get it. He also eats
eggs, as I have said; and, in short, he diversifies, and amplifies his
pleasures, like civilized men, by fruit, flesh, fowl, or vegetable, if
it agrees with him.
I do not know that I need to say more at present, than that toucan does
not choose to take the trouble of making nests of stems and twigs, like
some other birds, but selects his dwelling in the holes of trees, so
that he may have a roof to shelter him from the storm--a preference
which again marks his civilization.
[Illustration: THE NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.]
The Newfoundland Dog.
Of all animals, the dog is most attached to man. His affection is not
general, but particular. He does not love all mankind, as a matter of
course, for in his natural state he is a wild and savage creature. In
Asia, dogs are often outcasts, prowling around cities, and feeding upon
offal and dead carcasses. They seem to be, if uncivilized, cousins to
the wolf, and near relatives to the hyena. It is in Asia, where the dog
is a persecuted, and therefore a skulking kind of animal, that he is
the emblem of meanness and cowardice. There, where the people worship
power and seem to think little of justice, the lion, a sly, prowling,
thieving creature, is the common emblem of courage and greatness.
But here, where the dog is cherished and taken to a home, he seems to
have a new character and a redeemed nature. He fixes his heart upon
some _one_, and is ready to run, jump, bark, bite, dig, work or play,
to give pleasure to him. He seems to live for his master--his master is
his deity. He will obey and defend him while living--he will lie down
and die by his master’s grave. It is related of Bonaparte, that one
night, after a fight, he was walking by the moonlight over the field
of battle, when suddenly a dog sprung out from the cloak beneath which
his dead master lay, and then ran howling back to the body, seeming at
the same time to ask help for his poor friend, and to seek revenge.
Bonaparte was much affected by the scene, and said that few events of
his life excited a deeper feeling in his breast than this.
There are at least thirty different kinds of dogs,--some large, some
small, some fierce, some gentle, some slender and graceful, some
sturdily made and very powerful. There is the lap-dog, with a soft,
lustrous eye and silken skin, fit to be the pet of a fine lady--and
there is the fierce bull-dog, that will seize a bull by the nose and
pin him to the ground. There is the greyhound, that is so swift as to
outstrip the deer, and the patient foxhound, that follows reynard with
a keen scent, till at last his fleetness and his tricks can avail him
nothing, and he surrenders to his fate.
But amid all this variety, the Newfoundland dog is the best fellow.
He is, in the first place, the most intelligent, and in the next,
he is the most devoted, attached, and faithful. When the people came
from Europe to America, they found this fine breed of dogs with the
Indians of Newfoundland and the vicinity. They are large, shaggy,
webfooted, and almost as fond of the water as the land. They possess
great strength, and have a countenance that seems to beam with reason
and affection. I give you the portrait of one of these creatures, to
prove what I say. There are many pleasant tales of this creature, well
authenticated, of which I shall now tell you a few.
One day, as a girl was amusing herself with an infant, at Aston’s Quay,
near Carlisle bridge, Dublin, and was sportively toying with the child,
it made a sudden spring from her arms, and in an instant fell into
the Liffey. The screaming nurse and anxious spectators saw the water
close over the child, and conceived that he had sunk to rise no more. A
Newfoundland dog, which had been accidentally passing with his master,
sprang forward to the wall, and gazed wistfully at the ripple in the
water, made by the child’s descent. At the same instant the child
reappeared on the surface of the current, and the dog sprang forward to
the edge of the water.
Whilst the animal was descending, the child again sunk, and the
faithful creature was seen anxiously swimming round and round the spot
where it had disappeared. Once more the child rose to the surface; the
dog seized him, and with a firm but gentle pressure bore him to land
without injury. Meanwhile a gentleman arrived, who, on inquiry into the
circumstances of the transaction, exhibited strong marks of sensibility
and feeling towards the child, and of admiration for the dog that had
rescued him from death.
The person who had removed the babe from the dog turned to show
the infant to this gentleman, when it presented to his view the
well-known features of his own son! A mixed sensation of terror, joy,
and surprise, struck him mute. When he had recovered the use of his
faculties, and fondly kissed his little darling, he lavished a thousand
embraces on the dog, and offered to his master a very large sum (five
hundred guineas) if he would transfer the valuable animal to him; but
the owner of the dog (Colonel Wynne) felt too much affection for the
useful creature to part with him for any consideration whatever.
A gentleman who lived at a short distance from a village in Scotland,
had a very fine Newfoundland dog, which was sent every forenoon to the
baker’s shop in the village, with a napkin, in one corner of which was
tied a piece of money, for which the baker returned a certain quantity
of bread, tying it up in the napkin and consigning it to the care of
the dog.
At about equal distances from the gentleman’s mansion there lived two
other dogs; one a mastiff, which was kept by a farmer as a watch-dog;
and the other a stanch bull-dog, which kept watch over the parish
mill. As each was master over all the lesser curs of his master’s
establishment, they were severally very high and mighty animals in
their way, and they seldom met without attempting to settle their
precedence by battle.
Well, it so happened that one day, when the Newfoundland dog was
returning from the baker’s with his charge, he was set upon by a host
of useless curs, who combined their efforts, and annoyed him the more,
that, having charge of the napkin and bread, he could not defend
himself, and accordingly got himself rolled in the mire, his ears
scratched, and his coat soiled.
Having at length extricated himself, he retreated homeward, and
depositing his charge in its accustomed place, he instantly set out
to the farmer’s mastiff. To the no small astonishment of the farmer’s
family, instead of the meeting being one of discord and contention, the
two animals met each other peacefully, and after a short interchange
of civilities, they both set off towards the mill. Having engaged
the miller’s dog as an ally, the three sallied forth, and taking a
circuitous road to the village, scoured it from one end to the other,
putting to the tooth, and punishing severely, every cur they could
find. Having thus taken their revenge, they washed themselves in a
ditch, and each returned quietly to his home.
One day a Newfoundland dog and a mastiff, which never met without a
quarrel, had a fierce and prolonged battle on the pier of Donaghadee,
and from which, while so engaged, they both fell into the sea. There
was no way of escape but by swimming a considerable distance. The
Newfoundland, being an expert swimmer, soon reached the pier in safety;
but his antagonist, after struggling for some time, was on the point of
sinking, when the Newfoundland, which had been watching the mastiff’s
struggles with great anxiety, dashed in, and seizing him by the collar,
kept his head above the water, and brought him safely to shore. Ever
after the dogs were most intimate friends; and when, unfortunately, the
Newfoundland was killed by a stone-wagon passing over his body, the
mastiff languished, and evidently lamented his friend’s death for a
long time.
A Thames waterman once laid a wager that he and his dog would leap
from the centre arch of Westminster bridge, and land at Lambeth within
a minute of each other. He jumped off first, and the dog immediately
followed; but as it was not in the secret, and fearing that its master
would be drowned, it seized him by the neck, and dragged him on shore,
to the no small diversion of the spectators.
A native of Germany, when travelling through Holland, was accompanied
by a large Newfoundland dog. Walking along a high bank which formed the
side of a dike or canal, so common in that country, his foot slipped,
and he fell into the water. As he was unable to swim, he soon became
senseless. When he recovered his recollection, he found himself in
a cottage, surrounded by peasants, who were using such means as are
generally practised in that country for restoring suspended animation.
The account given by the peasants was, that as one of them was
returning home from his labor, he observed, at a considerable distance,
a large dog in the water, swimming, and dragging and sometimes pushing
something that he seemed to have great difficulty in supporting, but
which, by dint of perseverance, he at length succeeded in getting into
a small creek.
When the animal had pulled what it had hitherto supported as far out of
the water as it was able, the peasant discovered that it was the body
of a man.
The dog, having shaken himself, began industriously to lick the hands
and face of his master; and the peasant, having obtained assistance,
conveyed the body to a neighboring house, where, the usual means
having been adopted, the gentleman was soon restored to sense and
recollection. Two large bruises with the marks of teeth appeared, one
on his shoulder, and the other on the nape of his neck; whence it was
presumed that the faithful animal had seized his master by the shoulder
and swam with him for some time, but that his sagacity had prompted
him to let go his hold and shift his grasp to the neck, by which means
he was enabled to support the head out of the water. It was in the
latter position that the peasant observed the dog making his way along
the dike, which it appeared he had done for the distance of nearly
a quarter of a mile, before he discovered a place at which it was
possible to drag his burden ashore. It is therefore probable that the
gentleman owed his life as much to the sagacity as to the fidelity of
his dog.
These stories will do for the present; but I must add, that the
celebrated Lord Byron had a Newfoundland dog, which he loved very much,
and when the animal died, he had a marble monument placed over his
grave, and the following words were inscribed upon it:--
Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning
Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.
The Mysterious Artist.
One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of
Seville, in Spain, approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter
Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual
salutations, they entered the studio or workshop of the artist. Murillo
was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his
easel to examine if the paint had dried, or perhaps to admire his work
of the previous evening.
“Pray, gentlemen,” exclaimed Isturitz angrily, “which of you remained
behind in the studio last night?”
“What an absurd question!” replied Cordova; “don’t you recollect that
we all came away together?”
“This is a foolish jest, gentlemen,” answered Isturitz. “Last evening I
cleaned my palette with the greatest care, and now it is as dirty as if
some one had used it all night.”
“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my
canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that
amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my
canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel,
Ferdinand.”
“It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand.
“Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest--”
“You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not
capable of sketching such a figure as that.”
“At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as
that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.”
“And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly,
strange things go on here in the night.”
“Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who
comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz.
“Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in
admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of
a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes
draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in
my Descent from the Cross.”
With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel,
when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute
surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful
head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines
so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by
which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had
descended among them.
“Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the
sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.
“Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to
the easel of Mendez.
“Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo,
eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day
be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch!
what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?”
“No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.
“Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?”
But they all gave the same answer as Mendez.
“It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo,
impatiently.
“I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these
strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first
unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the
truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows
what to believe.”
“What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of
the virgin by the unknown artist.
“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave
the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes,
washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; but when we return in
the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled
with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches,
(beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an
angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or
the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself,
Senor.”
“This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen,” observed Murillo; “but
we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant.” “Sebastian,” he
continued, addressing a little mulatto boy of about fourteen years old,
who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every
night?”
“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.
“And have you done so?”
“Yes, master.”
“Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these
gentlemen came? Speak, slave, or I shall make you acquainted with my
dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the
band of his trowsers without replying.
“Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Murillo, pulling his ear.
“No one, master, no one,” replied the trembling Sebastian with
eagerness.
“That is false,” exclaimed Murillo.
“No one but me, I swear to you, master,” cried the mulatto, throwing
himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his
hands in supplication before his master.
“Listen to me,” pursued Murillo. “I wish to know who has sketched the
head of this virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find here
every morning, on coming to this studio. This night, instead of going
to bed, you shall keep watch; and if by to-morrow you do not discover
who the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the
lash--you hear! I have said it; now go, and grind the colors; and you,
gentlemen, to work.”
From the commencement till the termination of the hour of instruction,
Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to
be spoken but what regarded their occupation, but the moment he
disappeared, the pupils made ample amends for this restraint, and as
the unknown painter occupied all their thoughts, the conversation
naturally turned to that subject.
“Beware, Sebastian, of the lash,” said Mendez, “and watch well for the
culprit. Give me the Naples yellow.”
“You do not need it, Senor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough
already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the
Zombi.”
“Are these negroes fools or asses, with their Zombi?” said Gonzalo,
laughing; “pray what is a Zombi?”
“Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Senor Gonzalo,”
continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, “for it
must be the Zombi who has sketched the left arm of your St. John to
such a length that, if the right resembles it, he will be able to untie
his shoe-strings without stooping.”
“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting,
“that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the
point.”
“Oh, they say that negroes have the faces of asses, and the tongues of
parrots,” rejoined Gonzalo, in a tone of indifference.
“With this distinction,” observed Ferdinand, “that the parrot repeats
by rote, while Sebastian shows judgment in his remarks.”
“Like the parrot, by chance,” retorted Gonzalo.
“Who knows,” said Mendez, who had not digested the Naples yellow, “that
from grinding the colors, he may one day astonish us by showing that he
knows one from another.”
“To know one color from another, and to know how to use them, are
two very different things,” replied Sebastian, whom the liberty of
the studio allowed to join in the conversation of the pupils; and
truth obliges us to confess that his taste was so exquisite, his eye
so correct, that many of them did not disdain to follow the advice
he frequently gave them respecting their paintings. Although they
sometimes amused themselves by teasing the little mulatto, he was a
great favorite with them all; and this evening, on quitting the studio,
each, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, counselled him to keep
a strict watch and catch the Zombi, for fear of the lash.
(_To be continued._)
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 2.
Among my schoolmates, there were two boys who were always inseparable,
yet they were as unlike each other in all respects as can well be
conceived; What strange sympathy united them so closely, was to us all
a matter of wonder; yet their friendship continued to increase, and the
one seemed ever unhappy when absent from the other. Bill Hardy was a
stout, hearty little fellow, fond of active and athletic sports, and
ever the foremost in all feats of daring and mischief. If there was a
battle to be fought with the butcher’s saucy imp, or the blacksmith’s
grim-faced apprentice, who but Bill was thrust forward as the ready
champion. And many a hard-fought contest did he wage with them, and
many a black eye did he give and receive in his wars. But his spirit
was ever unconquerable. If he received from their wicked fists a
sound drubbing to-day, he was nothing loth to-morrow to try his luck
again; and thus, by dint of persevering courage, he often contrived
by a lucky blow to win a victory over his more powerful adversaries.
Often did the graceless youth return to his widowed mother with a
disfigured face, and with torn garments, and, after receiving her
gentle reprimand, promise better things for the future; but with the
next morning’s sun all his good resolutions vanished, and his repentant
promises were forgotten. He seemed to overflow with the very spirit
of fun and mischief. It was his delight to fasten a tin kettle to the
tail of any vagabond dog in the streets, and send him howling with
terror from one end of the village to the other. He enjoyed also great
satisfaction in worrying every luckless cat that he could lay his hands
on; and every poor broken-down horse in the pasture could attest to the
weight of his arm and the sharpness of his heel. No unfortunate little
bird could find a perch for its nest high enough to be safe from his
marauding fingers, for he would fearlessly clamber to the very tops
of the highest tree, like a squirrel, and scale the most dangerous
precipice, in pursuit of his prey.
Little Jemmy Galt, on the contrary, though he accompanied his friend
Billy in all his ramblings, never took an active part or interest in
them. He was of a much more quiet and gentle nature, and endeavored to
restrain his friend in his thoughtless pranks. He used especially all
his little powers of persuasion with him to prevent him from engaging
in his frequent pitched battles; but when his remonstrances were all
in vain, he barely stood by him, holding his cap and jacket during
the contest, and anxiously acting the good Samaritan, in arranging
the disordered dress, and removing the stains of dirt and blood from
his friend. This truly kind and humane nature often served to check
the cruel propensities of his friend, and saved many a poor bird or
animal from torture. But if the spirited Billy carried away the palm
in the pastimes of the fields and woods, his quiet comrade was no
less distinguished and pre-eminent in the school-room; for here his
studious habits and intelligent mind gave him a marked precedence. And
here his skill in mastering a difficult task enabled him to reward the
protecting services of his friend, by helping him through the slough of
many a tough sum in the arithmetic, or many a deep bog in grammar, from
which less acute Billy was vainly endeavoring to extricate himself.
It seemed to be a mutual alliance, in which the one was to fight the
battles of the other in return for the intellectual aid rendered him in
the school-room.
I happened one bright holiday afternoon to overhear a conversation
between them, which may well serve to illustrate their several minds.
The subject of their discussion related to the choice of their future
profession in life, and the selection of each was such as I should have
readily anticipated.
“It is my wish and intention,” said Bill, “to be a sailor. That is the
profession that my poor father loved and followed, and nothing but the
sea and a ship will ever satisfy my mind. To be sure, you may say that
he, poor man, was lost, together with all who sailed with him, on a
distant coast, and in a dreadful tempest, but that is no reason why I
should meet with the same misfortune. How many there are who sail the
ocean for a good long life-time in perfect safety, and at length, after
earning a heap of gold and silver, die quietly in their beds at home,
mourned and respected by all who knew them. I never look on those rusty
old pistols and cutlass in our parlor, which my father always prized so
dearly, without a keen desire to pack them away in a chest of my own,
and hasten away to B., and enter upon my voyagings in one of those
noble ships that you may always see there at the wharves. And then,
when I look at those beautiful sea-shells that adorn our mantel, and
the shark’s jaw, and the whale’s spine, and the stuffed flying-fish, I
feel the strongest inclination to sail myself to foreign shores, and
gather such curiosities with my own hands, and bring them home, to
still further adorn our little room. Heigho! I wish I had a pea-jacket
and was bound for sea to-morrow!”
“I regret,” said master Jemmy, “the choice you have made; for I think
you are about to devote yourself to a hard and dangerous life. Far
better were it for you to hold the plough than the rudder, to plough
up the rich furrows of the farm, than the rough billows of the ocean.
Consider how many privations you will have to endure, and what perils
you must face. Think of the dark, stormy nights at sea, with the wild
winds howling through the rigging, the mast creaking, and bending, and
ready to break, and the torn sails flapping and struggling to break
free from your feeble grasp. Then will come the pelting rain, and the
blinding snow, and the sharp sleet, and the blood will freeze in your
veins, and every limb become benumbed with the cold. Then you must
endure the sharp and bitter taunts and execrations of your officers,
and, after a hard and thankless struggle with the storm, creep to your
wet and cheerless hammock, in the dark and comfortless forecastle, and
sigh for death, or lament that you ever left the warm fireside and the
kind friends of your country home. I have no taste myself for such a
boisterous life, and prefer to cultivate my mind, and devote myself to
some gentler and more studious employment. How pleasant to stand at the
bar and plead the case of some forlorn body, falsely accused, or to
visit and heal at the sick bed, or to minister in the sacred desk, or
even to preside over the little school in some humble village. Such is
the height of my ambition.”
“You present to my view,” said Bill, “only the dark side of the
picture. Think, on the contrary, of the brave, stout ship, with all
its gaudy streamers flying from each spiring mast, all its snow-white
canvass bellying on the tall spars, the fresh breeze blowing us on our
course, and the bright and boundless sea smiling, and shining, and
rolling around the bow. Then think of the visit to the green islands
of the Bermudas and Madeira, and all the fruit-bearing isles of the
West Indies. Think of the glorious gallop among the mountains and
plantations of Cuba. There the loveliest fruits grow as plentifully
as the apples in our orchard, and you have only the trouble to help
yourself to the plantain, the banana, the pine-apple, the orange,
and the melon. Think of the delicious groves of palm and lemon that
cover the land, filled with numberless birds of the richest plumage.
Then also what famous shores may we not visit in our voyagings. We
may drop anchor at Liverpool and London, and view without cost all
the wonders of those mighty cities; view the multitudes of strange
faces, and elegant shops, and splendid edifices, palaces, halls, and
churches--view at pleasure the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s,
and all the noble parks of London. Then also we may touch at Havre,
or Rochelle, or Marseilles, and take a trip to gay and lively Paris,
and visit Versailles, the Tuilleries, the Boulevards, and the Palais
Royal; or perhaps touch at Leghorn, and thence make a trip to the
Leaning Tower of Pisa--of which we have a print in our school-room--or
ride over to Florence and see the beautiful Duomo, and all the rare
palaces and galleries of the Medici, of whom we read in our school
history;--or perhaps sail into the glorious bay of Naples, and ascend
to the very summit of Mount Vesuvius, and bring home to the good folks
of our village specimens of the sulphur from the very crater of the
burning mountain;--or even ride over to old Rome itself, and visit
the Vatican, with all its fine pictures, and the great St. Peter’s,
which is said to be bigger than all the churches of Massachusetts put
together. Then also we may sail up the blue Mediterranean, and visit
Sicily and Malta, and Athens, and all the isles of Greece, and cast
anchor off Smyrna and Constantinople, or coast along the shores of
Syria, or sail up the harbor of Alexandria and take a look at the Nile,
the Desert, and the Pyramids, and get a glimpse of Mehemit Ali himself,
in the midst of his wild Egyptian guards. What could you desire better
than all that? And all this I can enjoy by only going to sea as a
sailor. Then also I can sail across the Pacific and Indian oceans, and
take a look at the wonders of Bombay, Madras, Manilla, Calcutta, and
Canton, and walk the streets of Pekin itself.”
After some further conversation the two friends parted. Each of the
little fellows followed in course of time their several inclinations.
Jemmy, after many struggles against poverty, overcame all difficulties,
and at length quietly settled down as the “orthodox preacher” in a
pleasant, quiet, and happy little village of New England, where he
married a pretty little wife, and reared up a thriving and numerous
progeny, who, I hope, are following in the good example set before
them by their amiable parent. Master Billy had his wish and went to
sea, where he was tossed and knocked about by the winds and waters
for many a year, and, after rising to the command of a ship, finally
retired from the service, and purchasing a farm with the fruits of his
hard earnings, quietly settled down as a parishioner of his boyhood’s
friend. He several times, however, suffered shipwreck; and at one time
nearly lost his life while out in a whaleboat, engaged in that perilous
fishery; was once taken by pirates, and had nearly been compelled to
“walk the plank.” But he luckily escaped all these perils, and now
loves to recite them over to his listening neighbors; but he never
omits to confess the errors of his boyhood, and to declare that the
habits he then formed had nearly proved fatal to his success in life.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: Child reading]
Egyptian Schools.
Among the people of Egypt, parents seldom devote much of their time
or attention to the education of their children; generally contenting
themselves with instilling into their young minds a few principles of
religion, and then submitting them, if they can afford to do so, to
the instruction of a schoolmaster. As early as possible, the child is
taught to say, “I testify that there is no deity but God; and I testify
that Mohammed is God’s apostle.” He receives also lessons of religious
pride, and learns to hate the Christians, and all other sects but his
own, as thoroughly as does the Moslem in advanced age. Most of the
children of the higher and middle classes, and some of those of the
lower orders, are taught by the schoolmaster to read, and to recite the
whole, or certain portions of the Koran, by memory. They afterwards
learn the most common rules of arithmetic.
Schools are very numerous, not only in the metropolis, but in every
large town; and there is one, at least, in every large village.
Almost every mosque, public fountain, and drinking place for cattle
in the metropolis, has a school attached to it, in which children are
instructed at a very trifling expense; the fickee or master of the
school receiving from the parent of each pupil about three cents of our
money, or something more or less, every Thursday.
The master of a school attached to a mosque or other public building
in Cairo, also generally receives yearly a piece of white muslin for a
turban, a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes; and each boy receives at
the same time a linen skull-cap, eight or nine yards of cotton cloth,
half a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes, and in some cases from
three to six cents. These presents are supplied by funds bequeathed to
the school, and are given in the month Ramadan. The boys attend only
during the hours of instruction, and then return to their homes.
The lessons are generally written upon tablets of wood painted white,
and when one lesson is learnt, the tablet is washed, and another
is written. They also practise writing upon the same tablet. The
schoolmaster and his pupils sit upon the ground, and each boy has his
tablets in his hands, or a copy of the Koran, or one of its thirty
sections, on a little kind of desk made of palm sticks. All who are
learning to read, recite their lessons aloud, at the same time rocking
their heads and bodies incessantly backwards and forwards; which
practice is observed by almost all persons in reading the Koran, being,
thought to assist the memory. The noise may be imagined.
The schoolmasters in Egypt are mostly persons of very little learning;
few of them are acquainted with any writings except the Koran, and
certain prayers, which, as well as the contents of the sacred volume,
they are hired to recite on particular occasions. I have read of a
man, who could neither read nor write, succeeding to the office of a
schoolmaster in some village. Being able to recite the whole of the
Koran, he could hear the boys repeat their lessons; he employed the
head boy in school to write them, pretending that his eyes were weak.
A few days after he had taken this office upon himself, a poor woman
brought a letter for him to read from her son, who had gone on a
pilgrimage. The fickee pretended to read it, but said nothing; and the
woman, inferring from his silence that the letter contained bad news,
said to him, “Shall I shriek?” He answered, “Yes.” “Shall I tear my
clothes?” “Yes.”
So the woman returned to her house, and, with her assembled friends,
performed the lamentation, and other ceremonies usual on the occasion
of death. Not many days after this, her son arrived, and she asked him
what he could mean by causing a letter to be written stating that he
was dead. He explained the contents of the letter, and she went to the
schoolmaster and begged him to inform her why he had told her to shriek
and to tear her clothes, since the letter was to inform her that her
son was well and arrived at home.
Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows futurity! How could I know
that your son would arrive in safety? It was better that you should
think him dead, than be led to expect to see him, and perhaps be
disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with him praised his
wisdom, exclaiming, “Surely, our new fickee is a man of unusual
judgment.” And for a while, he found that he had raised his reputation
by this trick.
Varieties.
Admiral Duncan addressed his officers, who came on board of his ship
for instructions, previous to the engagement with Admiral De Winter, in
the following words: “Gentlemen, you see a severe winter approaching. I
have only to advise you to keep up a good fire.”
* * * * *
“Come in,” as the spider said to the fly.
“Come on,” as the man said to his boot.
“You make me blush,” as the lobster cried out in the boiler.
* * * * *
“Do you think that these creatures have any feeling?” said an
inquisitive consumer of oysters to a well known wit. “Feeling!” replied
his friend; “to be sure they have. Did you never hear them crying about
the streets?”
* * * * *
Two or three weeks ago, Theodore Hook dined with a Mr. Hatchett. “Ah,
my friend,” said his host, depreciatingly, “I am sorry to say that
you will not get to-day such a good dinner as our friend L. gave us.”
“Certainly not,” replied Hook; “from a hatchet you can expect nothing
but a chop.”
THE BOY AND THE LARK.
MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; BY G. J. WEBB.
[Illustration: Music]
“Who taught you to sing, my pretty, sweet birds?
Who tuned your melodious throats?
You make all the woods and the vallies to ring,
You bring the first news of the earliest spring,
With your loud and your silvery notes.
“Who painted your wings, my pretty, sweet birds,
And taught you to soar in the air?
You rise and you dart through the region of light,
You look down on man from your loftiest height,
And your hearts know no troublesome care.
“And where are your fields, my beautiful birds?
And where are your houses and barns?
You sow not the ground, and you reap not the corn,
You spring from your nests at the earliest morn,
But you care not about the wide farms.”
“’Tis _God_,” said a lark, that rose from the turf,
“Who gives us the good we enjoy;
He painted our wings, and he gave us our voice,
He finds us our food, and he bids us rejoice;--
We’re his creatures, my beautiful boy.”
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 2.
The Siberian Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER II.
It is the character of young people to engage in new enterprises with
ardor: it was so with Alexis, in his fur-hunting expedition. For a
time, indeed, after parting with his father and sister, his heart was
heavy, and tears more than once dimmed his eyes. He expected to be
absent for a year at least, and who could tell what might befall him
or them, during that space of time? Such thoughts came again and again
into his mind, and as fancy is apt to conjure up fears for those we
love, he pictured to himself many possible evils that might beset his
friends at Tobolsk.
But these images gradually faded away, and the young hunter began to
be occupied with the scenes around him, and with the conversation of
his companions. These consisted of two young men of nearly his own age,
and their father, an experienced and skilful hunter. They were all
equipped with rifles, and each had a long knife like a dagger in his
belt. Their design was to travel on foot to the eastward, a distance of
more than two thousand miles, and then proceed northward into the cold
and woody regions which border the banks of the great river Lena, as it
approaches the Arctic Ocean.
Hitherto Alexis had seen little of Siberia; his curiosity was therefore
alive, and he noticed attentively everything he met. Soon after leaving
Tobolsk, the party entered upon the vast plain of Baraba, which spreads
out to an extent of several hundred miles. It is almost as level as
the sea, with slight swells, resembling waves. Such plains are called
_steppes_ in Siberia, and they are like the prairies of our western
country, being generally destitute of trees, except low willows, and
large portions having a marshy soil. Upon this plain the travellers
met with no towns, but miserable villages of people, their huts half
sunk in the mud. They also sometimes encountered small bands of people
called Ostiacks. These seemed to be roving people, and in a state of
barbarism. The old hunter of the party, whose name was Linsk, seemed
to be well acquainted with the habits of these people, and as the four
hunters were trudging along, he gave the following account of them,
taking care to say something of himself in the course of his story.
“The Ostiacks are one of the most numerous of the tribes of Tartars
that inhabit Siberia. They spread over the country to the north of
Tobolsk, along the banks of the Obi, and the various streams that flow
into it. They do not like to dig the soil, so they live on fish, and by
hunting wild animals. Some of them eat so much fish, that they smell
like whale oil. I have been in their tents often, and one of these
fisheating families have a flavor as strong as a cask of herrings.
Bah! how well I remember them! It seems as if I could smell them now! I
shall never get them out of my head.
“You must know that I have been a hunter for twenty-five years, and
I have made several expeditions into the north country, where the
Ostiacks chiefly dwell. It is a cold and desolate region; no trees but
pines and willows grow there; there is no grass, and very few shrubs.
Still, it was once a good country for furs; but they are nearly gone
now, and I don’t wonder at it, for these Ostiacks are such heathens.
They are not Christians, but believe in little wooden images, which
they will place on their tables, and lay around them snuff, willow
bark, fish oil, and other things which they deem valuable. Having done
this, they call upon these images, which are their gods, to make them
lucky in fishing and hunting. If the gods don’t send them good luck,
then these foolish people do give them such a banging! They cuff their
heads, and knock them off the tables, and switch them as if they were
so many naughty school-boys.
“Now, for my part, I wonder that fish, or sables, or bears, or any
other creatures that are useful, will stay in a country where such
stupid people live. And then you must know that the Ostiacks almost
worship a bear. They think that this creature is a kind of a witch or
wicked god, and such horrid notions of it have they, that, when they
take the oath of allegiance to the Russian government, they say, to
make it very strong--‘We hope we may be devoured by bears, if we do not
keep this oath.’
“Beside all this, the Ostiacks, as you see by those whom we have met,
are little short people, not more than five feet high. A great many
of the women are fat, and such little round dumplings I never beheld!
The hair of these people is of a reddish color, and floats down their
shoulders. Their faces are flat, and altogether they look like animals,
rather than human creatures. Their houses are made of poles, set up in
a circle, and thatched with bark. In winter, the windows are covered
with expanded bladders. The fire is made on one side of the room, and
the smoke circulates above, finding its way out as it can. Generally,
there is but one room in a hut, and all the family are tumbled into it,
by night and by day.
“Now all this shows what stupid people these Ostiacks are; but there
is one thing I have to say in their praise. They understand fishing
and hunting. In chasing the bears, they show courage and skill, and
in taking the sable so as not to break his skin, they display true
genius. I once knew an old Ostiack that was nearly equal to myself in
hunting. He could see the track of an ermine, marten, or sable, upon
the snow-crust, when nobody else could; he would follow one of these
creatures for a whole day, pretending he could see the foot-prints; but
I believe the old fellow could smell like a dog. What beautiful sables
and grey foxes he did get! He once got two sable skins which were sent
to St. Petersburgh, and sold for three hundred dollars. The emperor
bought them himself, and sent the old fellow a knife ornamented with
a silver plate, and the word “Nicholas” engraved upon it. This the
emperor said was to encourage the hunter to get fine furs. But the old
hunter died soon after, and the people said it was from mere pride,
because the emperor had paid him so much honor. He never hunted any
more, but strutted about, brandishing his knife in the air, and saying,
‘Behold! this is what Nicholas, the Czar of all the Russias, has sent
to Dwaff Khizan, the greatest hunter of Siberia!’”
Alexis listened with interest to this long account of the Ostiacks by
old Linsk: but his heart really palpitated when the hunter told of the
rich sable furs sent to St. Petersburgh by Dwaff Khizan, and which
not only brought a great price, but won the favor of the emperor. He
immediately remembered the injunction of his sister Kathinka, to be
particular and get rich sable furs; and he also remembered that she
had spoken of sending them to the princess Lodoiska. “After all my
thinking that the girl was romantic and conceited, to fancy that she
could send furs to a princess, and attract her attention, now that we
are poor exiles in Siberia, perhaps she is right, and has more sense
then I have. At all events, I will exert myself to procure some sable
furs finer than were ever seen before. We are going to the coldest
portions of Siberia, and there it is said are the most splendid furs in
the world. It will be something to please Kathinka, and to relieve my
father from his poverty; and, beside, I should like to beat old Linsk,
vain and boastful as he is!”
With this ambitious conclusion, Alexis stepped quicker and prouder
over the level road, and, without thinking of it, had soon advanced
considerably before his party. Coming to a place where the road
divided, he took that which led to the right, as it seemed the best.
He had not gone far, however, before he heard the loud call of Linsk.
Stopping till the party came up, Alexis found that he had taken the
wrong path. “That road,” said Linsk, “leads to the great town of Tomsk;
a place which has ten thousand people in it, and I may add that one
half of them are drunkards. This is the more wonderful, for the people
have enough to do; because the country in that quarter abounds in
valuable mines. All around Tomsk there are salt lakes, and the waters
are so impregnated with minerals, that the bottoms are covered with a
coat as white as snow.
“To the south of Tomsk, a great many miles, are some mountains, called
the Altai range. In these mountains there are mines of gold and silver,
and of platina, a metal more costly than gold. The mines are wrought by
exiles; and, master Alexis, some of your countrymen are there, as they
ought to be. You ought to thank the clemency and mercy of the emperor,
for not sending you and your father there!”
“Stop! stop! old man!” said Alexis; “say no more of that! say no more
of that! My father ought to be sent to the mines! for what? For risking
his life to save his country? For giving his wealth to Poland? For
shedding his blood for liberty? Is patriotism then a crime? Shame on
the emperor who makes it so!”
“Tut, tut, tut, tut!” said Linsk, with an air of authority; “why, you
talk rebellion, as if you had drank it in with your mother’s milk.
Oh dear! oh dear! what are we all coming to, when youngsters talk
such pestilent stuff about liberty and patriotism? Why, what have
we to do with liberty and patriotism? Let us take care to obey the
emperor, and his officers, and those who are in authority, and do as
the priests tell us: that’s all we have to do. But never mind, boy;
I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. So don’t think any more of what
I said about your father and the mines. I believe he’s an honest and
noble gentleman, though I am sorry he’s so much misled. Liberty and
patriotism--indeed! Bah! When I hear about liberty and patriotism, I
always look well to my pockets, for they sound to my ear very much like
roguery and mischief. Liberty and patriotism, forsooth! as if we common
men were like wild animals, and, as soon as we are of age, had a right
to set up for ourselves! No! no! we are Christians, and it is our duty
to honor the emperor; we are his subjects, and he may do as he pleases
with us. God bless him.”
“I suppose it would be glory enough,” said Alexis, having recovered his
good humor, “to have our heads cut off, provided it was done by command
of the emperor.”
“Certainly,” said Linsk, not discovering the irony; and here the
conversation took another turn.
“You were speaking of the mines,” said Alexis. “Do they produce great
quantities of the precious metals?”
“Yes,” said the old hunter, in reply. “The mines produce the value of
more than ten millions of dollars a year. Not only do they yield gold,
and silver, and platina, but a great deal of copper. Beside these, many
precious stones are found, such as the topaz, beryl, onyx, garnets,
diamonds, and green crystals as beautiful as emeralds. All these mines
and all the minerals belong to the Czar, and they are wrought by his
serfs and slaves, and by such exiles as are very bad and troublesome!”
“Those who talk about liberty and patriotism, I suppose,” said Alexis.
“Yes,” said Linsk, snappishly.
“Well,” said Alexis, “I should like to go to that country, where there
are such rich minerals and precious stones. I think I could pick up
enough to make myself rich.”
“And get your head taken off besides,” said Linsk. “Let me tell you, my
young master, the metals and minerals belong to the emperor, and it’s
stealing for anybody to take them, and whoever does so is sure to get
punished. I know a story about that--”
“Tell it, I beg you,” said Alexis. So the hunter proceeded.
“There was once a young nobleman of Russia exiled to Siberia for some
offence to the Czar. This happened in the time of Paul, near forty
years ago. Well, when he came to Tobolsk, he was very poor, so he
thought how he might get money and become rich. At last he heard of the
mines of the mountains, and thither he went. He was careful, however,
not to let anybody know his plan. He proceeded first to the Kolyvan
mountains, but, as there were a great many people at work there, he was
afraid of being detected in his scheme; so he proceeded farther east,
until he came to a tall mountain called the Schlangenberg, which is the
loftiest of the Altai range.
“When he had got up to the very top of the mountain, being weary, he
laid himself down to get some rest, and here he fell asleep. While
in this state, a man, in the dress of a Tartar, seemed to stand
before him, and, making a low bow in the Eastern fashion, said, ‘What
would’st thou, son of a noble house?’ To this the young Russian
replied--‘Wealth--give me wealth: with this I can purchase my liberty
and return to Moscow, and live again in happiness. Give me riches: with
these I could buy the very soul of the emperor, for all he desires is
money.’
“When the young man said this, the image smiled on one side of his
face, and frowned on the other; but he answered fairly,--‘Your wish
shall be granted: follow me!’ Upon this the Russian arose and followed
the mysterious stranger. They descended to the foot of the mountain,
and entered a cave which was formed by nature in the rocks. It was at
first a dark and gloomy room, with grizzly images around, and a fearful
roar as of mighty waterfalls, tumbling amid the gashes and ravines
of the mountain. But as they advanced farther, the scene gradually
changed. The darkness disappeared, and at last they came to a vast
chamber, which seemed glittering with thousands of lamps. The room
appeared indeed like a forest turned to crystal, the branches above
uniting and forming a lofty roof, in the gothic form. Nothing could
exceed the splendor of the scene. The floor was strewn with precious
stones of every hue, and diamonds of immense size and beauty glistened
around. As the adventurer trod among them, they clashed against his
feet as if he was marching amid heaps of pebbles. There were thousands
of lofty columns, of a pearly transparency, which seemed to send forth
an illumination like that of the moon; and these were studded with
garnets, and emeralds, and rubies.
“The Russian was delighted--nay, entranced. He walked along for more
than an hour, and still the vast room seemed to expand and grow more
gorgeous as he proceeded. The diamonds were larger, and the light
more lovely, and by-and-by there came a sound of music. It was faint,
but delicious; and our hero looked around for the cause of it. At
last he saw what seemed a river, and on going to the border of it, he
discovered that it was a stream of precious stones, where garnets, and
beryls, and diamonds, and emeralds, and rubies, flowed like drops of
water, in one gushing, flashing current; and as they swept along, a
sort of gentle but entrancing melody stole out from them, and seemed to
melt the heart with their tones.
“‘This is indeed most lovely--most enchanting!’ said the youth to
himself. ‘Well and truly has my guide performed his promise.’ Saying
this, he looked around for his guide, but he had disappeared. The young
man waited for a time, but his guide did not return. At last he began
to feel weary, and cast about for a place to lie down; but no such
place appeared. The floor of the mighty hall was covered with precious
stones, but they were so sharp and angular that they would have cut
his flesh, if he had attempted to lie upon them. Pretty soon, hunger
was added to the young man’s wants. But how could he satisfy it? There
were emeralds, and rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds, but neither
meat nor bread. At last he turned around, and began to search for the
way out of the grotto; first filling his pockets with the richest and
rarest gems he could find. But the more he sought for the passage, the
more remote he seemed to be from it. He, however, continued to wander
on, but all in vain. At last he became frantic; he threw up his hands,
and tore his hair, and ran fiercely from place to place, making the
arches ring with his frightful screams. ‘Take your gold, take your
jewels!’ said he; ‘and give me rest, give me bread!’ And, repeating
this by night and by day, the young man continued to run wildly from
place to place; and though forty years have rolled away since he
entered the enchanted cave, he is still there, and is still unable to
obtain rest or appease his hunger!”
“Is that all?” said Alexis, as the hunter paused in his narration.
“Yes,” said Linsk; “and let it warn you and all others not to go
into the mountain, to steal the gems and the gold that belong to the
emperor.”
“The story is a good one,” said Alexis, “and no doubt it has been used
to frighten people from interfering with the emperor’s mines; but it
is an allegory, which bears a deeper meaning to my mind. It teaches us
that riches cannot bring rest or health, and that a person surrounded
with gold and gems may still be a most wretched being. Those very
gems, indeed, may be the cause of his distress, as they may have been
obtained by crime, or avarice, or other unlawful means.”
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: Lion and mouse]
The Lion and the Mouse;
A FABLE.
A lion was once going to war; he had buckled on his sword, and gathered
his forces, and, with the monkey and the bear supporting his long robe
behind, he was proudly marching over the plain at the head of his
army. As he was proceeding, it chanced that his majesty encountered a
mouse, dancing merrily over the ground. The king paused, and observed
the little dancer with a grim smile of satisfaction. At this the bear
grumbled, and the monkey sneered, for his majesty being in a warlike
humor, they thought it meet that everybody else should be so too; but
they were both speedily silenced by the lion, who spoke as follows:
“Why do you grumble at this pretty little fellow? See how graceful
his movements are, and how cheerful is his countenance! Remember that
everything has its use, and nothing is more useful than that which
makes us cheerful, provided it is innocent. Even we warriors have
need of cheerful excitement, for by this means we are better fitted
to discharge our solemn duties. Let us not despise, then, even such
sports, and amusements, and trifles, as come in our way, provided
always that they are as harmless as the frisks and frolics of this
little dancing-master of the meadow; and provided, too, that we never
neglect business for pleasure.”
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER X.
_A conversation about wealth and poverty.--People to be
respected according to their character, not according to
their circumstances._
As Paul Raymond was one of the best friends I ever had, it is my desire
to make my reader well acquainted with him. He was tall, thin, and
bent over, his figure seeming to indicate great humility; his face was
meagre and exceedingly pale; his hair black as jet, and hanging in
long, thin curls down his neck. His eye was very large, and of a deep
blue.
The whole aspect of my friend was marked with a childlike gentleness
and timidity, though his high forehead and prominent Roman nose bespoke
a manly intellect. A worldly person, judging only by outward form and
a first sight, had passed him by with indifference; but one who looks
upon mankind as beings of soul and mind, would have been attracted by
his appearance. It was so in some degree with myself, for when I first
saw poor Paul, as he was called in the village, I scarcely noticed
him. And for years after, I saw nothing of particular interest in his
person: but now that I was on a sick bed, and had opportunity, as well
as occasion, to observe him closer, he seemed to me very interesting,
both in looks and manner.
It was one morning after he had been putting my room in order, and,
taking his book, had sat down by my bedside, that I mentioned to Paul
the change of feeling I had undergone in respect to himself. “I cannot
but wonder,” said I, “how different you seem to me now, from what you
used to do, Mr. Raymond.”
_Raymond._ Call me Paul, boy, call me Paul! said he. We are friends
now, and _mister_ is always a mischief-maker between friends. You say
I seem different now from what I once did. The change is in you, not
in me. I am the same poor Paul Raymond, as before. You are something
better than before this accident happened.
_Merry._ How am I better? I think I am worse: I have been guilty of
folly, and, though thoughtlessly, of crime; I have been disgraced
before the whole village; my poor arm broken; I am sick and emaciated;
and after all this, you tell me that I am better than before.
_R._ And I tell you the truth, boy. You have suffered, it is certain;
but that suffering has been like medicine to your mind and heart. You
were well in body, you were full of health and spirits, but there was
disease within. Your heart was full of selfishness and pride; you
felt that you could take care of yourself, and you cared not for the
sympathy of others. You have now learnt a good lesson; that pride has
been humbled, and you see your dependence upon others. You see how poor
and paltry pride is; and how vain is that independence, which leads
us to think only of self, and to be regardless of the feelings of our
fellow-men. You are more humble than before, and therefore I say you
are better than before.
_M._ Then you think humility is a good thing?
_R._ Certainly, and pride a bad thing. God looks down upon the humble
man with approbation and favor, and he sends to the humble man peace
and consolation which the world cannot give or take away. God looks
down upon the proud man as a fool, a creature as silly as the moth that
buzzes in the flame of the lamp, only to perish in his folly.
_M._ But this is very different from the view generally taken by
mankind. The rich, the haughty, those who are successful in life, who
know no sickness or misfortune, and who are seldom or never visited by
sorrow--these are those who are esteemed happy by the world at large.
The proud are envied and the humble are despised. You would reverse
this, and regard the humble as the happy, and the high and haughty as
the miserable.
_R._ Yes, and this is nearly the truth. Health is given us for good;
but, strange to say, men seem to turn it to bad account. A person who
has always good health, is usually unfeeling: he sneers at those who
are feeble, and laughs those to scorn who cannot eat and drink and work
as well as he does. He is therefore deficient in one of the greatest
of blessings, a kind and tender heart, a heart that feels for the
misfortunes and sorrows of others, and that always is seeking to soften
them.
Riches are given for good, but these too are abused. The rich man is
likely to have very little regard for the poor; he is apt almost to
feel that the poor are not human: at all events, he knows and cares
little about them. He estimates men by their wealth: if a man is rich,
he respects him; if poor, he despises him. Thus wealth begets in its
possessor a gross stupidity of mind; it blinds a man to the most useful
pleasures and important truths. It makes a man ignorant of his real
duty and his true happiness.
_M._ You think then that health and wealth are misfortunes.
_R._ Certainly not, if rightly used: they are blessings in the hands of
the virtuous, and some such there are. But in too many cases, mankind
abuse them. The fortunate are very apt to be vicious; those who go on
in an unchanging tide of success, at last fancy that they may indulge
their pride and their passions with impunity. Such persons have hard
hearts; and though the world, judging of the outside only, call them
fortunate, and envy them--still, if we look within and see their real
character, we shall pity them, as in fact poor, and destitute, and
miserable in all that constitutes real goodness, real wealth--a good
heart.
It is for this reason that the Bible--a book more full of virtue
than mankind generally think--tells us that “whom the Lord loveth,
he chasteneth.” In other words, God sends sorrow and misfortune upon
men in real kindness. He takes away health, but he gives gentleness
and humility of soul, as a compensation; he takes away worldly
wealth--houses, lands, and merchandises--but he gives charity, good
will, kindness, and sympathy, in their stead. He takes away external
and earthly riches, and gives in exchange spiritual riches, of
infinitely greater price. He takes away dollars and cents, which only
pass in this world, and are wholly uncurrent in another, and gives coin
that bears upon it an image and superscription, which not only makes it
available in time, but in eternity.
_M._ Most people think very differently from you, on these matters:
they seem to imagine that the rich are not only the happiest, but the
wisest and best part of mankind.
_R._ Shallow people may think so, but wise men do not. Our Savior
appealed to the poor, not to the rich. Poverty, not wealth, was the
soil in which he sowed the seeds of truth; and he knew all things.
History justifies Christ’s judgment of human life, for all, or nearly
all great improvements in society have been begun and carried on by
the poor. For almost all useful inventions; for almost all that is
beautiful in poetry, and music, and painting, and sculpture, and
architecture; for almost all that has contributed to diffuse truth
and knowledge and liberty among mankind--we are indebted to those who
have been born and nursed in poverty. If you were to strike out of
existence all that the poor have created, and leave only what the rich
have created, you would make this world one vast scene of desolation,
vice, and tyranny.
Look around, and remark, who are the people that are tilling the soil
and producing the comforts and luxuries of life? The poor, and not
the rich. Who are paying the taxes and supporting the government? The
poor, for they pay, in proportion to their property, much more than the
rich. Who are the supporters of religion? The poor, for it is by their
prayers, and sacrifices, and efforts, that it is propagated, not only
at home, but in foreign lands. No Christian Mission, no Bible Society,
no Society for the distribution of Tracts, was ever begun and carried
on and supported by the rich.
The simple truth is, that, as the poor are the producers of all the
substantial comforts of life, of food, raiment, houses, furniture,
roads, vehicles, ships, and merchandises, so are they the cultivators
of those spiritual staples which make up the social wealth of the
world--religion, knowledge, charity, sympathy, virtue, patriotism,
liberty, and truth. Destroy the poor, and you destroy not only the
source of worldly wealth, but of that mental, spiritual, and social
wealth, which are far higher and better.
_M._ You think, then, that the poor are not only the wisest, but the
best part of mankind.
_R._ Certainly; but do not misunderstand me. I do not say all rich men
are bad, or that all poor ones are good. There are rich men who are
good, wise, kind, and virtuous--and those who are so, deserve great
praise, for, as a class, the rich are otherwise; and the reasons are
plain. In the first place, most men who become rich, do so by being
supremely selfish. They keep what they get, and get what they can. A
man who has no generosity, who seldom or never gives away anything,
who is greedily seeking all the time to increase his possessions, is
almost sure, in a few years, to accumulate large stores. Such a man may
be very stupid in intellect, and yet successful in getting rich. Riches
are no proof of wisdom, but they are generally evidence of selfishness.
A man, by cultivating any passion, increases it. An avaricious man,
indulging his avarice, grows more and more so. He not only becomes more
greedy, but less regardful of the rights, feelings, and interests of
his fellow-men. Thus, as a man increases in riches, he usually becomes
vicious and depraved. His vices may not be open--he may not break the
laws of the land, but he breaks the laws of conscience, and of God.
There is hardly a spectacle more revolting to the eye of virtue, then
the bosom of the rich and avaricious man. It is a machine, which grinds
in its relentless wheels the limbs, the bowels, the nerves, the hearts
of such among his fellow-men as fall within his grasp. He is a kind
of moral cannibal, who feasts and grows fat, not on the bodies of his
species, but on their peace and happiness.
_M._ You are severe.
_R._ But I hope not unjust: remember that Christ forgave the thief
on the cross, but declared that it was easier for a camel to pass
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom
of heaven. He knew by what means men generally grow rich; he knew the
effect of riches on the heart; and, as a class, he denounces the rich,
as in the view of Heaven among the least favored of mankind. They have
their good things in this world, but a fearful penalty is attached to
the abuse of these good things--an abuse which is but too tempting and
too common.
But the only evil of wealth lies not in the danger which it threatens
to the future welfare of the soul; it is very apt to destroy or
prevent some of the sweetest pleasures of this life. Humility is
the source of more true happiness than wealth. A rich man may
possess humility, though he is more likely to be proud; poverty,
disappointment, sorrow, and misfortune, are the great producers of
humility: and it often happens that God, in taking away wealth and
worldly prosperity, and giving humility in return, greatly increases
a person’s true wealth and genuine peace. It is thus that he often
deals with those he loves. He thinks that a man may well afford to part
with his wealth, if he parts with pride at the same time, and obtains
humility as a reward; and surely he knows what is best for us.
Nor is peace of mind the only effect of humility. It not only wakes up
the heart of man to many kindly exercises of charity to his fellow-men,
but it clears his mind and his intellect, so that it is brighter and
stronger. Pride dims, dulls, and cheats the mind; the judgment of a
proud man is seldom good. Not only does pride beget meanness of soul,
but meanness of intellect. Greatness of mind, as well as of soul, is
usually associated with humility. For this reason it is, that you find
among the poor, who are usually humble, more true greatness of both
mind and heart, than among the rich; and it is thus that we see the
fact explained, which I have before stated, that for almost all the
great religious, benevolent, and social progress of the world, we are
indebted to the wisdom, charity, disinterestedness, and patriotism of
the poor.
_M._ Is it then a sin to be rich, or a virtue to be poor?
_R._ Certainly not: there is no virtue or vice in either poverty or
wealth. All I say is this, the usual means taken to get riches are
supreme selfishness or craft, or uncommon want of principle; and
riches, when once obtained, tend to corrupt and degrade the heart,
and stultify the mind. While, therefore, we admit that a rich man may
be wise and virtuous, still, as a class, the rich are the least to be
respected and trusted. We are borne out in this view by the remarkable
words of Jesus Christ, and by the testimony of history. The rich,
therefore, are to be shunned and feared, till we know, by positive
proof, that they are worthy of our confidence and esteem, by the
possession of virtue and wisdom.
On the contrary, if a man is poor, we have reason to believe that he is
humble, and if humble, that he is virtuous. I know that this is not the
way that the world usually judge, but I know that it is true. If you
wish to find sympathy for sorrow or misfortune; or if you wish to find
those who will make sacrifices to alleviate your distress, you must go
to those who know sorrow and are acquainted with grief. You must go to
those who are in the humble walks of life, and have learnt humility--an
estimate of ourselves which makes us regard others as our equals, and
which renders us willing to do to them as we would have them do to us.
No man can feel the sorrow of others, unless he has suffered himself.
“’Tis the poor man alone,
When he hears the poor’s moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give.”
_M._ You seem to think, then, that men are to be judged according to
their character, and not by their circumstances.
_R._ Just so: you have stated the case exactly. When the Bible says
that God looketh on the heart, it means to affirm, that the wisest and
best of beings pays no respect to riches or poverty. In choosing his
friends, he does not consider what sort of a house a man lives in, or
how he is dressed; he looks to his heart, to his real character: and,
be he rich or poor, if he finds that selfishness, greediness, and
avarice, occupy the soul, he condemns him; but if he finds that he has
a humble heart, one that is kind, and full of love and charity, he
approves of him.
_M._ The great thing for a man to aim at, is to have a good heart, a
good character: you think a man should be more careful to be humble,
than to be rich.
_R._ Assuredly: and he is more likely to be humble if he is poor, than
if he is rich.
_M._ Should a man avoid riches, then?
_R._ No: I have said that riches are intended for good, and that in the
hands of the virtuous they are beneficial. But wealth is not necessary
to happiness; it is indeed a snare to thousands. Instead, therefore,
of seeking for it greedily as the first thing, we should only regard
it as secondary, and of infinitely less consequence than virtue. And
though we should seek to avoid poverty, if it come, we may enjoy the
reflection that it is safer to walk in the humble valley, than to climb
along the dizzy pinnacles of prosperity and power. At all events,
in wealth or poverty, in prosperity or adversity, let us cultivate
humility, and judge ourselves and others by looking on the heart; let
us consider that we are good or bad, respectable or despicable, not
according to our circumstances, but according to our wisdom and our
virtue.
_M._ I believe what you tell me, Paul, for you are wise, and all you
tell me sounds true; but it would be hard to make the world believe
that poverty and misfortune are desirable.
_R._ Perhaps not; but I could tell you a story of real life, in which
it would appear that misfortune, or what the world calls such, actually
promoted happiness.
_M._ Pray tell it to me.
_R._ I will do so to-morrow, if you desire it; you have heard enough
for to-day.
Here the conversation ended for the time. Raymond’s story, which he
entitled the _School of Misfortune_, I shall give to my readers in the
next chapter.
Origin of Words and Phrases.
“_He’s cut a Dido._” It is told in history, that Dido, a queen of
Tyre, about eight hundred and seventy years before Christ, fled from
that place upon the murder of her husband, and with a colony settled
upon the northern coast of Africa, where she built Carthage. Being
in want of land, she bargained with the natives for as much as she
could surround with a bull’s hide. Having made the agreement, she cut
a bull’s hide into fine strings, and tying them together, claimed as
much land as she could surround with the long line she had thus made.
The natives allowed the cunning queen to have her way, but when anybody
played off a sharp trick, they said he has “cut a Dido;”--and the
phrase has come down to our day.
“_He’s caught a Tartar._” In some battle between the Russians and the
Tartars, who are a wild sort of people in the north of Asia, a private
soldier called out, “Captain, halloa there! I’ve caught a Tartar!”
“Fetch him along, then!” said the captain. “Ay, but he won’t let me!”
said the man; and the fact was, the Tartar had caught him. So when a
man thinks to take another in, and gets bit himself, they say--“He’s
caught a Tartar!”
“_Carrying the war into Africa._” In one of the famous wars between
Carthage and Rome, about two thousand five hundred years ago, Hannibal,
a Carthaginian leader, and one of the most wonderful men of antiquity,
led his army into Italy, and for several years continued to threaten
the city and lay waste the surrounding country. Scipio, a Roman
general, saw the necessity of getting rid of Hannibal and his forces;
so he determined to lead an army into Africa, and threaten Carthage,
and thus make it necessary for Hannibal to return home for its defence.
This scheme had its intended effect; and in all after time, this
retaliating upon an enemy, by adopting his own tactics, is called
_carrying the war into Africa_.
“_He drives like Jehu._” “And the watchman told, saying, he came even
unto them, and cometh not again: and the driving is like the driving of
Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously.” 2 Kings ix. 20.
The term “_Yankee_,” is supposed to have originated with the Indians,
who called the English, Yongees, which came at length to be Yankees.
“_Hoosiers._” The people of Indiana are called Hoosiers, and it is
said to be an abbreviation of “Who’s here?”--a question which used
to be shouted aloud by the traveller in that quarter, when, amid the
tall grass of the prairies, he heard voices, or saw the smoke of a log
cabin, but could see nobody.
“_Suckers_,” is the designation of the people of Illinois; because, as
is said, the Galena miners used to appear in spring about the time the
suckers, a large fish of the West, ascended the rivers.
“_Wolverene_,” is the title of a citizen of Michigan, because an animal
of that name, often called the Glutton, and somewhat resembling the
raccoon, is common in that state.
“_Buckeye_,” is a tree resembling the catalpa, and it is common in
Ohio; so Ohio is called the buckeye state, and the citizens, buckeyes.
“_Corn-crackers_,” is the nickname of the Kentuckians, for what reason
I cannot tell--but perhaps as a compliment to the soil and climate,
which furnishes the people with abundance of corn, and a good appetite.
“_John Bull_,” is the title given to England and Englishmen, because it
is fancied that there is a surly, grumbling manner about the people of
that country, which reminds one of a bull.
“_Empire State_,” is a name given to New York, because of its great
extent, population, and wealth.
Pennsylvania is called the “_Key-Stone State_,” because of its
central position, and its importance in a political point of view, as
determining by its large vote the character of the national government.
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER VIII.
_Catania.--Description of the city.--Danger of its
situation.--Beauty of the country.--Journey up Mount
Ætna.--Great abundance of lava.--Nicolosi.--Visit to
the crater of Monti Rossi.--Grand prospect of the
mountain.--Continuation of the journey.--A hut in the
woods.--A night on the mountain._
Catania is a highly interesting city. I was struck with the beauty of
its situation, on the sea-shore at the foot of Mount Ætna, and with the
regularity of its handsome streets, which are all straight, like those
of Philadelphia. It is about the size of Boston, and is remarkably
thriving and busy, for an Italian city. Almost everybody appeared to be
engaged in the silk trade. Large manufactories abound in every quarter
of the city, and in every street I could see the women at the door
spinning and weaving silk. There was some rain while I staid in the
city, the first I had experienced in Sicily. The people of Syracuse
told me, that a day was never known when the sun did not shine
upon their city. The streets of Catania were thronged with people,
notwithstanding the rain, and almost every one had a silk umbrella. I
remarked that all the umbrellas were of a bright red, which made the
crowd look very picturesque.
These rains are caused by Mount Ætna, which attracts the clouds from
all quarters. The showers are sometimes so heavy that the streets of
the city which run up and down the mountain, become rivers of water,
rushing down to the sea with such rapidity that it is impossible to
ford them. For this reason all the streets which lie upon a slope
are provided with movable iron bridges, for crossing. There are also
abundant springs of water under ground, which often burst out the sides
of the mountain. I saw one of these which had sprung up through the
pavement of one of the principal streets, and had been flowing for many
weeks, a stream of beautiful clear water. The longest street is called
Strada Ætnea. It runs up the mountain several miles, exactly in the
direction of the crater, and the prospect upward is terminated by the
magnificent snowy cone of the mountain, thirty miles distant. No other
street in the world is equal to this in singularity.
Many times has this city been destroyed by torrents of lava from the
mountain, but the beauty and advantages of the situation are such, that
the inhabitants have always been willing to rebuild it, rather than
seek another spot. The seashore is a black, craggy lava rock, on which
the surf is always beautifully dashing. The prospect through some of
the streets is terminated by columns of white spray perpetually flying
into the air, as the city is built directly on the open sea, and has no
harbor except an artificial dock, about as large as the space between
two of the common wharves in Boston. The soil of all the neighborhood
is black, hard lava, which looks like cast iron; notwithstanding
which the country is most beautiful, abounding in gardens, orchards,
olive-groves, and everything rich and ornamental. Large numbers of the
Sicilian nobility live here, attracted by the beauty of this delicious
spot.
It was impossible to look up the mighty mountain which towered into
the skies over my head, without feeling a strong desire to venture up
and explore its wonders. The top, for many miles, was covered with
snow, and I was told that the ascent to the summit was hardly possible.
However, I determined to make the trial, and hired a couple of stout
mules, which are always the best animals for climbing mountains. I
obtained a guide well acquainted with the mountain, who agreed to
accompany me for half a dollar a day to any place I dared to approach.
We set out on the morning of the second of March. At first we found
the ascent very gradual; the ground was a broken lava rock, overgrown
with olive and almond trees, and prickly pears. Innumerable villages
were scattered all round the lower region of the mountain, surrounded
by gardens and groves. The houses appeared to be all built of lava;
indeed, there is hardly any other kind of stone or building material to
be seen anywhere. Every one of the villages had a church with a dome
covered with glazed tiles of variegated colors, bright red, green,
blue, and yellow, so as to resemble an enormous inverted bead-bag,
glittering in the sun. The people were collected in crowds round the
churches, firing off guns, crackers, and other fireworks, as it was a
saint’s day. I could see no fences in the fields: in fact, I had not
yet seen such a thing as a wooden fence since the day I left home. The
fields were all divided by walls of lava. Indeed, lava serves here
for stone, brick, marble, wood, and many other purposes besides. They
build houses of it, wall their yards and fields, pave their streets,
macadamize their roads, gravel their walks, and sand their floors with
it. They grind it into soil, mix it up with mortar, manufacture it into
snuff-boxes, inkstands, statuary, and more things than I have time to
mention. The finer sort is exceedingly hard, and takes a fine polish.
In one of the squares of Catania is a lava statue of an elephant with
an obelisk on his back.
After going some miles up the mountain, the trees and other vegetation
became scarce, and presently the road passed over nothing but rugged,
barren lava rocks. At the end of about a dozen miles we came to a
village called Nicolosi. Here we left our mules, and proceeded on foot
to visit the crater of Monti Rossi, from which the eruption issued that
destroyed Catania in 1669. This crater is about one third of the way
up the mountain, and at fifteen or twenty miles’ distance, looks like
a dark red spot on the black mass of Ætna. We travelled several miles
over a great desert of coarse black sand, without seeing a single tree
or shrub, till we came to Monti Rossi, which I found to be a mountain
with a double summit and very steep sides, consisting of coarse gravel
and tufts of long rank grass, with here and there a stunted willow.
It was laborious work climbing up this loose soil and holding on by
the grass and twigs; now and then we lost our hold and rolled to
the bottom, for it was impossible to stay our descent on this steep
declivity when once we began to slip. At last we got to the summit,
which consists of solid rock. The wind blew in furious gusts on this
high elevation, and we were forced to tie our caps firmly upon our
heads for fear of losing them.
I was, however, amply repaid for my toil in the ascent, for the view
was grand beyond description. Under my feet was the crater, a yawning
gulf of craggy rock, blood-red from the action of fire. All this rock
had been thrown up from the bowels of the mountain. There was no
opening at the bottom of the crater, the orifice having been filled
up many years ago by the crumbling in of the sides, so that it is
considered perfectly safe to descend to the bottom. I went down and
stood over the spot from whence had issued those streams of fire that
made such frightful destruction a century and a half ago. It appeared
firm to the tread, like any solid earth, but it was startling to think
what it once had been and might be again: it was, in truth, a pit of
destruction. A prospect of a different description was exhibited from
the top of the crater: the high point of this steep elevation shows
the great body of Mount Ætna on one side with grand effect. When I
recollected that this hill was a mere wart on the huge face of Ætna,
I had a most lively impression of the enormous magnitude of the whole
mountain,--seeing the wondrous bulk swelling up over my head twenty
miles distant. Below, on one hand, was an immense level plain of black
sand, on which I could discover winding foot-paths and stone walls,
like lines drawn upon paper. Here and there I spied a traveller moving
along the plain, mounted on his donkey, but at such a distance that
he looked like a grasshopper astride of a mouse. Farther off, other
craters and cones were discernible, and more in number than I could
count. Each of these was a mountain of itself, but nothing more than
a spot on the giant bulk of Ætna, whose bold peak, bright with snow,
rose towering above the whole. Many miles above what I should suppose
to be the habitable region, I could distinguish the white walls of a
monastery, surrounded by a sea of black sand. This great black plain or
desert was one of the strangest spectacles I ever saw. Here and there a
lonely house could be seen, with a few dwarf willows and cherry trees
scattered about, but no other appearance of life except little dots
of asses moving slowly along the surface of this barren and forlorn
expanse.
I should have remained much longer gazing at the grand prospect which
spread around me on all sides, but my guide, who had probably been on
the same spot hundreds of times before, was tired of remaining here,
and told me it was time to continue our journey up the mountain. A
little flurry of snow came on just at this moment, which hastened our
departure. We ran down the hill at a rapid pace, tumbling over and over
in the loose earth; mounting our beasts at Nicolosi, we jogged on up
the mountain. For some miles the country was nothing but lava and black
sand; but at length we came to thick woods, through which the road ran
for eight or ten miles. It began to grow dark, and I was glad to see
something that looked like a house at a distance. When we reached it,
however, we found it to be nothing more than a rude hut of lava stones,
built for the shelter of travellers. We were obliged to take up our
quarters here for the night, though all the accommodations the house
contained were a clumsy fireplace and some heaps of dry leaves for our
beds. The air was very chilly, and the wind blew in violent squalls,
so that we were glad to meet with even so poor a shelter as this. We
kindled a large fire and sat down to supper, after which, till bedtime,
I amused myself by conversing with my guide. He was very communicative,
and seemed highly pleased at the interest which I manifested in my
inquiries respecting his personal history. He belonged to Linguagrossa,
a little village situated far up the mountain. The inhabitants live
by making charcoal, which they carry on asses to Nicolosi and other
villages on the lower part of the mountain, for sale. I asked him how
much he earned when he was in the charcoal trade. He replied that his
average earnings were from three to four cents a day; a sum which I
found to be enough for a man’s support, as people live in this country.
There are thousands of people in the villages and hamlets on Mount Ætna
who have never been off the mountain during their lives, and pass the
whole of their existence in a state of poverty like this. I asked him
if his townspeople thought much of their danger in living in a place
constantly threatened with showers of fire and torrents of burning
lava. He replied, “_Niente! Niente!_” Not at all! Not at all! because
the mountain always gives notice of its eruptions long beforehand, by
subterraneous rumblings and shakings, and the people have time to save
themselves before the mountain bursts out. So strong is the attachment
of man to his native soil!
CHAPTER IX.
_A snow-storm on the mountain.--Trick of the guide.--Night’s
lodging at the Englishman’s house.--Sunrise.--Journey up the
cone.--Arrival at the top.--Description of the crater._
By daylight the next morning we were up and pursuing our journey. The
sky was clear, and the air exceedingly cold. After about an hour’s
travelling, we got through the woods, and came out into another immense
field of barren lava. High above our heads rose the snowy cone of
the mountain, glistening bright in the rising sun--a most magnificent
spectacle. Farther on we came to a little hamlet consisting of a dozen
or fourteen houses, inhabited by charcoal burners, and there were
fifteen or twenty shabby-looking asses strolling about, apparently
seeking for something to eat; but what sort of food they could pick up
in this desolate place, puzzled me to guess. These animals, however,
will eat almost anything, and can make a good meal upon coarse stalks
and thistles. We passed by two or three large hills of a deep red
color, that seemed to be recently thrown up by an eruption. Our path
lay over rough heaps of broken lava, where a horse could not have gone
without stumbling at every step, yet our sure-footed beasts carried us
safely over the most difficult spots. About noon, the sky, which had
hitherto been clear, began to grow overcast, and I could perceive that
the smoke from the crater, instead of streaming off to the northeast,
was now rolling down the side of the mountain directly toward us. This
showed that the wind had shifted to the north, and I felt serious
apprehensions when I observed the increasing blackness of the sky.
My guide, who had been snuffing the air and stretching his vision in
every direction for the last quarter of an hour, now assured me that
a snow-storm was coming, and advised an immediate return down the
mountain. I was not disposed to comply, as I had heard that these
people are very ready to discourage travellers at the least appearance
of any danger, because they are unwilling to encounter the cold of the
upper regions. I told him to push on, and never mind the wind, which
was now blowing in violent gusts. But in a few minutes, large flakes
of snow began to fall, and soon the whole air was obscured. The mules
showed some reluctance to proceed, and we had much ado to urge them
onward. The guide kept talking of the dangers of our undertaking, and
told a story of an Englishman who was lost here about six weeks before
in a snow-storm, just like the one that was now raging. It seems he
was going up the mountain with two others of his countrymen, and being
overtaken by the snow, they strayed from the path, and got into a great
plain, full of deep pools of water, covered with a thin crust of ice.
In attempting to cross one of these, they broke through, and one of the
travellers was drowned, the rest escaping with difficulty after losing
all their baggage. This melancholy catastrophe called forth all the
sympathies of my companion, who related the circumstances with many
mournful ejaculations and shakes of the head, assuring me that he was a
_bel giovanotto_, or fine young fellow.
As I had never heard a syllable of this story at Catania in all my
inquiries respecting the mountain, I guessed at once that the fellow
had made it up out of his own head, to scare me from my undertaking.
I asked him if he was sure the story was true. He protested that it
was true, every word, and there could be no doubt of it, for he had
seen the very mule which the drowned man rode, no longer ago than last
Friday, trotting through the Corso of Catania. He was a long-backed
beast, dark red, mixed with iron gray; and if that was not the dead
Englishman’s mule, whose mule was it? I could not help laughing in his
face at this odd proof of the story. He was a good deal disconcerted
to see me so much amused instead of being frightened, and jogged on
without telling any more tales of the misfortunes of travellers.
The snow continued to fall so thick that we could see only a few
yards before us; but the mules, who always follow a beaten path,
continued to keep in the track till the middle of the afternoon, when
the ground became so deeply covered that there seemed to be danger of
their missing the way, and I began to feel some small apprehension
that we might encounter an accident of the kind which had been related
of the young Englishman, though I did not believe a word of the
story. Luckily, about this time, the snow ceased to fall, and before
sunset the sky grew clear. The prospect around me was desolate in the
extreme. The whole surface of the mountain above was covered with snow,
diversified here and there with huge red and black spots, where hills
of burnt rock and volcanic sand, or craggy masses of lava, lifted their
heads above the white expanse.
Just as daylight shut in we reached a little hut called the
“Englishman’s House,” which had been erected here for the accommodation
of travellers. The shelter it afforded us was exceedingly welcome,
for we were almost frozen to death with the keen air of the mountain.
Luckily, the building, though destitute of furniture, contained a
considerable quantity of dry sticks, which enabled us to make a good
fire; else we should have passed a sleepless night, for my limbs were
stiff with cold and fatigue. I lay down to rest as soon as I had eaten
my supper, in order to be awake before daylight the next morning, as
I was determined if possible to get to the top of the mountain before
sunrise. I gave my companion strict injunctions to waken me as soon
as his eyes should be open. But we both slept so soundly that it was
broad daylight before we knew anything about it; and by the time we
were fairly on our journey, the sun rose. I was much disappointed in
not witnessing this spectacle from the mountain-top, as it would have
afforded me something to boast of all my life; but the sight, as it
was, might be thought enough to compensate for the fatigue and trouble
of climbing so far. The snowy cap of the mountain, on the lower edge
of which we were standing, glowed with the pure rosy tints of morning.
Next to this was the green belt of forest, which first appeared dark
and gloomy, but by degrees brightened into livelier tints, as the
advancing sun threw his beams more directly upon the thick masses of
leaves. Further down, the eye expatiated over the diversified surface
of the skirts of the mountain, with its red cones, spots of green
vegetation, and countless villages and towns, scattered right and
left down to the water’s edge. The prospect to the east was bounded
by the broad expanse of the ocean, which the brilliant morning sun
had brightened up into a mirror of fire. Further to the north, the
eye reposed on the dark mountains of Calabria, whose snowy summits
glimmered with a faint roseate hue in the distance.
The wind blew a steady breeze from the southwest, which carried the
smoke from the crater away from us; and we proceeded on foot directly
up the cone of the mountain. The distance to the top was eight or nine
miles, though it did not appear to be more than two or three. The
snow, instead of being soft like that of yesterday, was frozen into a
hard crust, over which we were continually sliding. I could not help
thinking, as I looked on this great, steep mountain-top, covered with
a glare of ice, what a capital _coasting_ place it would be for the
Boston boys! They might slide half a dozen miles at a stretch, and then
warm their toes in hot ashes and lava. However, this sliding on the
frozen snow was a thing I never thought of when I began my journey,
or I should have provided myself with a pair of corks. The only way I
could make any progress, was by shambling along sideways, and digging
the edges of my boot-soles through the crust, so as to get a footing
at each step. This labor was excessively fatiguing, and before we
had climbed two miles, the guide flatly refused to go any further,
declaring that he was completely out of breath. I told him to go back
and wait for me, as I was determined to go on, even if I went alone.
I had no fear of getting lost, because I had but to follow my own
tracks backward when matters got to be desperate. I continued to climb
upward with the help of a stout walking-stick, and soon lost sight
of my companion. Now that I was all alone, trudging up to the top of
Mount Ætna, I really felt something of the dignity of a traveller,
and was absolutely delighted with the lonely adventure. My fingers
were benumbed with the cold, and the rays of the sun, which was now
pretty high, were reflected with so fierce a glare from the snow, that
in a short time I was unable to keep my eyes open. It was impossible
to go any further without the power of looking before me, for every
slip and stumble I made sent me a hundred yards backward. I was just
on the point of giving up the enterprise, when a thought struck me. I
had a black silk handkerchief round my neck: this I took off and bound
round my forehead in such a manner as to screen my eyes. The expedient
answered admirably well, and with this help I gained the top of the
mountain.
When I found myself on the summit of the crater, the excitement of my
feelings was such as to banish all sensations of pain, fatigue, or even
fear. I stood on the edge of that great yawning gulf, which has vomited
smoke and flame, for thousands of years. At the foot of the mountain,
this summit appears drawn to a point, but I found it to be an immense
hollow, two or three miles in diameter, and shelving down on all sides
to the depth of half a mile or more. The bottom of the crater was full
of chasms, through which volumes of white smoke were ascending, which
rolled over the edge of the crater, and then shot off horizontally
through the air. The sides were craggy, red, yellow, and black, with
great masses of brimstone, big enough to load a ship. The smoke that
burst out through every crevice and opening was loaded with fumes of
sulphur, and on thrusting the end of my stick into a crack of the lava
at my feet, it took fire.
(_To be continued._)
HYMN.
Almighty God, when morning light
Breaks the soft slumbers of the night,
Then I delight to steal away
To read thy word, to kneel and pray.
This helps me, as the hours glide by,
To feel that thou art ever nigh:
When sinners tempt with speeches fair,
I recollect my morning prayer.
Nor can I let the evening close,
And on my pillow seek repose,
Until with thankful heart I raise
Once more the voice of prayer and praise.
Let others scorn in prayer to kneel;
Like them, O may I never feel!
Though oft by thoughtless ones reviled,
Still would I be a praying child.
* * * * *
A poor Irishman advertised an old potato-pot for sale; his children
gathered around him, and asked him why he parted with it. He replied,
“Ah, my honeys, I would not be after parting with it but for a little
money to buy something to put in it.”
[Illustration: Sparrow and robin]
The Sparrow and Robin;
A FABLE.
A robin was one summer evening sitting upon a tree and singing its
cheerful song right merrily. A critical sparrow was near by, and when
the robin had done, he exclaimed, “Bah! what a miserable song! Why, it
really seemed as if it would split my ears. How can you, Mister Robin,
pretend to sing, when there are those around who understand music so
much better?”
“Why, dear little sparrow,” said the robin, “I only sing simple songs,
such as nature has taught me; and here is my pretty mate at my side,
and she says my song gives her pleasure.”
“The more fool she,” said the sparrow, smartly, “to be captivated with
such humdrum stuff. If you want to hear music, you must listen to the
catbird, who has been to foreign countries, and the macaws, that are
dressed so fine. They have introduced a new style of music, and it’s
all the fashion; and your lackadaisical songs are now out of vogue, and
none but the vulgar can bear them.”
“Very well, if it be so,” said the robin quietly. “I know my songs are
of a very humble kind, but they are still pleasing to me and mine; and
I doubt not that my simple melodies give more true pleasure than the
more fashionable of these foreign minstrels. One thing proves it, and
that is this: when any one of the birds sings our native woodnotes
wild, there is a silence all around, and every one has a look of
delight. But when one of the fashionable musicians is singing, though
the birds roll up their eyes and say, ‘exquisite!’ and ‘enchanting!’
and all that, they look all the time as if they were in the greatest
distress. It seems to me very silly for people to praise a thing they
dislike or do not understand, merely because it has come into fashion.”
The Mysterious Artist.
(_Continued._)
It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter
in Seville--this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and
cheerful--was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon
a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with
the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at
midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so
deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was
opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on
receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his
eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto.
“Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone.
“To keep you company, Sebastian.”
“There is no need, father; I can watch alone.”
“But what if the Zombi should come?”
“I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile.
“He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have
no one to console him in his slavery.”
“Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy,
weeping bitterly.
“It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation.
“God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the
studio, through which the stars glittered--“God! I pray constantly to
him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no
longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine
there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father,
good night.”
“Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?”
“My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has
assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on
earth.”
“Why then, when the pupils asked you who sketched the figures they find
here every morning, did you say it was the Zombi?”
“To amuse myself, father, and to make them laugh; that was all.”
“Then good night, my son;” and, having kissed the boy, the mulatto
retired.
The moment Sebastian found himself alone, he uttered an exclamation of
joy. Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, “Seventy-five lashes
to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps
more if I do. O my God, come to my aid!” and the little mulatto threw
himself upon the mat, which served him for a bed, where he soon fell
fast asleep.
Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o’clock. Any other boy
would probably have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, who had but
three hours he could call his own.
“Courage, courage, Sebastian,” he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake;
“three hours are thine--only three hours--then profit by them; the rest
belong to thy master, slave! Let me at least be my own master for three
short hours. So begin; these figures must be effaced;” and, seizing a
brush, he approached the virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of the
morning dawn, appeared more beautiful. than ever.
“Efface this!” he exclaimed, “efface this! no! I will die first--efface
this--they dare not--neither dare I. No! that head--she breathes--she
speaks--it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface
it, and I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it.”
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he
seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his
occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was
too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which
seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time. “Another
touch,” he exclaimed, “a soft shade here--now the mouth. Yes! there!
it opens--those eyes--they pierce me through!--what a forehead!--what
delicacy! Oh my beautiful--” and Sebastian forgot the hour, forgot he
was a slave, forgot his dreaded punishment--all, all was obliterated
from the soul of the youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw
nothing, but his beautiful picture.
But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave,
when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with the
master at their head, standing beside him.
Sebastian never once dreamt of justifying himself, and with his palette
in one hand, and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head,
awaiting in silence the punishment he believed he justly merited. For
some moments a dead silence prevailed; for if Sebastian was confounded
at being caught in the commission of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and
his pupils were not less astonished at the discovery they had made.
Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his
pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their
admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in
a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful
head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue
before him,
“Who is your master, Sebastian?”
“You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.
“I mean your drawing-master,” said Murillo.
“You, Senor,” again replied the trembling slave.
“It cannot be; I never gave you lessons,” said the astonished painter.
“But you gave them to others, and I listened to them,” rejoined the
boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master.
“And you have done better than listen--you have profited by them,”
exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. “Gentlemen,
does this boy merit punishment, or reward?”
At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick; the word reward
gave him a little courage; but, fearing that his ears deceived him, he
looked with timid and imploring eyes towards his master.
“A reward, Senor!” cried the pupils, in a breath.
“That is well; but what shall it be?”
Sebastian began to breathe.
“Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez.
“Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand.
“No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.”
“Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of
these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste?
Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful
composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then;
do not be afraid.”
“Oh, master, if I dared--” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at
the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of
the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which
timidity prevented him from uttering.
With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some
favor for him to demand.
“Ask gold, Sebastian.”
“Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.”
“Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.”
A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last
words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.
“Ask for the best place in the studio,” said Gonzalo, who, from being
the last pupil, had the worst light for his easel.
“Come, take courage,” said Murillo gaily.
“The master is so kind to-day,” said Ferdinand, “that I would risk
something. Ask your _freedom_, Sebastian.”
At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes
to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “The freedom
of my father! the freedom of my father!”
“And thine, also,” said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his
emotion, threw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.
“Your pencil,” he continued, “shows that you have talent; your request
proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day,
consider yourself not only as my pupil, but my son. Happy Murillo! I
have done more than paint--I have made a painter!”
Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, known better under the
name of the mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated
painters in Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville
the celebrated picture which he had been found painting by his master;
also a St. Anne, admirably done; a holy Joseph, which is extremely
beautiful; and others of the highest merit.
* * * * *
At a crowded lecture the other evening, a young lady standing at the
door of the church was addressed by an honest Hibernian, who was in
attendance on the occasion, with, “_Indade_, Miss, I should be glad to
give you a _sate_, but the _empty_ ones are all full.”
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER V.
_Peru discovered by Francisco Pizarro.--He invites the Inca
to visit him.--Description of the Inca.--Rejects the
Bible.--Treacherously seized by Pizarro.--The Inca
proposes to ransom himself.--The ransom brought.--Pizarro
seizes the gold, then murders the Inca.--Conquers Peru._
When the Spaniards first discovered the Pacific, Peru was a mighty
empire. It extended from north to south more than 2000 miles. Cuzco,
the capital city, was filled with great buildings, palaces, and
temples, which last were ornamented, or covered, rather, with pure
gold. The improvements of civilized life were far advanced; agriculture
was the employment of the quiet villagers; in the cities manufactures
flourished; and science and literature were in a course of improvement
which would, doubtless, have resulted in the discovery of letters.
Their government was a regular hereditary monarchy; but the despotism
of the emperor was restricted by known codes of law. They had splendid
public roads. That from Cuzco to Quito extended a distance of 1500
miles or more. It passed over mountains, through marshes, across
deserts. Along this route, at intervals, were large stone buildings,
like the caravanseras of the East, large enough to contain thousands of
people. In some instances these caravanseras were furnished with the
means of repairing the equipments and arms of the troops or travellers.
Such was the ancient empire of Peru, when Francisco Pizarro, an obscure
Spanish adventurer, with an army of only sixty-two horsemen and a
hundred or two foot-soldiers, determined to invade it. He, like all the
other Spaniards who went out to South America, was thirsting to obtain
gold. These men, miscalled _Christians_, gave up their hearts and souls
to the worship of mammon, and they committed every horrible crime to
obtain riches. But the _Christian_ who now _cheats_ his neighbor in a
quiet way-of-trade manner, to obtain wealth--is he better than those
Spaniards? I fear not. Had he the temptation and the opportunity, he
would do as they did.
At the time Pizarro invaded Peru, there was a civil war raging between
Atahualpa, the reigning monarch, or Inca, as he was called, and his
brother Huascar. These brothers were so engaged in their strife, that
Pizarro had marched into the country without being opposed, and entered
the city of Caxamala on the 15th of November, 1532. Here the army of
the Inca met the Spaniards. Pizarro was sensible he could not contend
with such a multitude, all well armed and disciplined, so he determined
by craft to get possession of the person of the Inca.
He sent to invite the Inca to sup with him in the city of Caxamala, and
promised then to give an account of his reasons for coming to Peru. The
simple-hearted Inca believed the Spaniards were children of the sun.
Now the Inca worshiped the sun, and thought he himself had descended
from that bright luminary. He was very anxious, therefore, to see
the Spaniards, and could not believe they meant to injure him; so he
consented to visit Pizarro.
Atahualpa took with him twenty thousand warriors, and these were
attended by a multitude of women as bearers of the luggage, when he set
out to visit the Spaniards. The person of the sovereign was one blaze
of jewels. He was borne on a litter plated with gold, overshadowed
with plumes, and carried on the shoulders of his chief nobles. On
his forehead he had the sacred tuft of scarlet, which he wore as the
descendant of the sun. The whole moved to the sound of music, with the
solemnity of a religious procession.
[Illustration: _The Inca putting the Bible to his ear._]
When the Inca entered the fatal gates from which he was never to
return, his curiosity was his chief emotion. Forgetting the habitual
Oriental gravity of the throne, he started up, and continued standing
as he passed along, gazing with eagerness at every surrounding object.
A friar, named Valverde, now approached, bearing a cross and a Bible.
The friar commenced his harangue by declaring that the pope had given
the Indies to Spain; that the Inca was bound to obey; that the book he
carried contained the only true mode of worshiping Heaven.
“Where am I to find your religion?” said the Inca.
“In this book,” replied the friar.
The Inca declared that whatever might be the peaceful intentions of the
Spaniards, “he well knew how they had acted on the road, how they had
treated his caciques, and burned his cottages.” He then took the Bible,
and turning over some of the leaves, put it eagerly to his ear.
“This book,” said he, “has no tongue; it tells me nothing.” With these
words he flung it contemptuously on the ground.
The friar exclaimed at the impiety, and called on his countrymen
for revenge. The Inca spoke a few words to his people, which were
answered by murmurs of indignation. At this moment Pizarro gave the
signal to his troops: a general discharge of cannon, musketry, and
crossbows followed, and smote down the unfortunate Peruvians. The
cavalry were let loose, and they broke through the Inca’s guard at the
first shock. Pizarro rushed forward at the head of a chosen company of
shield-bearers, to seize the Inca.
[Illustration: _Pizarro seizing the Inca._]
That sovereign was surrounded by a circle of his high officers and
devoted servants. They never moved except to throw themselves upon the
Spanish swords. They saw that their prince was doomed, and they gave
themselves up to his fate. The circle rapidly thinned, and the Inca
would soon have been slain, had not Pizarro called to his soldiers to
forbear. He wished to take the Inca alive, that he might extort gold
from him for his ransom.
Pizarro, therefore, rushed forward, and, seizing the Inca by the
mantle, dragged him to the ground. The Peruvians, seeing his fall in
the midst of the Spanish lances, thought he was slain, and instantly
gave up the battle. In the force of their despair they burst through
one of the walls and fled over the open country. More than two thousand
were left dead within the gates, while not a single Spaniard had been
killed. It was a murder rather than a battle.
The Spaniards proceeded to plunder the camp of the Inca, and he, seeing
their passion for gold, offered to purchase his ransom. He offered to
cover the floor of the chamber where he was confined with wedges of
gold and silver. The Spaniards laughed at this, as they conceived,
impossible proposal. The Inca thought they despised the small sum he
had offered, and starting to his feet, he haughtily stretched his
arm as high as he could reach, and told them he would give them that
chamber full to the mark he then touched with his hand. The chamber was
twenty-two feet long, sixteen wide, and the point he touched on the
wall was nine feet high.
Pizarro accepted the proposal, and sent messengers to Cuzco to obtain
the ransom. These brought back twenty-six horse loads of gold, and
a thousand pounds’ weight of silver. The generals of the Inca also
brought additional treasures of gold and silver vessels, and the room
was filled. Pizarro grasped the treasure, and divided it among his
troops, after deducting one fifth for the king, and taking a large
share for himself.
Pizarro had promised to set the Inca at liberty; but it is probable he
never intended it. After he had, in the name of the Inca, drawn all the
gold he could from the country, he barbarously murdered the poor Indian
chief!
There is a tradition that the fate of the Inca was hastened by the
following circumstance. One of the soldiers on guard over him, wrote
the name of God on the thumb nail of the Inca, explaining to him at
the same time the meaning of the word. The Inca showed it to the first
Spaniard who entered. The man read it. The Inca was delighted; and
Pizarro appearing at the moment, the important nail was presented to
him. But Pizarro could not read! the conqueror of Peru could not write
his name; and the Inca manifested such contempt towards him for this
ignorance, that Pizarro resolved he should not live.
After the Inca’s death, another long and bloody war, or, rather,
ravage, commenced. The Spaniards finally took Cuzco, the royal city,
plundered the temples, and desolated the land, till the Peruvians,
in despair, submitted to their chains, and became the slaves of the
Spaniards.
Since that time the Spanish power has always governed Peru, till the
revolution in 1823, when the colonists threw off the yoke of the mother
country. But, in justice to the kings of Spain, it should be remembered
that they have frequently made laws to protect their Indian subjects
in South America. Still the poor natives were often, indeed always,
cruelly oppressed by the colonists. But now the spirit of liberality
and improvement is ameliorating the condition of all the laboring
classes in the independent Republic of Peru, and the Indians are
entitled to the privileges of free citizens.
CHAPTER VI.
_Indian tradition.--Manco Capac.--His reign.--Religion.--Property.--
Agriculture.--Buildings.--Public roads.--Manufactures.--
Domestic animals.--Results of the conquest of the country by
the Spaniards._
The Peruvians have a tradition that the city of Cuzco was founded
in this manner. The early inhabitants of the country were ignorant,
and brutal as the wild beasts of the forest, till a man and woman of
majestic form, and clothed in decent garments, appeared among them.
They declared themselves to be children of the sun, sent to instruct
and to reclaim the human race. They persuaded the savages to conform
to the laws they proposed, united them, the Indians, together in a
society, and taught them to build the city.
Manco Capac was the name of this wonderful man; the woman was called
Marna Ocollo. Though they were the children of the sun, it seems they
had been brought up very industriously; for Manco Capac taught the
Indians agriculture, and other useful arts; and Marna Ocollo taught
the women to spin and weave, and make feather garments.
After the people had been taught to work, and had built houses and
cultivated fields, and so on, Manco Capac introduced such laws and
usages as were calculated to perpetuate the good habits of the people.
And thus, according to the Indian tradition, was founded the empire of
the Incas.
The territory was, at first, small; but it was gradually enlarged by
conquering the neighboring tribes,--merely, however, to do good by
extending the blessings of their laws and arts to the barbarians,--till
the dominions of the Inca Atahualpa, the twelfth in succession,
extended from north to south along the Pacific Ocean above 2000 miles;
its breadth from east to west was from the ocean to the Andes. The
empire had continued four hundred years.
The most singular and striking circumstance in the Peruvian government,
was the influence of religion upon its genius and its laws. The whole
civil policy was founded on religion. The Inca appeared not only as a
legislator, but as the messenger of heaven. His precepts were received
as the mandates of the Deity. Any violation of his laws was punished
with death; but the people were so impressed with the power and sacred
character of their ruler that they seldom ventured to disobey.
Manco Capac taught the Peruvians to worship the sun, as the great
source of light, of joy, and fertility. The moon and stars were
entitled to secondary honors. They offered to the sun a part of those
productions which his genial warmth had called forth from the bosom
of the earth, and his beams had ripened. They sacrificed some of the
animals which were indebted to his influence for nourishment. They
presented to him choice specimens of those works of ingenuity which
his light had guided the hand of man in forming. But the Incas never
stained the altar of the sun with human blood.
Thus the Peruvians were formed, by the spirit of the religion which
they had adopted, till they possessed a national character more gentle
than that of any other people in America.
The state of property in Peru was no less singular than that of
religion, and contributed, likewise, towards giving a mild turn
of character to the people. All the lands capable of cultivation,
were divided into three shares. One was consecrated to the sun, and
the product of it was applied to the erection of the temples, and
furnishing what was requisite towards celebrating the public rites of
religion.
The second share belonged to the Inca, or was set apart as the
provision made by the community for the support of government. The
third and largest share was reserved for the maintenance of the people,
among whom it was parcelled out. All such lands were cultivated by the
joint industry of the community.
A state thus constituted may be considered like one great family, in
which the union of the members was so complete, and the exchange of
good offices so perceptible, as to create stronger attachment between
man and man than subsisted under any other form of society in the new
world. The Peruvians were advanced far beyond any of the nations in
America, both in the necessary arts of life, and in such as have some
title to be called elegant.
Agriculture was carried on by the Peruvians with a good deal of skill.
They had artificial canals to water their fields; and to this day the
Spaniards have preserved and use some of the canals made in the days
of the Incas. They had no plough, but turned up the earth with a kind
of mattock of hard wood. The men labored in the fields with the women,
thus showing the advance of civilization over the rude tribes which
imposed all the drudgery upon females.
The superior ingenuity of the Peruvians was also obvious in their
houses and public buildings. In the extensive plains along the Pacific
Ocean, where the sky is always serene and the climate mild, the houses
were, of course, very slight fabrics. But in the higher regions, where
rain falls and the rigor of the changing seasons is felt, houses were
constructed with great solidity. They were generally of a square form,
the walls about eight feet high, built of bricks hardened in the sun,
without any windows, and the door strait and low. Many of these houses
are still to be seen in Peru.
But it was in the temples consecrated to the sun, and in the buildings
intended for the residence of their monarchs, that the Peruvians
displayed the utmost extent of their art. The temple of Pachacmac,
together with a palace of the Inca and a fortress, were so connected
together as to form one great structure, nearly two miles in circuit.
Still this wide structure was not a very lofty affair. The Indians,
being unacquainted with the use of the pulley and other mechanical
powers, could not elevate the large stones and bricks which they
employed in building; and the walls of this, their grandest edifice,
did not rise above twelve feet from the ground. There was not a single
window in any part of the building. The light was only admitted by the
doors; and the largest apartments must have been illuminated by some
other means.
The noblest and most useful works of the Incas, were their public
roads. They had two, from Cuzco to Quito, extending, uninterruptedly,
above fifteen hundred miles. These roads were not, to be sure, equal
to our modern turnpikes; but at the time Peru was discovered there were
no public roads in any kingdom of Europe that could be compared to the
great roads of the Incas.
The Peruvians had, likewise, made considerable advances in manufactures
and the arts which may be called elegant. They made cloth, and they
could refine silver and gold. They manufactured earthen ware; and they
had some curious instruments formed of copper, which had been made
so hard as to answer the purposes of iron. This metal they had not
discovered. If they had only understood the working of iron and steel
as well as they did that of gold and silver, they would have been a
much richer and more civilized people.
The Peruvians had tamed the duck and the llama, and rendered them
domestic animals. The llama is somewhat larger than the sheep, and in
appearance resembles a camel. The Indians manufactured its wool into
cloth; its flesh they used for food; moreover, the animal was employed
as a beast of burden, and would carry a moderate load with much
patience and docility. The aid of domestic animals is essential to the
improvement and civilization of human society.
In short, the Peruvians, when contrasted with the naked, indolent, and
ignorant inhabitants of the West Indian Islands, seem to have been a
comfortable, ingenious, and respectable nation. The conquest of their
country destroyed their system of government. They were made not merely
to pay tribute to their new rulers, but, far worse, they were reduced
to the condition of slaves. They were compelled to leave the pleasant
fields they used to cultivate, and driven in crowds to the mountains
in search of gold. They were forced to labor hard, and allowed only a
scanty subsistence; till, heart-broken and despairing of any change for
the better, they sunk under their calamities and died!
[Illustration: _An Indian girl feeding a duck. Llama carrying a burden
on its back._]
In a few years after Pizarro entered Cuzco, a great part of the ancient
population of Peru had been swept away, destroyed by the avarice and
cruelty of their conquerors.
The Alligator.
I am not about to recommend this creature to you on account of his
beauty or amiable qualities. He has, in fact, too large a mouth, and
too long a tail, to be handsome, and his reputation is not of the
pleasantest kind. However, it is interesting to hear about all the
works of nature, and as this is one of the most wonderful, I shall
proceed to describe it.
Alligators live in warm climates, and spend the greater part of their
time in the water. There are four or five kinds in America, but the
most dangerous are found along the banks of the river Mississippi.
These creatures are sometimes fifteen or even twenty feet in length;
their mouths are two or three feet long and fourteen or fifteen inches
wide. Their teeth are strong and sharp, and their claws are also very
strong.
During the middle of the day the alligators are generally at
rest--lying lazily upon the shore, or in the water. Toward evening,
however, they begin to move about in search of prey, and then the roar
of the larger ones is terrific. It is louder and deeper than the lowing
of the bull, and it has all the savage wildness of the bittern’s cry.
It would seem that this bellowing could not be agreeable to anything,
for as soon as the birds and beasts hear it, they fly as if smitten
with terror; but still, when an alligator wishes to speak something
loving into the ear of another, he goes to bellowing with all his
might, and this sound, so awful to other creatures, seems very pleasant
and musical to the alligator which is thus addressed. This shows that
there is a great difference in tastes.
[Illustration: THE CROCODILE.]
The male alligators sometimes engage in ferocious battles. These
usually take place in shallow water, where their feet can touch the
ground. At first they only cudgel each other with their tails; but the
blows given are tremendous, and soon rouse the anger of the parties.
They then go at it with teeth and claws. The snapping, scratching,
rending and thumping, are now tremendous; the water boils around with
the struggle; streams of blood mingle with the waves; and at last one
of the combatants is actually torn in pieces by his adversary.
The appetite of the alligator is voracious; I never heard of one that
had the dyspepsia. Nothing of the animal kind comes amiss; mountain
cat, monkey, vulture, parrot, snake-lizard, and even the electric eel,
rattlesnake, and venomous bush-master, are alike swallowed down! Nor
does it matter whether the creature be alive or dead, save only that it
seems most admired when in a putrid state. It frequently happens that
the creature will deposit an animal he has killed in the water till
partly decayed, and when most offensive to us, it seems most delicious
to the alligator.
In some of the rivers of North and South America, within the tropics,
these creatures are very numerous. They also infest the lakes and
lagoons all around the Gulf of Mexico; and it is here that the
alligator’s paradise is found. When the spring rains come these
creatures have a perfect carnival. Many fishes, birds, and animals, are
killed during the freshets, and are borne along in the floods; upon
their remains these creatures feast; and as the vulture is provided
by providence to devour and remove offal from the land, which would
otherwise infect the air and produce pestilence; so the alligators
are the scavengers of the waters, and clear away putrescence that
would otherwise render them poisonous and unapproachable to man. So,
after all, the alligator has his part to play in the great economy of
nature, and is actually very useful.
The alligator is nearly the same as the crocodile of the eastern
continent. The females lay eggs, and one of them is said to produce a
hundred in a season. They are of the size of geese eggs, and are often
eaten, being esteemed tolerable food. The eggs, being deposited in the
sand and covered up, are hatched by the heat.
* * * * *
BRAHAM’S PARROT.--Parrots, like cuckoos, form their notes deep in the
throat, and show great aptitude in imitating the human voice. A lady
who admired the musical talents of Braham, the celebrated singer, gave
him a parrot, which she had taught with much care. A person who saw it
at Braham’s house, thus describes it:--“After dinner, during a pause
in the conversation, I was startled by a voice from one corner of the
room, calling out in a strong, hearty manner, ‘Come, Braham, give us a
song!’ Nothing could exceed the surprise and admiration of the company.
The request being repeated and not ananswered, the parrot struck up the
first verse of _God save the King_, in a clear, warbling tone, aiming
at the style of Braham, and sung it through. The ease with which the
bird was taught was equally surprising with his performance. The same
lady prepared him to accost Catalani, when dining with Mr. Braham,
which so alarmed Madame that she nearly fell from her chair. Upon his
commencing _Rule Brittania_, in a loud and intrepid tone, the chantress
fell upon her knees before the bird, expressing, in terms of delight,
her admiration of its talents.”
This parrot has only been exceeded by Lord Kelly’s, who, upon being
asked to sing, replied, “I never sing on a Sunday.” “Never mind that,
Poll; come, give us a song.” “No, excuse me. I’ve got a cold--don’t
you hear how hoarse I am?” This extraordinary creature performed the
three verses entire of _God save the King_, words and music, without
hesitation, from beginning to end.
[Illustration: Horse and frogs]
Mungo Park and the Frogs.
The tales of travellers often appear to us incredible, merely because
they relate things different from our own observation and experience.
You know that there are some countries so hot that they never have ice
or snow there. Now it chanced that a man from some northern portion of
the world, happening to be in one of those hot places, told the people,
that, where he lived, the water sometimes became solid, in consequence
of the cold, and almost as hard as a stone.
Now this was so different from the experience of the people, that they
would not credit the traveller’s story. This shows us that a thing may
be a reality, which is, at the same time, very different from our own
observation and experience.
Mungo Park was a famous traveller in Africa. He went into countries
where no white man had been before, and he saw places which no white
man had seen. He tells us many curious things, but perhaps nothing is
more amusing than what he says about the frogs. At a certain place that
he visited, he went to a brook to let his horse drink; but what was
his surprise to find it almost covered with frogs, who kept bobbing up
and down, so that his horse was afraid to put his nose into the water.
At last Mr. Park was obliged to take a bush and give the frogs a
flogging, before he could make them get out of the way so as to let his
poor beast quench his thirst.
A Child lost in the Woods.
The Bangor Whig of the 11th of June contains an affecting account of a
search made at Linnæus, in the Aroostook country, for a little girl of
nine years, the daughter of Mr. David W. Barbar, who, on the 4th, was
sent through the woods to a neighbor’s, half a mile distant, to borrow
a little flour for breakfast. Not returning that day, the next morning
about forty of the neighbors set out to hunt for her, but spent the day
without success. The next day sixty searched the woods, with no better
fortune. The following morning between two and three hundred of the
settlers assembled early, anxious and fearful for the safety of the
lost child.
“The company set out,” says the Whig, “for a thorough and a last
search. The child had been in the woods three days and nights, and many
hearts were sunk in despondency at the utter hopelessness of finding
it alive. But to learn its fate or restore it was the determined
purpose of each. Half the day had been expended in advancing into the
forest. It was time for returning; but who could think of doing so
while an innocent child might be wandering but a few rods in advance?
On the company pushed, still deeper into the dense wilds. The sun had
reached the meridian, and was dipping down toward the west. It seemed
vain to look farther, and slowly and heavily those stout-hearted men
brushed a tear from their cheeks, gave up all as lost, and, as their
hearts seemed to die within them, commenced their return. The line
was stretched to include a survey of the greatest possible ground; not
a bush or tree, where it was possible for a child to be concealed,
within the limits of the line, was passed without diligent search.
Those at the extremities of the lines tasked themselves to the utmost
in examining the woods beyond the lines. They had travelled for some
time, when, at the farthest point of vision, the man on one flank
thought he saw a bush bend. He ran with swelling heart. He hesitated.
Was it his imagination? He gazed a moment. The bush bent again, and the
head of the little wanderer was seen! He rushed forward, and found the
little girl seated upon a log, and breaking the twigs she had plucked
from the bush which so providentially led to her discovery. She did not
appear to be frightened; said she had lain in the woods three nights,
and had not seen or heard any wild beasts, and that she thought she
should get to Mr. Howard’s for the flour before night! At first she did
not appear hungry or weak, but after eating a piece of bread her cries
for more were very piteous. She was found about three miles from where
she entered the woods. Her clothing was very thin, and the large shawl
she had on when she left home she had carefully folded and placed in
the pillowcase, not even putting it over her during the night, as she
innocently said, ‘to keep from dirtying it, or her mother would whip
her.’ Our informant states that she is now as well and happy as the
other children.”
* * * * *
THE SUN.--If the sun were inhabited as thickly as some parts of our
earth, with human beings, it would contain 850,000 times as many as the
earth.
AUTUMN.
WORDS AND MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.
Andante.
[Illustration: Music]
The summer departed,
So gentle and brief--
Pale autumn is come,
With its sere yellow leaf.
Its breath in the vale,
Its voice in the breeze,
A many hued garment
Is over the trees.
In red and in purple
The leaves seem to bloom,--
The stern slayer comes--
It hath spoken their doom;
And those that may seem
With rubies to vie,--
They tell us that beauty
Blooms only to die.
Yet sad as the whispers
Of sorrow its breath,
And touching its hues
As the garment of death,--
Still autumn, though sad
And mournful it be,
Is sweetest and dearest
Of seasons to me.
[Illustration: THE HYÆNA.]
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 3.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XI.
_Raymond’s story of the school of misfortune._
I shall now proceed to repeat, as accurately as I am able, Raymond’s
story promised in the last chapter. It was as follows.
“There once lived in a village near London, a youth whom we will call
R. His parents died when he was young, leaving him an ample estate. He
was educated at one of the universities, travelled for two years on the
continent, and, at the age of twenty-four, returned to the paternal
mansion, and established himself there. Being the richest person in
the village, and the descendant and representative of a family of some
antiquity, he became the chief personage of the place. Beside all this,
he was esteemed remarkably handsome, possessed various accomplishments,
and had powers of pleasing almost amounting to fascination. He was,
therefore, courted and flattered by the whole neighborhood, and even
lords and ladies of rank and fashion did not disdain to visit him. The
common people around, of course, looked up to him; for in England,
where distinctions in society are established by government, and where
all are taught to consider such distinctions as right and best, the
great, as they are called, are usually almost worshipped by the little.
“Surrounded by luxuries, and flattered by everybody, it would seem
that R. might have been happy; but he was of a discontented turn, and
though, for a time, these things pleased him, he grew tired of them at
last, and wished for some other sources of pleasure and excitement. At
the university he had imbibed a taste for reading; but he could not
now sit down to its quiet and gentle pleasures. He had been in the
gay society of London and Paris, and had drank the cup of pleasure so
deeply, that nothing but its dregs remained.
“R. was therefore restless, discontented and miserable, while in the
possession of all that usually excites the envy of mankind. He was
rich beyond his utmost wishes; he was endowed with manly beauty and
the most perfect health; he was admired, flattered, cherished and
sought after; yet he was unhappy. The reason of this he did not know;
indeed, he did not look very deeply into the matter, but went on from
one scene to another, seeking enjoyment, but turning with distaste and
disappointment from everything. He was, however, too proud to let the
world see his real condition; he kept up a fair outside, sustained his
establishment with magnificence, and dressed himself, when he went
abroad, with elegance and care; he affected gayety in company, often
led in the dance, was ever foremost in the chase, and was usually the
life of the circle wherever he went.
“There were few, perhaps none, who imagined that, under this aspect
of prosperity, the canker of discontent was gnawing at the heart. Yet
such was the fact: of all the people of the village, R. was esteemed
the most happy and fortunate; but he was in truth the veriest wretch
in the place. And though this may doubtless seem a rare instance, yet
we have good reason to believe that often, very often, there is deep
misery, untold and unsuspected, in the great house, where only elegance
and luxury are seen by the world at large; very often the beggar at the
door would not exchange conditions with the lord of the lofty hall, if
he could know his real condition.
“R. had now reached the age of thirty years, and instead of finding
his condition or the state of his feelings to grow better, they seemed
rather to grow worse. He became more and more unhappy. Every morning
when he rose, it was with a kind of dread as to how he should contrive
to kill time, to get through the day, to endure his own listlessness,
or dissatisfaction, or disgust. The idea of setting about some
useful or honorable employment, that would occupy his thoughts, give
excitement to his faculties, and bring satisfaction to his conscience,
never entered his head. He had never been taught that no one has a
right to lead an idle or useless life, and that no man can be happy who
attempts to live only for himself.
“It is indeed a common opinion among rich people that they are under no
obligation to engage in the active duties of life; that they are not
bound to labor, or toil, or make sacrifices for society; that they are
in fact privileged classes, and may spend their time and money with an
exclusive regard to themselves. R. was educated in this foolish and
narrow-minded opinion; and here was the real foundation of all his
misery. Could he only have discovered that happiness is to be found in
exercising our faculties; in using the means, and employing the power,
that Providence has placed in our hands, in some useful pursuit, and in
this way alone, he might have been saved from a gulf of misery, into
which he was soon plunged.
“At this period, which was soon after the revolutionary war, America
was attracting great attention, and R. having met with one of his
college mates who had been there, and who gave him glowing accounts of
it, he suddenly took the determination to sell his estates and set out
for America, with the view of spending the remainder of his days there.
He knew little of the country, but supposed it to be the contrast in
everything to that in which he had lived, and thinking that any change
must bring enjoyment, he sold his property, and taking the amount in
gold and silver, set out with it in a ship bound for New York.
“The vessel had a prosperous voyage till she arrived in sight of the
highlands near the entrance of the harbor of New York. It was then
that, just at evening, smart gusts began to blow off the land, and the
captain showed signs of anxiety, lest he should not be able to get
in before the storm, which he feared was coming, should arise. The
passengers had dressed themselves to go on shore, and most of them,
anxious to see friends, or tired of the sea, were anticipating their
arrival with delight. R., however, was an exception to all this. He
went upon the deck, looked a few moments gloomily at the land that was
visible low down in the horizon, and then retired to the cabin, where
he gave himself up to his accustomed train of discontented and bitter
thoughts.
“‘I alone,’ said he to himself, ‘of all this company, seem to be
miserable; all are looking forward with pleasant anticipations of some
happiness, some enjoyment in store for them. But for me--what have I
to hope? I have no friends here; this is a land of strangers to me.
It is true, I have wealth; but how worthless is it! I have tried its
virtues in England, and found that it could not give me pleasure.
Wealth cannot bestow happiness upon me; and I should not mourn if every
farthing of it were lost in the sea. Life is indeed to me a burthen.
Why is it that everything is happy but myself? Why do I see all these
people rejoicing at the sight of land, while I am distressed at the
idea of once more mingling with mankind? Alas! life is to me a burthen,
and the sooner I part with it the better.’
“While R. was pursuing this train of reflections in the cabin, the
heaving of the vessel increased; the creaking of the timbers grew
louder, and there was a good deal of noise on the deck, occasioned by
running to and fro, the rattling of cordage, and the clanking of heavy
irons. The commands of the captain became rapid and stern, and the
thumping of the billows against the sides of the ship made her shiver
from the rudder to the bowsprit.
“R. was so buried in his own gloomy reflections that he did not
for some time notice these events; but at last the din became so
tremendous, that he started to his feet and ran upon deck. The scene
that now met his eyes was indeed fearful. It was dark, but not so much
so as to prevent the land from being visible at a little distance; the
wind was blowing with the force of a hurricane, and urging the vessel,
now perfectly at its mercy, into the boiling waves that fretted and
foamed along its edge. The captain had given up all hope of saving the
ship, and the passengers were kneeling and throwing up their hands in
wildness and despair.
“R. was perfectly calm. The thought of losing his wealth crossed
his mind, but it cost him not a struggle to be reconciled to its
destruction. He then thought of sinking down in the waves to rise no
more. To this, too, he yielded, saying briefly to himself, ‘It is best
it should be so.’ Having thus made up his mind and prepared himself for
the worst, as he fancied, he stood surveying the scene. The force of
the gale was fearful; as it marched along the waters, it lashed their
surface into foam, and burst upon the ship with a fury that seemed
every moment on the point of carrying away her masts. At last, the
vessel struck; a moment after, her masts fell, with their whole burthen
of spars, sails, and rigging; the waves then rose over the stern of
the helpless hulk, and swept the whole length of it. Several of the
passengers were hurried into the tide, there to find a watery grave;
some clung to the bulwarks, and others saved themselves in various ways.
“R. was himself plunged into the waves. His first idea was to yield
himself to his fate without an effort; but the love of life revived,
as he saw it placed in danger. He was an expert swimmer, and exerting
himself, he soon approached the masts, which were still floating,
though entangled with the wreck. It was in vain, however, to reach
them, owing to the rolling of the surf. Several times he nearly laid
his hand upon them, when he was beaten back by the dashing waves.
His strength gradually gave way, and he was floating farther and
farther from the wreck, when he chanced to see a spar near him; with a
desperate effort, he swam to this, and was thus able to sustain himself
upon the water.
“The night now grew dark apace, and R., being driven out to sea, was
parted from the wreck, and could distinguish nothing but the flashing
waves around him. His limbs began to grow cold, and he feared that his
strength would be insufficient to enable him to keep upon the spar.
His anxiety increased; an awe of death which he had never felt before
sprung up in his bosom, and an intense desire of life, that thing which
he had so recently spurned as worthless, burned in his bosom. So little
do we know ourselves until adversity has taught us reflection, that R.,
a few hours before fancying that he was willing and prepared to die,
now yearned for safety, for deliverance, for life, with an agony he
could not control. His feelings, however, did not overpower him. Using
every effort of strength and skill, and rubbing his chilled limbs from
time to time, he was able to sustain himself till morning. He could
then perceive that the vessel had become a complete wreck, and that the
fragments were floating on the waves; he could not discern a single
human being, and was left to infer that all beside himself had perished.
“In this situation, benumbed with the cold, faint and exhausted with
exertion, he was on the point of yielding himself a prey to the waves,
when a pilot-boat came into view. It gradually approached the place
where he was, and at last seemed so near him as almost to be within
the reach of his voice. At this critical moment she made preparations
to tack, and thus change her direction. R. noticed these movements
with indescribable anxiety: if she were to advance a few rods more, he
should be discovered and saved; if she were to change her route ever
so little, she would pass by, and he, unobserved and helpless, would
perish. The experience of years seemed now crowded into one moment of
agony. Weary, cold, exhausted, the poor sufferer wished not now to die,
but to live. ‘Help, help!’ cried he with all his strength. ‘O God, send
me deliverance from these waves!’ This earnest and agonizing petition
was the first prayer he had uttered for years, and it was in behalf
of that existence which, in the days of luxury and splendor, he had
thought a burden and a curse.
“Watching the pilot-boat with the keenest interest, poor R. now sat
upon the spar, almost incapable of moving, on account of his sufferings
and his weakness. He saw at last the helm put down; he saw the vessel
obey the impulse; he saw her swing round, the sail flapping in the
wind, and then filling again; he then saw her shoot off in another
direction, thus leaving him destitute of hope. His heart sank within
him, a sickness came over his bosom, his senses departed, and he fell
forward into the waves. It was at this moment that he was discovered by
the pilot. The vessel immediately steered towards him, and he was taken
on board. In a few hours, he was at New York, and put under the care
of persons who rendered him every assistance which he needed for his
immediate comfort.”
* * * * *
DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE UNTO.--The horse of a pious man living in
Massachusetts, happening to stray into the road, a neighbor of the man
who owned the horse put him into the pound. Meeting the owner soon
after, he told him what he had done; “and if I catch him in the road
again,” said he, “_I’ll do it again_.” “Neighbor,” replied the other,
“not long since I looked out of my window in the night and saw your
cattle in my meadow, and I drove them out and shut them in your yard,
and _I’ll do it again_.” Struck with the reply, the man liberated the
horse from the pound, and paid the charges himself. “A soft answer
turneth away wrath.”
MONEY.--He who expends money properly, is its master; he who lays it
up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it, a slave; and
he who adores it, an idolater.
[Illustration: _Country of the Samoides.--Aurora Borealis._]
The Siberian Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER III.
For several days the adventurers continued their journey, without
encountering anything worthy of being recorded. It is true that an hour
seldom passed in which thoughts, feelings, or incidents, did not occur
to Alexis, of some interest; and if we could transfer them here with
the same vividness that they touched his mind and heart, it would be
well to put them down. But, after all, the pen can give but a poor idea
of what is going on in the brain and bosom of a lively and sanguine
youth, separated from home and going forth to hunt sables in the wilds
of Siberia.
In about three weeks after their departure, the travellers reached
Yeniseisk, a considerable place, situated on the Yenisei. The town
is built chiefly of wood, the houses being low. Leaving this place,
they proceeded in a northeasterly direction, usually travelling about
twenty-five miles a day.
It was now the month of September, and already the weather began to
grow severe, and the snow to fall. The country also became more and
more desolate, and the inhabitants were more scattered. They met with
no villages, and frequently travelled a whole day without seeing a
single human habitation. There were extensive marshy plains, upon which
a few groups of stunted willows were to be seen; but this was almost
the only vegetation that the soil produced.
The journey was not only uninteresting and depressing, but it was,
in some respects, laborious and severe. Old Linsk, however, kept up
the spirits of the party by his incessant prattle; and, as he had seen
a good deal of life and possessed a retentive memory, he not only
enlivened his companions, but he communicated a large amount of useful
information. It is true that all his opinions were not just or wise,
but among some chaff there was a good deal of wheat.
After crossing the river Yenisei, and leaving the town of Yeniseisk,
he had a good deal to say about these things, particularly the former.
“I once went down that river,” said he, “entered the Arctic Ocean,
passed into the sea of Obi, and up the river Obi to Tobolsk. The whole
distance was more than twenty-five hundred miles, and we were gone four
months.
“The purpose of our trip was to get elephants’ teeth, which are found
on the banks of the rivers, and along the shores of the Arctic sea.
There are no elephants living in these regions now, nor are there any
in all Siberia; the country is so cold that these creatures cannot
dwell there. It appears that Siberia must have had a warmer climate
once than it has now, for not only do we find elephants’ bones, but
those of the buffalo, and other animals, which can only subsist in
warm countries. It was interesting to see the bones of buffaloes and
elephants along the shore of the ocean; but teeth were scarce; for,
cold and desolate as the country is, many people had been there before
us, and gathered up most of them. We made out pretty well, however; for
we entered the forests as winter approached, and shot some bears, and
sables, and ermines; and what we lacked in elephants’ teeth we made up
in furs. Beside what we gained in the way of trade, I got a good deal
of information and enjoyed some fun; my plan being to make the best of
everything.
“Along the banks of the Yenisei, the inhabitants are Ostiacks, and are
chiefly fishermen; and a sad set they are. I don’t know how it happens,
but it seems to me that those who live on fish have the most thirsty
throats of any persons in the world. All the people were addicted to
drinking brandy, and never did I see so much drunkenness and riot. It
is bad enough all over Siberia; the people generally believe in evil
spirits, but brandy is the worst of them all. The man that invented
brandy has done more mischief to the human race than it is possible to
conceive; and those who contrive to sell it and diffuse it, are only
aiding in brutifying the human species. But it is a thrifty trade, and
many rich men are engaged in it. They flourish in this world; and so
did the rich man we read of in Scripture; but he did not fare very well
in another world. I can’t say how it was, but I have always thought
that Dives was a brandy dealer, and that was the reason he was so
tormented.”
“This is very strange,” said Alexis, “for you drink brandy yourself,
Linsk.”
“That’s all true,” was the reply. “I can’t help it. I’ve got into the
habit of it, and I can’t get out of it. It’s one of the worst parts of
the story, that when brandy has got its clutches upon you, you can’t
pull them off. It’s with brandy as with the evil spirit--when you’ve
once made a bargain with him, you must go through with it. So it is
with those Ostiacks along the Yenisei; they whip their wooden gods
because they don’t send them good luck in hunting and fishing; but
they should whip their own backs, for if they fail in anything, it is
generally because they get drunk, and are incapable of using their
skill and strength to advantage. They know that brandy is at the bottom
of all the mischief, but still they drink, and lay all to the gods
that they do not like to impute to themselves.
“To the north of the Ostiacks are the Samoides, who live along the
shore of the Arctic Ocean the whole extent of Siberia. They are few in
number, for the country is so cold and barren, that it is impossible
they should greatly increase. They are very short, and I believe are
the smallest people in the world. They eat a great deal of fish,
and, what is very odd, they seem to like it best when it is a little
tainted. They have many reindeer, and in the autumn hunt white foxes,
with the skins of which they buy brandy.
“The country inhabited by the Samoides is the most cold and dreary that
can be imagined. The snow lasts for nine months of the year; the storms
are almost incessant for a great part of the time, and in winter the
cold is so intense as to freeze brandy, though the people contrive to
thaw it again. But the most wonderful thing is this: the sun sets in
November, and does not rise again till the next May; so the night is
six months long! The moon, however, shines a great part of the time,
and it is never dark during that period. The northern lights, sometimes
called aurora borealis, are very brilliant, and it is easy to read by
them. The Samoides, however, have no books; they spend most of their
time in winter in sitting in their huts and telling long stories. I
will tell you one, which an old fisherman said he had heard repeated in
one of their dwellings while he was staying with them.
“There was once upon a time an old Samoide fisherman that had the most
beautiful daughter that ever was seen. She was very short and very fat,
and her skin shone like blubber oil; her eyes were small and black; her
teeth were large, and of a beautiful yellow hue. Her hair, also, was
yellow, and being matted together, hung down in a thick mass upon her
shoulders.
“This fair girl was of an olive color, and such were her charms that
all the young men who saw her fell desperately in love with her, save
one. This latter was a fisherman, and famous for his skill in every
species of adventurous sport. He was very dexterous in spearing the
seal and sea otter, in managing the seal-skin boat, and in driving the
reindeer sledge over the snow.
“Now, although the beautiful lady, whose name was Lis, enslaved all
others, this hero of the fishhook and spear set her charms at nought;
and, as the fates are very whimsical, the beautiful girl, disdaining
the addresses of all besides, became desperately enamored of him. She
took every opportunity in her power to please and fascinate him, but
all to no purpose. Loord, for that was the name of the fisherman,
resisted her advances, and in fact treated her with marked neglect, if
not disdain.
“This appeared very wonderful to everybody, and especially to Lis, who
made up her mind that some evil-minded spirit had bewitched Loord,
and thus enabled and disposed him to resist her charms. She therefore
determined to go to an island at some distance in the ocean, where she
had an uncle living, and, under pretence of visiting him, to consult
a famous sorcerer, or magician, who dwelt there, and, if possible, to
obtain his counsel in the matter.
“Now Lis was well skilled in the arts of managing a boat; so she
determined to go alone. She got into a boat made of seal-skins, and set
forth upon the sea, having bade her friends farewell, who were at the
landing to take leave of her. It was expected that she would return
the next day--but she came not; the second day, the third, and the
fourth, passed away, but the beautiful Lis did not return. At length
some anxiety existed among her friends as to her welfare, and even the
interest of Loord was roused. He determined to set forth in search of
her; and that very day, entering his seal-skin boat, he departed for
the magician’s island.
“It is important to observe that, previous to starting, Loord, who
generally avoided brandy, took a large draught, by the advice of
an aged fisherman, not so much to exclude the cold as to keep out
witchcraft.
“Things went pretty well with Loord in the first part of his voyage,
but after a while, according to his account of the matter on his
return, as he began to approach the magician’s island, he caught a
glimpse of it, but it was bobbing up and down like a porpoise before a
squall. He kept his eye upon it steadily for some time, when at last it
sunk, and did not rise again. Loord used all his strength to reach the
place, and finally came to it, and the water was whirling and boiling
round; but not a bit of an island was to be seen. Loord sailed over and
over the place, and waited a long time to see if he could not pick up
somebody, and particularly the beautiful Lis, but he found no one.
“Loord at last returned; he had been gone all day, and it was late at
night when he reached his home. He was in a bewildered state, but told
his story as I have related it. It was intimated to him that perhaps
the brandy got into his head, and that the island’s being sunk was all
a mistake; but he laughed at the idea. In a few days, however, a boat
came from the magician’s isle, and behold the beautiful Lis was in it,
as well and as charming as ever. Her friends came to see her, and her
lovers returned, and all congratulated her upon her good looks, and
upon her escape from being carried to the bottom of the sea with the
magician’s island. This made her stare, upon which they told her the
adventure of Loord.
“It being now ascertained that the island of the magician was still
standing in its place, Loord became an object of general ridicule; and
as he was no longer a hero in the estimation of the people, Lis began
to think she could live without him. Accordingly, when she met him
she tossed up her head, and passed him by with disdain. This brought
Loord to his senses, and he began to see that Lis was very beautiful,
and pretty soon he found out that he could not live without her. So he
wooed her, but at first she would not listen to him; after a great deal
of teazing, however, she consented, and they were married; but ever
after, if anything went wrong, Lis would jeer him about the magician’s
island, that bobbed up and down like a porpoise before a storm, and at
last went down to the bottom! This would always bring Loord to terms;
and, in short, by means of this affair, Lis not only got her husband,
but she used the story ever after to manage him; for it gave her a
power over him like that of a strong bit in the mouth of a headstrong
horse.
“Nor was this all. The people in those parts found out that Lis went to
the island to consult the magician, and they imputed Loord’s conduct
entirely to his interference in behalf of the beautiful girl. But the
only real magician in the case was the brandy, for Lis did not find
the magician at home; and, though she waited some days, she did not
see him. However, when people are superstitious common things always
grow mighty wonderful in their eyes. Superstition is like a pair of
spectacles that I heard of once; they happened to have a musquito on
one of the glasses when the owner put them on; so he thought he saw
a flying bear skipping over the distant hills, when it was only the
musquito upon his spectacles!”
Habit.
When we have performed any action once, it is easier to do the same or
a similar act on a second occasion. Jugglers acquire great skill in
using their hands and all parts of their bodies by this means. We can
exercise our minds with less difficulty, the more frequently we attempt
it. We call this the law of habit.
This law extends over our moral natures; so that morals consist very
much in habits. We do right the more easily as we practise it, and
wrong increases in our characters by every new violation of right.
He who tells a small untruth to-day, will be likely to tell a larger
one to-morrow; and that little girl who begins to obey her conscience
when very young, may hope, through the power of habit, to obtain great
goodness when she comes to be a woman.
If we wish to be good and happy, we must form correct moral habits;
that is, we must do right always, so that it shall soon become easier
to us than to do wrong. It would be very difficult for a lad, who had
never used a profane word, to speak even one such word. Pure language
would be as easy to him as to breathe. This is the state in which every
person should keep himself; for if he does wrong but a single time, he
knows not how soon he shall do it again and again, until he becomes
utterly vicious.
Habit not only strengthens our active propensities, but also weakens
the impression things make upon us. If we saw a man’s limb amputated by
a surgeon, it would excite our feelings deeply. But those who perform
those operations frequently, feel little sympathy with the sufferer.
It is not only what we do, but what we see, and hear, and feel,
therefore, that is to be regarded in the formation of our habits.
In regard to impressions, we should recollect, that, although we cannot
prevent a thing from affecting us as it does, when actually before us,
yet we can keep ourselves out of the sight and reach of objects that
affect us unfavorably. In order to relieve others who are in pain, it
is necessary we should feel a sympathy for their sufferings. But if we
look on men, or even on animals, that are in pain, frequently, and from
mere curiosity, we shall soon feel no sympathy for the distressed, nor
desire to relieve them. It is therefore wrong to accustom ourselves to
witness sufferings needlessly and without reflection.
Many bad objects may give us powerful impressions at first, but if we
dwell upon them, and strive to resist their effects, we shall perhaps
overcome them. So of good impressions; the young lady who is tempted
to resort to public places of amusement, where health and morals are
exposed--suppose it to be to spend the whole night in dancing and
festivity--may think that pleasanter than to attend a useful lecture,
or to engage in instructive conversation. But let her remember the
force of habit. If she frequent public balls, her taste for valuable
objects of pursuit will diminish; while the habit of preferring the
lecture-room, or a profitable volume to read, or a useful conversation,
when once formed, will make the employment more agreeable than scenes
of dissipation.
Accustom yourself to contemplate the beauties of nature, and you will
soon learn to associate all that is pure, elevating, and holy with the
works of God. The glorious sun, once merely a convenient object, will
now seem to you a teacher of the sublimest emotions. River, forest,
flower, and field will teem in your mind with the choicest influences
and impressions.
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER XI.
_Descent into the crater of Mount Ætna.--Novel site for
a house.--The great chesnut tree.--Return down
the mountain.--Journey to Messina.--Beauty of the
scenery.--Sicilian spinners.--Extraordinary strength of the
ass.--Mountain torrents.--Sights on the road._
My readers left me in the last chapter at the top of Etna, standing on
the edge of the crater and looking down into that smoking gulf with
feelings of wonder and awe. The situation was not without its dangers;
but the sublimity and grandeur of the scene tempted me to additional
hazards. I determined to go down into the crater, though I had heard
of people making the same attempt, and paying for their rashness with
their lives. It is natural enough that there should be such stories,
but I never knew one well authenticated. In fact, the inside of the
crater offers as firm footing as the outside, and the only risk is in
going too far down. I ventured in, taking good care to feel the way
before me with my stick, and holding on to the projecting crags in
my descent. I found the surface to consist of broken rocks of lava,
mingled with hard sulphurous masses, cinders, and ashes. By the time I
had descended a stone’s throw, I encountered a strong smell of sulphur,
which soon became overpowering, and forced me to direct my course
farther to windward. I proceeded along laterally, some distance, and
then struck downward again; but the sulphurous smoke steamed up so hot
from all the crevices and openings around me, that I was obliged to
stop for fear of suffocation.
I then seated myself for a few moments on a brimstone rock, and gazed
at the strange scene around. The edge of the crater rose up like an
immense wall over my head, shutting out every prospect except that of
the sky, and the tremendous gulf beneath my feet was full of smoking
hills and yawning chasms. There was no fear of being interrupted in
this strange solitude, and notwithstanding the wild and threatening
looks of this fiery region, I felt as safe as if I had been at the foot
of the mountain. While sitting here, I was struck with a notion which
I believe never entered a man’s head before; namely, that of building
a _house_ inside the crater! It was a Yankee notion indeed, but there
is a house on the edge of Niagara falls, and I am confident that if
Ætna were in the state of Massachusetts, some Yankee would have a house
inside the crater, and take boarders and lodgers. There is as good a
foundation within as without, and the situation would be warm and well
sheltered from the violent cold winds which are almost always blowing
at the top of the mountain!
After I had satisfied my curiosity by this close prospect of the mouth
of the great volcano, I climbed back over the edge, and descended the
cone much faster than I went up, although the descent was far more
painful and hazardous than the ascent; much caution was necessary to
avoid sliding from the top to the bottom. I found my companion at the
foot of the cone, snuggling under the shelter of a rock, thrashing his
arms, blowing his fingers, and complaining of being half frozen. I only
laughed at him for not accompanying me to the top, where I told him he
might have warmed himself very comfortably. As for myself, I did not
feel chilled in the least, and I set off down the mountain in excellent
spirits, having accomplished the main object of my journey.
There was, however, another great curiosity on the other side of the
mountain, which I would not lose the sight of. This was the famous
chesnut tree, called the Chesnut of the Hundred Horses, because it
is so large that a hundred horses may stand inside the trunk. We
accordingly struck off to the eastward along the edge of the forest.
The cork and chesnut trees were very numerous in this quarter, and many
of the latter were of an enormous size. When we approached the great
chesnut, and the guide pointed it out to me, I took it for a group
of half a dozen trees, for so it appeared. In fact, when we reached
it, I could hardly persuade myself that it was a single tree. The
interior of the trunk is entirely decayed; leaving nothing but five or
six detached portions, which look like separate trees, but on digging
to the roots, they are found united; and there is no doubt the whole
formerly composed a solid trunk. There is no bark on the inside, and
the tree has been in this decayed state for a century or more. Its age
no one can tell. I looked upon its enormous size with astonishment. It
is about 200 feet in circumference; so that the interior might contain
a large house, and leave much vacant space besides. It was not the
season for fruit, but I remarked to the guide that if the nuts bore any
proportion to the tree, they must be bigger than cocoanuts. I did not
learn, however, that the fruit is larger than that of other chesnut
trees in this quarter. The European chesnuts, I must observe, are three
times as large as the American, but they are not so sweet, and are
hardly ever eaten raw.
There are several other chesnut trees of enormous size upon the
mountain. The surprising fertility of the soil which produces this
gigantic vegetation is owing to the ashes thrown out by the mountain.
In every part where the surface has not been covered by the lava and
sand, the growth of the trees and vegetables is most luxuriant.
The ashes have been found to contain abundance of nitre, which,
when combined with the soil in a proper quantity, is known to be of
wonderful efficacy in quickening the growth of plants.
I could have spent a month upon the mountain with great satisfaction,
exploring its wonders and curiosities, but having so long a journey
before me, I found myself obliged to leave it without visiting a great
many interesting spots. I should, in particular, have been pleased to
pass some time in the queer little village high up the mountain. The
inhabitants are certainly a strange sort of people, and must have some
very odd notions of the rest of the world, which it would be amusing to
know. I shall certainly visit Ætna again, when a chance offers.
I returned to Catania, where I staid two or three days, and then set
out for Messina. Having been informed that there was a good road
the whole distance, instead of a rambling mule-track like that from
Syracuse, I ventured on this part of the journey alone, with a good
stout mule, which I bought for the purpose. The road ran along the
seashore at the foot of the mountain, and I was more and more struck
with the beauty and grandeur of the scenery. The slopes of the mountain
were covered with villages, gardens, and groves of orange, olive,
cherry, almond and fig trees; the great white cap of Ætna everywhere
towering over all. The houses along the road were painted with huge
staring figures in bright colors, like landscape paper-hangings. The
fields, as usual, were divided by walls of black lava, and long-horned
oxen were ploughing in them. Droves of donkeys were going to the city
with loads of dry vinestalks for the bakers’ ovens, and others bore
casks of wine, long and shaped like eel-pots, slung over their backs.
I met also wagons loaded with lemons, as our countrymen cart their
potatoes to market. In the walls along the road, at almost every step,
were niches containing pictures of the virgin, to which the people
paid their adorations. As I proceeded further, I came to huge rocky
cliffs overhanging the road, and all overgrown with the prickly pear.
Herds of goats were clambering up and down the steep precipices, and
browsing among the rocks. Sometimes the road passed along the side of a
mountainous crag overhanging the sea, with a parapet on one side, over
which I looked down a fearful depth, and saw the ocean dashing under my
feet. In other places the road was cut through a solid rock.
Everywhere the prospect offered the most enchanting scenery. In some
places the slope of the mountain was cut into terraces, which looked
like tiers of gardens piled one upon another. The vineyards did not
look so blooming as most of the other cultivated grounds, for the vines
were not yet in leaf; the peasants were hoeing round them and setting
the props. The road passed through a great many villages, and in all,
the streets were full of women. Many of them carried jugs of water on
their heads, and others sat before the doors spinning tow. They use
only a spindle and distaff; they hold the distaff in the left hand,
give the spindle a twirl with the right, and let it swing in the air,
the spinner drawing out the tow as it flies round. The thread is then
wound up on the spindle, and another twirl given to it. In this manner
they are accustomed to run about the streets and spin, which I think
may fairly be called spinning _street-yarn_.
I had often heard that the ass was a strong-backed animal, but I never
had stronger evidence of the fact than upon this journey. As I was
jogging along the road towards noon, I espied a figure coming towards
me with the strangest movements that ever I witnessed. It had the
appearance of a man, but he moved in so awkward a manner, shambling and
toddling onward by jerks and hitches, that I knew not what to make of
the sight. When he came nearer, I discovered that it was an enormous
long-legged fellow, astride of a little dwarfish donkey, not bigger
than a two-year-old calf. The beast was so much smaller than the man,
that I did not observe him till he was very near. The fellow’s legs
were so long that he was obliged to hold them up behind him to keep
his feet from dragging on the ground. The poor little donkey tottered
and staggered under his enormous load, and seemed ready to stumble
every moment. I stopped the man, and asked him if he was not afraid
of breaking the back of his beast. He appeared quite astonished at
the question, and replied that an ass’s back was a thing that never
broke; at least, he had never heard of such an accident. I told him he
was much better able to carry the ass than the ass was to carry him;
on which he burst into a broad laugh, gave the donkey a bang with his
cudgel, and trotted on.
Now and then the road crossed the bed of a mountain torrent, caused by
the heavy rains which fall on the regions above. When the rains are
violent, the waters pour down these beds with such impetuosity as to
sweep everything before them, and stop all travelling upon the roads.
Sometimes a river is thus formed half a mile in width, which continues
full, as long as the rains last. In dry weather nothing is left but
beds of coarse gravel and stones, with small streams of water trickling
through them. It is impossible to build bridges over these torrents, as
the waters often rise to an extraordinary height, and rush with such
force that nothing could stand against them.
I met very few wheel carriages of any description. Regular
stage-coaches, I believe, are unknown, and most of the travellers I
passed were either on foot, or mounted on mules and asses. Carts and
wagons, too, are uncommon; almost everything being transported on the
backs of these animals. The few vehicles that I saw were of the most
rude and clumsy make, and their harness nothing but a slovenly snarl
of old ropes. I could not help wishing the inhabitants of this fine
country were blessed with a little Yankee smartness and industry.
CHAPTER XII.
_A wedding party.--Strange ignorance of the Sicilians.--The
tavern at Giardini.--Ruins of Taormina.--Remarkable
theatre.--Cities on mountain-tops.--Cliffs covered with
goats.--Odd fashion of dressing infants.--Sicilian
husbandry.--A squall in the straits.--Arrival at Messina._
As I approached a little village, I overtook a wedding party going home
from church. They were all mounted on asses, and were accompanied by
the priest, a fat little round-faced, pleasant-looking fellow, with a
three-cornered hat. The bride was a blowzy, hoydenish country girl, all
bedizened out in tawdry finery, simpering and giggling to every one,
and apparently full of spirits. The bridegroom was a sheepish-looking
peasant, who appeared to feel very awkward in his new situation. All
the rest of the company were full of fun and jollity, and very readily
entered into conversation with me. At first they took me for an
Englishman, but when they learnt that I had come from the New World,
they stared in utter astonishment: they had never seen an American
before, and always imagined we were all Indians or blacks. They invited
me to accompany them, and partake of their entertainment, which I
agreed to very willingly. I went along with them to the house, where
we found more company already assembled, and great numbers of ragged
children trooping about to stare at the show. The house was a small,
one-story building, and I was afraid they would find it a difficult
matter to accommodate so many guests. But presently benches were
brought and placed in front of the house, under the shade of the olive
trees, and we sat down in the open air. The fare consisted of bread,
olives, kid’s flesh, green fennel, fruit and red wine. The old priest
was the most jolly and talkative of the whole company, and I may add
that he ate and drank as much as any three of them. He sat by my side,
and asked me a hundred questions about America: whether the people were
Christians, whether they dressed in clothes like civilized people, or
wore the skins of wild beasts, whether they did not eat one another,
and many more things equally extravagant.
My readers may think it hardly possible that such ignorance can be
found in a person pretending to superior knowledge; but instances
of the same kind came under my observation so frequently during my
travels, that at last they ceased to excite any surprise. It must
be borne in mind that the country in which I was travelling is not,
like the United States, full of roads, in which crowds of people are
continually hurrying backwards and forwards; and full of newspapers
and books, which are constantly circulating through the country, and
carrying knowledge to the remotest village in the Union. There are
but two or three roads, deserving of the name, in the whole island of
Sicily, and hardly such a thing as a newspaper. Very few books are
printed here, and general knowledge, even among the better sort of
people, is very scanty.
Being in a hurry to proceed on my journey, I could not wait till the
close of the entertainment, but mounted my mule just as the company had
struck up a dance. I travelled till sunset, when I reached a little
fishing town called Giardini, romantically situated under the brow of
a high hill, with the sea at the foot. I found a snug little tavern in
a street which ran along the shore, where I put up for the night. The
host was a simple, good-natured old man, in a red cap, and his house
was quite comfortable, though small for a tavern. From my chamber
window I had a grand prospect of the sea, which came rolling in with a
beautiful surf directly under my feet. High rocky hills, with a castle
and heaps of ancient ruins, rose up over me close at hand; and far
off across the water, the eye rested upon the dark blue mountains of
Calabria.
Early the next morning I climbed up the hill over the town to visit the
ruins of an ancient city called Taormina, which formerly stood there. I
was struck with the beautiful situation of the theatre, which is still
in tolerable preservation, although upwards of two thousand years old.
This edifice looks directly towards Mount Ætna; so that the spectators
always had the magnificent picture of the mountain as a background to
the scenery of the stage. It is certainly the grandest situation in
the world for such a building. Other ruins abound in the place, but I
have not time to describe them. The hill on which this city stood is
so steep of ascent that no wheel carriage can go up, though asses and
mules climb up and down tolerably well. I remarked that almost all
ancient cities in this country were built on the tops of hills and
mountains, difficult of access, showing that these communities sprung
up in barbarous times, when every town feared the hostilities of its
neighbors, and the sea-coasts were perpetually liable to be plundered
by pirates. As civilization advanced, the population descended into the
plains.
After breakfast, I continued my journey toward Messina. The country
still presented the same beautiful and picturesque scenery. Groves,
gardens, orchards and fresh green pastures greeted the eye in every
direction. Numerous towns and villages were seen perched on the tops of
almost inaccessible mountains; town above town and castle above castle,
mounting into the air. Sometimes the road passed under high rocky
crags, where I saw herds of goats hanging over my head and clambering
among the dizzy precipices. Often the tinkling of a bell aloft caused
me to gaze upwards, when I beheld numbers of these adventurous
animals sticking against the rocks like flies on the side of a house,
and seeming ready to fall on my head every moment. The fields were
full of laborers at work, ploughing and hoeing. They all wore white
cotton caps, and a group of them at a distance looked like a flock of
geese. These white caps afford a better defence against the sun than
a covering of any other color. The sun here is very powerful, and a
sun-stroke is dreaded more than any other accident from the weather.
In one of the fields I saw a countryman ploughing, while his little
infant child lay under a tree; the mother, I suppose, had run off to
gossip. Nothing can look more droll than one of these little things
in swaddling-clothes. They wind long bandages of cloth tightly round
the child from head to foot, so that it looks very like an Egyptian
mummy, without being able to kick, wince, or sprawl, but may be rolled
about like a stick of wood. This little fellow was stuck up against a
tree, as stiff as a turkey skewered and spitted for roasting, his eyes
rolling upward to the sky, and winking like a toad in the sunshine.
I could not help bursting into a roar of laughter at the sight. The
man stopped his oxen and looked round, intending, as I thought, to
give me some rude greeting; but seeing me so convulsed with merriment,
he joined in, and laughed as heartily as I did. I asked him if the
children did not suffer from this tight swathing. He said no, but, on
the contrary, they were very fond of it. I told him I doubted this
very strongly; but he assured me the children never complained of it,
and that was proof enough. I afterwards found this practice was common
throughout all Italy.
I did not see a cow during the whole journey; horses too were of
rare occurrence. The country people hardly ever own these animals;
but, instead of them, use goats and asses, which are much cheaper.
Pasturage for cows and horses is expensive; but the goats can clamber
among the rocks and nibble the herbage that grows beyond the reach of
man. The asses feed upon thistles, and any sort of coarse vegetation.
The multitude of these animals makes the landscape look exceedingly
picturesque to the eyes of an American. Nothing can be more diverting
than the frolics and caperings of the little kids, as they gallop round
their mothers while feeding. The young donkeys look very comically;
they are ragged, scraggy and wild, and I have been many times startled
by their uncouth appearance when I have met with them browsing among
the lonely mouldering ruins. If it were not for their long ears, they
might be taken for young lions.
I continued to pass rich cultivated fields and immense groves of
olives. About the middle of the afternoon I came in sight of a wide
extent of the coast of Calabria on the opposite side of the straits.
The land was black, craggy and mountainous, with steep and rugged
chasms. Nearly opposite, I could discern the white walls of Reggio. The
sky, which had hitherto been clear and serene, now became obscured,
and dark clouds gathered in the north-east. Presently I observed great
heavy, spongy masses of cloud rolling down the Calabrian mountains
toward the sea, looking very ragged and wild. I judged that a squall
was about to burst upon us, for this narrow strait, hemmed in by
mountains on each side, is particularly subject to sudden and violent
gusts. The sky continued to grow blacker, and presently the wind came
down the strait with a most furious blast, lashing the sea up into a
perfect foam. There were twelve or fifteen vessels in sight, standing
up the strait, when the squall came on. Among them were a Neapolitan
sloop of war and an English merchant brig. The rest were small vessels
with latine sails. All except the Englishman took in sail at the first
appearance of the squall; they were familiar with these parts, and knew
what was coming. The Englishman, thinking there could be no danger,
kept all his canvass spread, when, in an instant, the blast struck
him with such force that both masts snapped off like pipe-stems, and
the vessel lay a mere hulk on the water. A heavy shower of rain came
pouring down the next moment, which drove me into a house for shelter,
and when the sky cleared up, there were no vessels to be seen. I
continued my journey, and just after sunset arrived at Messina.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
There is sense in truth, and truth in virtue.
A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities.
[Illustration: Oak tree]
The Oak and the Reed.
A FABLE.
An oak stood on the bank of a river, and growing at its foot was a
reed. The oak was aged, and its limbs were torn away by the blasts of
years; but still it lifted its head in pride, and looked down with
contempt upon the reed.
At last there came a fearful tempest. The oak defied it, but the
reed trembled in every fibre. “See,” said the oak, “the advantage of
strength and power; see how I resist and triumph!” While it spoke
thus, a terrible rush of the gale beset it, its roots gave way, and it
fell to the earth with a tremendous crash! But while the oak was thus
destroyed in its pride, the humble reed bowed to the blast, and, when
this was past, it arose and flourished as before.
Thus it is that the weak and the humble are often safe, when the strong
and proud are dashed to the earth. Humility is a great virtue, for it
teaches us to submit to the ways of Providence, and not to place a
proud dependence on our own strength, which, after all, is but weakness.
Sincerity.
“Emma,” said Mr. Robinson to his daughter, “I could not help feeling
hurt to-day at the very cool way in which you greeted your cousin.
I thought my child was warm and affectionate, and had, besides, an
especial love for Eliza.”
“So I have, papa,” replied Emma, blushing, “and I should have expressed
pleasure, only I had just said I hoped no one would come to prevent my
writing some letters this morning.”
“But, my love, that is a poor affection which could not stand such a
trifling self-denial.”
“Indeed, papa, you do not understand me: I did not at all mind
relinquishing my intention, and I thoroughly enjoyed my cousin’s
company.”
“Then why did you not receive her joyfully?”
“Simply because I was afraid of being insincere. To speak so
differently in the space of a few minutes, I thought would be like the
man who blew hot and cold from the same mouth.”
“Oh, now I see and respect your motive; but still, Emma, it was a
mistaken one. Were you _really_ pleased to see Eliza?”
“Oh yes, papa.”
“And could you have had your choice, which would you have liked--to
keep the morning to yourself, or to spend it with her?”
“To spend it with Eliza; because I can write to-morrow, and she could
not come again this week.”
“Well, then, without the slightest insincerity, you might have said,
‘I am glad to see you.’ And even in cases less clear and decided, a
well regulated mind, schooled in habits of self-denial and attention to
the feelings of others, will find sincere pleasure in gratifying those
feelings, even at the sacrifice of its own wishes. Instead, therefore,
of lowering our expressions to suit a _selfish_ heart, let us pray and
strive after that Christian sweetness, which will enable us to use
pleasant words and looks of kindness, without being chargeable with
hypocrisy. Indeed, the law of kindness, thus dwelling upon our lips,
may prove a means of imbuing our hearts with a similar spirit. The
inward feeling and the outward manner will act mutually, strengthening
each other. In future, therefore, Emma, do not hesitate to manifest
that amiability, which I feel assured it is your desire to possess.
While, on the one hand, it is a blessing to have such a strong sense
of uprightness as makes the conscience tender; on the other hand, we
shall find it important to have our ideas of duty well defined, lest
conscience, being needlessly shackled, should become a timid or even an
erring guide.”
“I view the matter now, papa, in its true light, and will try both to
feel and appear agreeable. But, really, when staying with Mrs. Merlin,
I did see such turns, and twists, and contradictions, often occurring
in the course of five minutes, that, in order to avoid such despicable
deceit, I have almost run into the opposite extreme. Of course, I
have mentioned the subject to no one; for it would ill become me to
remark on the conduct of an elder and superior, who has always treated
me kindly: though, for ought I know, my visit might have been very
unpleasant. But may I, papa, tell _you_ the curious history of the
refusal of an invitation, the day after I arrived, and ask you what you
think of it?”
“Certainly. I have just said it is important to have well defined views
of right and wrong, and shall, therefore, be most happy to assist in
forming yours.”
“Well, then, papa, we were walking in the garden after breakfast, when
a note was brought to Mrs. Merlin; she glanced her eye over it, and
then, turning to me with a smile, said, ‘How perplexing! I wished to
enjoy you entirely to-day; I have several things to show you; but Mrs.
Morley invites us to dinner, and I have already declined her favors
three times. What shall we do? You _have_ a cold.’
“I replied, ‘I should greatly prefer a quiet afternoon with you, but I
have no cold that deserves to be named.’
“Mrs. Merlin stood for a few moments gazing up into the clouds, with
the note in her hand; then all at once, in a very animated tone, she
exclaimed, ‘Oh, we can manage it; only look how heavy the clouds
are. I shall press your slight cold into my service, and say, if it
be fine, we will give ourselves the pleasure of going; but should it
rain, our friend must kindly excuse us. Rain it will; so we shall
please ourselves, and not displease any one. The visit _might_ have
proved tolerably agreeable, but we shall spend our evening much more
pleasantly at home.’
“The answer was dispatched, and afterwards, as we came in from a drive,
Mrs. Merlin said to the servant, ‘James, watch the weather, and let me
know the moment it begins to rain.’ The rain came just in time to serve
our purpose. So when Dr. Merlin returned from his medical round, we sat
comfortably down to dinner; in the midst of which, my _first_ surprise
began. ‘We were invited to Mrs. Morley’s to day, dear,’ said Mrs.
Merlin; ‘but I knew you would be tired, and not fit to go, and I should
not have liked to leave you alone, so I declined it.’
“The doctor thanked her with a grateful smile, which I could not
help thinking was very little merited. Trifling, however, was this
variation, compared with the hypocrisy of the following morning, when
Mrs. Morley herself happened to call. I looked so provokingly well,
that Mrs. Merlin was forced to say ‘she really hoped my cold had almost
departed; but, being an only child, I was such a precious charge, that
she sometimes felt almost a nervous responsibility. I told my friend,’
continued she, ‘what an agreeable visit it would be, and charged James
to watch the weather to the very last minute.’ Now, papa, both these
assertions were, _in a sense_, verbally true, but do you not think, in
reality, they were falsehoods?”
“Most assuredly. I would not knowingly have placed you under such
influence upon any consideration. I cannot feel sufficiently thankful,
my love, that you were not contaminated. The reaction produced on your
mind is harmless, compared with what assimilation would have been.
We will take care how we subject Mrs. Merlin again to such a nervous
responsibility.”
“Yet, papa,” observed Emma, half frightened at the decision with which
her parent spoke, “Mrs. Merlin is uniformly kind to me; and she is
often an improving, and always a most entertaining companion. The
society, too, which I meet there, is calculated to impart a little
polish, of which I have considerable need.”
“No, Emma, I would not give a farthing for such varnish. May your
character shine _throughout_ with Christian brightness, springing
from the cultivation, not the destruction of principle. I thought
more favorably of Mrs. Merlin; for with characteristic dexterity,
when conversing with me, she has suited herself to _my_ taste. Even
now, however, I would not speak with severity; she has been brought
up under much disadvantage, and possibly persuades herself that these
subterfuges are harmless, polite, and ingenious. I trust one day
she will judge more correctly; but in the mean time I should grieve
to subject you to such familiarity with deceit as might lessen your
abhorrence of it. I can never consent to any future intimacy with Mrs.
Merlin, till I have reason to regard her as a recipient of that grace,
which teaches truth in the very heart. You remember the hymn, Emma,--
‘Let those who bear the Christian name
Their holy vows fulfil;
The saints, the followers of the Lamb,
Are men of honor still.
Still with their lips their hearts agree,
Nor flattering words devise;
They know the God of truth can see
Through every false disguise.
They hate the varied hosts of lies,
In all their crooked lines;
Firm to the truth until they rise
Where truth resplendent shines.’
“And now, my child,” continued Mr. Robinson, “let us turn our inquiries
upon _our own_ hearts.
‘Does no dark sign, no ground of fear,
In practice or in thought appear?’
“How strange it is that we, who have such high notions of integrity in
our intercourse with our fellow-creatures, should so often fail in our
transactions with _Him_ before whom all things are naked and open, and
who will accept only the worship of the heart. O, my child, when our
prayers, our praises, our duties, are laid in the balance, what must be
said of them all?”
“They are found wanting,” replied Emma, with deep and solemn feeling.
“_Most_ wanting,” said her father emphatically; “corrupt fruits from a
wild and poisonous tree. Let us then take those hearts which God’s word
and our own experience declare to be deceitful above all things, and
desperately wicked--let us take them to the fountain opened for sin and
uncleanness, even the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin.
Without his precious atonement and perfect obedience to the divine law,
how ruinous must have been our guilt; how utterly naked and destitute
our souls! But can we hope that they are pardoned and accepted? Let
us seek, also, their daily renewal; continuing instant in prayer, and
watching thereunto with all perseverance, let us unsparingly detect
all their crooked ways, and pray that the spirit of holiness and truth
would work in us to will and to do of his good pleasure. O, how can we
sufficiently magnify that complete and great salvation, which redeeming
mercy offers to our fallen race? Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for
He hath visited and redeemed his people! And blessed be his glorious
majesty forever; let the earth be filled with his glory, and let the
whole world say, Amen!”
“I _do_ say Amen, papa,” rejoined Emma, fervently; “and I do hope I am
truly thankful for those instructions which have shown me the value of
spiritual blessings, and taught me also that in simplicity and godly
sincerity I ought to have my conversation in the world.”
S. S. S.
* * * * *
“That’s a very bad cough you’ve got, friend Smith.”
“Yes, neighbor Jones, but it’s the best I’ve got!”
* * * * *
The man who is guilty of the theft is frequently the first to cry,
“Stop thief!”
The Hyena.
I am a very good-natured person; apt to see things in a favorable
light; fond of picking out pleasant objects to contemplate, and am
usually able to find agreeable qualities in every body and every thing.
But I must confess, that, with all my disposition to be pleased, I can
see very little that is pleasant in the countenance of the hyena. What
a horrid fierce look he has! His countenance seems to bespeak perpetual
hunger and thirst for blood; he looks as if his supper would taste all
the better if it were attended by the agonized struggles and cries
of the victim upon which he feasts! He really looks as if pain and
distress would be but as pepper and spice to his meal.
But the fact is, no animals are cruel; that is, fond of inflicting
pain from mere malice. Even the tiger slays but to eat, and the hyena,
ill-favored as he is, has his part assigned to him by nature, and this
is a useful one to man and beast. He is a native of the warm parts of
Africa, and the southern part of Asia. He seldom kills an animal except
when pressed by want, preferring to feed upon the carcasses of those he
may find slain. It is a horrid part of the story of this creature, that
he will sometimes go into a grave-yard and dig up the remains of people
buried there; and he will, also, follow the march of an army to feast
upon the slain after a battle.
Living in hot countries, and feeding upon the decayed flesh of animals,
the hyena is useful by removing putrid masses of flesh that would
otherwise infect the air with pestilence. He is thus a scavenger, and
shares with the vulture the task of delivering the countries they
inhabit from fruitful causes of fatal disease. Though we may not admire
the face of the hyena, still we perceive that the world could not well
do without him.
There is a common notion that the hyena is so wild in his nature as to
be untamable; but this is a mistake. The creature is frequently tamed
in India, and then lives quietly about the house like a dog. He is
attached to those who are kind, but is spiteful and revengeful to those
who abuse him.
This change in the character made by training, is a strong proof of
the force of education; for not only is the tamed hyena made gentle in
reality, but his countenance is actually rendered mild and inoffensive.
This shows that the character is written in the face, and bids young
people beware how they let their passions mark themselves upon their
countenances.
Jewish Women.
We do not read that a Jewess was to be seen among the crowds of priests
and the rabble who insulted the Son of man, scourged him, crowned
him with thorns, and subjected him to ignominy and the agony of the
cross. The women of Judea believed in the Savior; they loved, they
followed him; they assisted him with their substance, and soothed him
under afflictions. A woman of Bethany poured on his head the precious
ointment which she kept in a vase of alabaster; the sinner anointed his
feet with a perfumed oil, and wiped them with her hair. Christ, on his
part, extended his grace and mercy to the Jewesses; he raised from the
dead the son of the widow of Nain, and Martha’s brother Lazarus; he
cured Simon’s mother-in-law, and the woman who touched the hem of his
garment. To the Samaritan woman he was a spring of living water. The
daughters of Jerusalem wept over him; the holy women accompanied him
to Calvary--brought balm and spices, and, weeping, sought him at the
sepulchre. His first appearance, after his resurrection, was to Mary.
He said unto her, “Mary!” At the sound of that voice, Mary Magdalene’s
eyes were opened, and she answered, “Master!” The reflection of some
very beautiful ray must have rested on the brow of the Jewesses.
Story of Philip Brusque.
CHAPTER VI.
_Serious Adventures._
It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie would
have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged from the
shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the moon; but
she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she proceeded directly
towards the person, and was soon clasped in his arms. The meeting was
evidently one of affection; yet apparently there was more of grief than
joy--for sobs and sighs seemed to choke the utterance of both. When at
last they spoke, it was in broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued
voice, as if they were apprehensive of discovery.
After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her companion
a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light and hurried
step proceeded toward the tent which had now become her home. She was
still at some distance, however, and as she was passing through a
thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted by a man, who placed
himself in her path, and calling her by name, took hold of her arm, as
if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a glance that it was Rogere,
and her eye did not fail to remark, at a little distance, a dark group
of men, whom she readily conjectured to be his companions.
Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her
self-possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof,
she said--“Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere?
It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because she
is alone and unprotected!”
“A gentleman!” said Rogere, sneeringly. “I am no gentleman, thanks to
the gods--no, no, fair Emilie--I am something better--I am a freeman
and a lover!”
“Indeed!” said Emilie. “Is he a freeman who takes advantage of the
strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one who
is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults the
pretended object of his regard?”
“Nay, fair lady,” said Rogere; “this sounds mighty pretty, and in
France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under the
tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now restored to
the rights and privileges of nature. There is no government here, save
that which is established by the God of nature.”
“I will not stay to hear you,” said the young lady, indignantly. “Every
word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you are guilty
of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a Frenchman who can forget to
be woman’s protector, and become woman’s tyrant!”
“Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate France
and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough, and I shall
assert man’s privileges. You must listen; you shall hear me. Look
around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of nature all is
regulated by force. There is a power of gravitation, which controls
matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter, then,
the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey the
law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the
eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the
forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.
“Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is regulated
by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest has the first
choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is so
throughout nature--might is right. It is on this universal principle
that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I
have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you
must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid
me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen--you shall obey! Why
is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant of
man?”
“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be
obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to
be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer.”
“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no
law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me
power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”
“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if
I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You
dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that
of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul
has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a mere
creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that
might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within
called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you
resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that
your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The
wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the
wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute,
without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is
a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not,
shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!”
As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye
flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment.
As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it
was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards
her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in
pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at
the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was
arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. “Hold!”
said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven,
your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the
safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I
now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be
insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent
coward deserves!”
Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and
overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s arm
within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor girl was
almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter
the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and giving a few
words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her,
but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her bed.
The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a
long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the
rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon
his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. “It
is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to hear you say these
things--would that I were more worthy of your esteem.”
“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a
feeling of humility--I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it
that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was
not so once, my dear friend.”
“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and
unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared
not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return
and reward. But I am changed.”
“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are changed; for you
are distant and reserved, and once you were all confidence and truth.”
“Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village
home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the
Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in
the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look
back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar with
the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was. These
hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet
I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little
better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most
deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and
purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as
unpardonable wickedness. I once loved--nay, I love you still, Heaven
only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by
allying your innocence to my degradation.”
Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated. “Speak to
me, my friend,” said he; “dry up those tears, and let your sense and
reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by you; if you
banish me, I will depart forever.”
“No, no indeed,” said the weeping girl. “You must stay--you must stay
and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector also,
for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of protection
from violence and wrong.”
Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that seemed
to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a cloud
upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, “Why this doubt? Why this
concealment? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you?”
“I will be frank,” said he. “Since we have been upon this island, I may
have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart has ever
been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I have been near
you;--this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-shore, and witnessed
your meeting with some one there. Tell me, Emilie, who was that person?”
Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly, “That
is a secret, and must remain so for the present. It shall be explained
in due time; but I pray you, do not seek to penetrate the mystery now.”
“Well, Emilie, it is not for one like me to dictate terms. My
confidence in you is so complete, that I believe you are right, however
strange it may seem, that, on this lone island, you are in the habit of
meeting a man, and a stranger, upon the solitary sea-shore, and with
marks of affection that seem only due to a brother!” Emilie started
at these words, but she made no reply. Brusque went on. “I submit to
your law of silence; but, my dear Emilie, as you have appointed me your
protector, and given me a right to consider myself as such, let me tell
you that events are approaching which will demand all our courage, as
well as our wisdom; and I cannot but feel the most anxious fears as to
the result.”
“You allude to the state of the island.”
“I do. The anarchy is now at its height. Rogere has rallied round him
the rough and the ignorant, and taught them that license is liberty.
While he cajoles them with dreams of freedom, he is seeking his own
object, which is to become sole master and despot of this island; and I
fear these deluded men will be his dupes and instruments. It is always
the case that the ignorant and degraded portion of the community are
disposed to run after those who flatter, only to cheat them.
“The condition of the island is in every respect becoming alarming.
The fruits, that were lately so abundant, are fast diminishing,
because they belong to no one in particular; and no one has any power
or interest to preserve them. We have no fields tilled, for the lands
are common to all. If a man were to cultivate a field, he has no right
to it, and if he had, there is no government which can secure to him
the product of his toil. Everything is therefore going to waste and
ruin. We shall soon be in danger of starving if this state of things
continues. Nor is this the worst. Rogere will soon bring matters to a
crisis, and try the law of force.”
“And what is your plan?”
“I intend to procure, if possible, a meeting of all the men of the
island to-morrow, and after showing them the actual state of things,
and the absolute necessity of established laws to save us from famine
and from cutting each other’s throats, I shall appeal to them once more
in behalf of settled government. I have hopes as to the result--but
still, my fears outweigh them. It is impossible to yield to the demands
of Rogere. Nothing but giving up all to him and his brutal followers,
will satisfy him. If we cannot obtain the consent of a majority to
the formation of some settled laws, we must come to the question of
necessity and determine it by blows. If it comes, it will be a struggle
of life and death.”
“I know it, dear Philip; I have long foreseen it.”
“I am glad that you take it so calmly. I should be flattered if your
quiet were the result of confidence in me.”
“Well, well, but you are fishing for a compliment, and I will not tell
you that I depend on you alone! I may have hopes from another source.”
“Will you tell me from whom?”
“Nay--I shall keep my secret; but be assured that in the hour of
danger, should it come, Heaven will send us succor. Good night.”
“Good night, dear Emilie--good night.” And so the lovers parted.
Brusque sought his home, but with mingled feelings of pleasure and
pain. The restoration of former relations between him and Emilie, was a
source of the deepest satisfaction; but many circumstances combined to
cloud his brow, and agitate his heart with anxiety.
[Illustration: Men with horse]
An Incident from Ancient History.
About 470 years before Christ, Xerxes, king of Persia, was leading
an immense army against the Greeks. It is said that it consisted of
a million of men. When they were all gathered in a vast plain, the
king mounted a throne on the brow of a hill to review them. It was
a splendid spectacle! There were the young, and the strong, and the
ambitious, and the enterprising; and some were richly attired, and
gallantly mounted on fine horses, and armed with shields and swords
of glittering steel. It was, indeed, a proud army. But suddenly the
thought came across the mind of the king--“In the space of one hundred
years; all these living and breathing men will be in their graves!” It
was a solemn thought; and it is said that even Xerxes shed tears.
EFFECTS OF PROHIBITION.
Mankind have seldom a strong desire for any thing lawful, that is
easily obtained. We are not driven to our duty by laws so much as by
ambition. If it were enacted that persons of high rank only should dine
upon three dishes, the lower grade would desire to have three; but if
commoners were permitted to have as many dishes as they pleased, whilst
the rich were limited to two, the inferior class would not exceed that
number. If gaming were reckoned ungenteel, cards and dice would lose
half their attraction. In the history of the Duke of D’Ossuna, there is
a remarkable instance given of this perverse nature in man.
A rich Neapolitan merchant prided himself upon not having once set his
foot out of the city during the space of forty-eight years. This coming
to the ears of the duke, the merchant had notice sent him that he was
to take no journey out of the kingdom, under the penalty of 10,000
crowns. The merchant smiled at receiving the order; but, afterwards,
not being able to fathom the reason of the prohibition, he grew so
uneasy that he paid the fine, and actually took a short trip out of the
kingdom.--_English paper._
Saturday Night.
“Oh! it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that.
A Bible story, then. I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or
that about Isaac, or the prodigal son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as
interesting as a fairy story.”
“They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles.
It was the custom of Ellen’s mother to tell her children a short story
every night after they were in bed. She was very glad to find that
the true and instructive histories from the good book, interested her
children as much as those stories that were contrived to delight them.
“My dear children,” she said, “I shall not tell you a story from the
Bible to-night, but I am going to relate an anecdote--which, you know,
means a short story--of some little children of our acquaintance.
“There are two children who have a great and kind Friend, who is always
taking care of them, whether they are awake or asleep.”
“I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was always
impatient to get at the story.
“No, my love; this Friend gave them their father and mother.”
“Oh, you mean God,” whispered Ellen.
Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded,--
“This bountiful Friend has given to them the most beautiful and
wonderful gems in the world.”
“Gems! what are gems, mother?” asked Charles.
“Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small, but
so curiously formed that as soon as the casket which contains them is
opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful picture of
all the objects toward which they are turned. If it be a landscape,
like that which you see every morning from your chamber window, there
appear on the gems those beautiful mountains that rise one above
another; the mist that curls up their sides; the bright lake that
glistens in the depth of the valley, and which you call the mountain
mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees gracefully bending
with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite to us, with
its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose-bushes
clustering about the windows.”
“What, mother!” exclaimed Charles; “all these things painted on a
little gem?”
“Yes, Charles, all; the high mountains, and the rose-bushes, every leaf
and bud of them. And then, if the gems are turned towards the inside of
the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is painted
on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends; not such pictures
as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless, but smiling,
speaking, and moving.”
“Oh, mother, mother,” exclaimed Ellen, “this is a fairy story, after
all.”
“Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles, who did not like
that the story should turn out a fairy story.
“There are, my dear Charles; and the same Friend who gave the children
these gems has given to them many other gifts as wonderful. He has
given to them an instrument by which they can hear the music of the
birds, the voices of their friends, and all other sounds; and another
by which they can enjoy the delicious perfume of the flowers; the
fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the fruit trees were in
blossom, and the locust trees in flower, and the clover in bloom.”
“Oh, what a generous friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give such
valuable presents, and so many of them. Are there any more, mother?”
“Yes, Charles, more than I can describe to you if I were to talk till
to-morrow morning. There is a very curious instrument by which they can
find out the taste of everything that is to be eaten; and another that,
by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing is
smooth or rough, hard or soft.”
“Why, I can tell that by my fingers,” exclaimed Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother; “and cannot you taste by putting food
into your mouth? and is there not an instrument set in your head by
which you can hear?”
“My ear, mother?” asked Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother.
“And do you mean the eyes by those wonderful gems?” asked Ellen.
“Yes.”
“But I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.”
“Yes, Ellen; every object you behold is painted upon a part of the eye
called the retina; but that you cannot understand now, and you must
let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they arose in
the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such good care of
them when they slept that they felt no pain; that their limbs were all
active, and they could every moment receive pleasure from the precious
gems and instruments I have mentioned. They both looked out of the
window, and exclaimed, ‘What a beautiful morning!’ The little girl
turned her gems toward the multiflora, now full of roses and glistening
with dew-drops, and she clapped her hands, and asked her brother if
he ever saw anything so beautiful; and he turned his gems to a pair
of humming-birds, that were fluttering over the honey-suckle, and
thrusting their tiny pumps into the necks of the flowers; and as their
bright images shone on his gems, he shouted, ‘Did you ever see anything
so handsome?’”
“You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the humming-birds,
when you say he turned his gems?”
“Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they make with
their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head which you call
the ear. There was not a moment of the day that the children did not
enjoy some good thing their Friend had given to them. They learnt their
lessons by using the memories he had given them, because he had given
them minds by which they understood them. They loved their parents,
and relations, and companions, because their Friend had given them
affections.”
“It seems to me,” interrupted Charley, “that Friend gave them
everything. It must be God, mother, for I know he gives us everything
we have.”
“Yes, my dear Charley; and I am sorry to say these two children
neglected their Friend. They had often been told by their mother never
to get into bed without first kneeling and thanking him for all his
gifts; but they did not think of him. They used and enjoyed his gifts,
but they sometimes forgot the Giver.”
Ellen laid her head on her mother’s bosom,--
“Mother,” she said, “you mean us.”
“My dear Ellen,” replied her mother, “your conscience is like the ring
in the fairy tale. Yes, I did mean you and Charles. I was sorry, when I
came into the room to-night, to see you getting into bed without saying
your prayers. God has given you a voice to speak, my children. Your
dog, Dash, Charles, cannot speak to thank God for anything he receives;
but you can.”
“And I will!” exclaimed the good little boy, ashamed that he had been
ungrateful and thoughtless. “Come, Ellen, we will jump up and say our
prayers; and,” he added in a whisper, “we’ll speak for Dash too.”
[Illustration: _Cromwell at Croyden palace._]
Oliver Cromwell.
This individual was one of the most wonderful men that ever lived. He
was born at Huntingdon, in England, April 28, 1599. It is related of
him, that, when an infant, a large ape seized him, and ran with him up
to the top of a barn; there the creature held him, and refused, for a
long time, to give him up, frightening the people with the idea that
he should let him fall. It is said that, while he was still young, a
gigantic female figure appeared at his bedside, and foretold his future
greatness.
Cromwell was well educated; but, after quitting the university, he
became very dissipated. At twenty-one, he married Elizabeth Bouchire,
from which time he became regular in his life.
In 1625 he was chosen to parliament; and thus began, at twenty-six
years of age, that public career which ended in his becoming the sole
ruler of England, and one of the most energetic and powerful sovereigns
of Europe. He was soon distinguished as a speaker in parliament, always
taking part against the court and the established church. In 1642,
when civil war was about to commence, he raised a troop of horse,
and seizing the plate of the university of Cambridge, appropriated it
to the paying of the expenses of the army. He was engaged in several
battles, where he displayed the utmost skill and courage. In 1645, the
famous battle of Naseby was won by his valor and good management; and,
in consideration of his services, parliament voted him the annual sum
of £25,000 during his life.
King Charles I., against whom Cromwell and his party were acting, was
betrayed into their hands by the Scotch. By the intrigues of Cromwell,
he was tried, condemned, and beheaded. Cromwell himself became, soon
after, the ruler of the kingdom, under the title of Lord Protector
of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland. Though he had
obtained his power by a series of violent acts, and by the practice of
every species of hypocrisy, Cromwell now set himself about promoting
the strength, power, and prosperity of his kingdom. Though this was
done harshly, yet it was with wisdom and energy. The country flourished
at home, and the name of England was much respected abroad.
But though Cromwell had risen to the utmost height of honor and power,
he was a miserable man. He was perpetually haunted with superstitious
fears, the promptings of a conscience ill at ease. The death of the
king, which was effected by his management, weighed upon his spirit
like a murder. He went constantly armed, and yet he was constantly
in fear. At last, when Col. Titus wrote a book, entitled, _Killing
no Murder_, in which he attempted to prove that it was a duty of the
citizens to kill Cromwell, he was thrown into a fever, and died, Sept.
3, 1658, leaving his weak brother, Richard, to wield the sceptre for a
few years, and then surrender it to a son of the murdered Charles I.
Cromwell was buried in Westminster Abbey; but, after Charles II. came
to the throne, his body was dug up and hung on a gibbet, beneath which
it was buried!
Musings.
I wandered out one summer night--
’Twas when my years were few:
The breeze was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
The moonbeams lay upon the hill,
The shadows in the vale,
And here and there a leaping rill
Was laughing at the gale.
One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes;
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild
As here and there I flew;
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.
The waves came dancing o’er the sea
In bright and glittering bands:
Like little children wild with glee,
They linked their dimpled hands.
They linked their hands--but ere I caught
Their mingled drops of dew,
They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought,
Away the ripples flew.
The twilight hours like birds flew by,
As lightly and as free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand in the sea;
For every wave with dimpled cheek
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
The young moon too, with upturned sides,
Her mirrored beauty gave;
And as a bark at anchor rides,
She rode upon the wave.
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole,
Save that it seemed to thrill with love,
As thrills the immortal soul.
The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air--
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard,
And answered with a prayer:
For ’twas upon the dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,
I learned at first to worship God,
And sing such strains as these.
The flowers, all folded to their dreams,
Were bowed in slumber free,
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
Where’er they chanced to be.
No guilty tears had they to weep,
No sins to be forgiven;
They closed their eyes, and went to sleep,
Right in the face of heaven.
No costly raiment round them shone,
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon upon his throne
Was ne’er arrayed like these:
And just as free from guilt and art
Were lovely human flowers,
Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours.
I heard the laughing wind behind,
A playing with my hair--
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were!
I heard the night bird warbling o’er
Its soft, enchanting strain--
I never heard such sounds before,
And never shall again.
Then wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay?
I’d give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine;
I’d give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
_Sou. Lit. Mess._
* * * * *
ANECDOTE OF AN ATHEIST.--An atheist on his death-bed was addressed by
his son,--“Father, the physician says you can live but a few hours.”
“I know it, my son. Have you anything to say to me?” “My father, you
and my mother have held different creeds; my mother is a Christian--you
believe there is no God. Shall I follow her faith or yours?” “My son,”
said the dying parent, “believe in the God of your mother.”
Thus it is in the hour of sickness, at the moment when the frail
supports of pride and passion are wrecked, that the sinking atheist
clutches at the plank of the Christian. Thus it is that the atheist,
when he is brought upon the stand before his Maker, confesses that his
creed is not one that he would wish to bequeath to his children.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Who made this?_]
Here is a picture of the bones or skeleton of a horse. What a wonderful
piece of mechanism it is! How many bones and joints, and how they are
all fitted to each other!
Now, every horse has such a skeleton or frame-work of bones:
and who contrives and makes them? Can men make such curious
machinery? Certainly not. Men may make steamboats, and ships, and
cotton-factories, but they cannot make the bones of an animal; nor can
they put muscles and life to these bones. Now, if _man_ cannot do these
things, who can? God only: he only can do these wonderful things.
* * * * *
WISDOM OF THE CREATOR.--The happy proportioning of one thing to another
shows the wisdom of the Creator. Man, for instance, is adapted to the
size and strength of a horse. If men were giants, they could not ride
horses. If men were either pigmies or giants, they could not milk cows,
mow grass, reap corn, train vines, or shear sheep, with anything like
the conveniency they do now. If men were pigmies, they would be lost in
the grass and rushes, and their children would be carried off by birds
of prey. Every one can see, that, other things being as they are, man
would suffer by being either much larger or smaller than he is.
* * * * *
YANKEE ENERGY.--A few days since, a gentleman of the city of New York
was standing near the canal, at Albany, when he saw a small yawl-boat
approaching him, propelled by a lad about seventeen years of age. The
boat contained also the boy’s mother, six sisters, and a small brother.
Our friend asked him where he was from, and where bound, and was
answered, in substance, as follows:
“We are from Ohio. My father died there, and as we were nearly
destitute, mother thought we had better go back to Saybrook, Conn.,
where we used to live; so we raised money enough to get this boat,
and started from Ohio last fall. We came through Lake Erie, and got
into the canal, where we were stopped by the ice. During the winter we
hauled our boat up by the side of the canal, where we remained till the
ice broke up. Sometimes we were considerably cold, and at times were
sick a little, but on the whole we all got along right smart. We shall
go down the North river, and up the sound to Saybrook.”
During this conversation, our friend was walking along the margin of
the canal; our noble Yankee boy, being unwilling to lose any time, kept
constantly propelling his boat forward, the younger brother, a lad of
only seven or eight years of age, steering the craft. It was Sunday
morning, and the mother and daughters were clad in their Sabbath suits,
and engaged in reading. A small furnace was standing on the deck of
the boat, and a sail, snugly stowed, was lying fore and aft. The few
cooking utensils, bedding, and clothing belonging to this poor family,
were securely placed under the deck.
Here is an instance of industry and perseverance, which commends itself
to the notice of the rising generation--ay, and the present one too. No
doubt, if this boy lives, he will yet make a stir in the world; and if
we knew his name, we would publish it.
* * * * *
WHO MADE MAN?--Look at the foot--how ingeniously is this contrived!
Look at the arm: what piece of mechanism can compare with it? But of
all parts of the body, the eye is perhaps the most wonderful. It has in
it a lens, like that of a telescope, through which the rays of light
pass; and at the back of the eye a little picture of whatever comes
before the eye is formed. This picture falls upon a nerve which lines
the interior of the eye, and thus it is we see. All this contrivance is
very ingenious. And observe how the eye itself is placed in the head.
See how easily it turns this way and that! Consider these things, and
tell me, who but a Superior Being, one who contrives, one who thinks,
could have made man?
* * * * *
POWER OF GOD.--The sun is as large as three hundred and thirty-seven
thousand of our worlds. Jupiter is as large as one thousand two hundred
and eighty-one of our worlds. Mercury flies along in its path at the
rate of twenty miles in a second. Uranus is seventeen times as large as
our world, one billion eight hundred milions of miles from the sun, and
flies along at the rate of two hundred and forty miles every minute!
Here, then, is the power of God! A world, with all its mountains, and
oceans, and kingdoms, is but a pebble in the hands of the Almighty!
THE BIRD’S ADIEU!
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
Farewell to the meadow,
For summer is past;
Farewell, for its leaves
Now whirl o’er the blast.
Farewell to the bough
Where my cradle was swung,
And the song of my mother
Was joyously sung.
2
How sweet was that song
Of the light-hearted bird;
No other I’ll sing--
’Twas the first that I heard.
And though to far lands
I must hasten away,
Wherever I roam,
I will carry that lay.
3
How sweet are these scenes,
For my birth-place is here;
And I know that in absence,
They’ll be but more dear.
I’ll sing of them there,
In the land where I roam,
And, winter departed,
I’ll return to my home.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 4.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XII.
_Raymond’s story of the School of Misfortune--concluded._
“It was several hours after his arrival at the city before R. had fully
recovered his senses. When he was completely restored, and began to
make inquiries, he found that all his ship companions had perished. He,
who probably cared least for life--he, who had no family, no friends,
and who was weary of existence--he only, of all that ship’s company,
was the one that survived the tempest!
“There was something in this so remarkable, that it occupied his mind,
and caused deep emotions. In the midst of many painful reflections,
he could not, however, disguise the fact, that he felt a great degree
of pleasure in his delivery from so fearful a death. Again and again
he said to himself, ‘How happy, how thankful I feel, at being saved,
when so many have been borne down to a watery grave!’ The loss of
his property, though it left him a beggar in the world, did not seem
to oppress him: the joy of escape from death was to him a source
of lively satisfaction; it gave birth to a new feeling--a sense of
dependence on God, and a lively exercise of gratitude towards him.
It also established in his mind a fact before entirely unknown, or
unremarked--that what is called misfortune, is often the source of
some of our most exquisite enjoyments. ‘It seems to me,’ said R., in
the course of his reflections, ‘that, as gems are found in the dreary
sands, and gold among the rugged rocks, and as the one are only yielded
to toil, and the other to the smelting of the fiery furnace,--so
happiness is the product of danger, suffering, and trial. I have felt
more real peace, more positive enjoyment from my deliverance, than I
was able to find in the whole circle of voluptuous pleasures yielded by
wealth and fashion. I became a wretch, existence was to me a burthen,
while I was rich. But, having lost my fortune, and experienced the fear
of death, I am happy in the bare possession of that existence which I
spurned before.’
“Such were the feelings and reflections of R. for a few days after
his escape; but at length it was necessary for him to decide upon
some course of action. He was absolutely penniless. Everything had
been sunk with the ship. He had no letters of introduction, he had no
acquaintances in New York; nor, indeed, did he know any one in all
America, save that a brother of his was a clergyman in some part of
the United States; but a coldness had existed between them, and he had
not heard of him for several years. R. was conscious, too, that this
coldness was the result of his own ungenerous conduct; for the whole
of his father’s estate had been given to him, to the exclusion of his
brother, and he had permitted him to work his own way in life, without
offering him the least assistance. To apply to this brother was,
therefore, forbidden by his pride; and, beside, he had every reason to
suppose that brother to be poor.
“What, then, was to be done? Should he return to England? How was he to
get the money to pay his passage? Beside, what was he to do when he got
there? Go back to the village where he carried his head so high, and
look in the faces of his former dashing acquaintances--acknowledging
himself a beggar! This was not to be thought of. Should he seek some
employment in America? This seemed the only plan. He began to make
inquiries as to what he could find to do. One proposed to him to
keep school; another, to go into a counting-room; another, to be a
bar-keeper of a hotel. Any of these occupations would have given him
the means of living; but R.’s pride was in the way;--pride, that dogs
us all our life, and stops up almost every path we ought to follow,
persuaded R. that he, who was once a gentleman, ought to live the life
of a gentleman; and of course he could not do either of the things
proposed.
“But events, day by day, pressed R. to a decision. His landlord, at
last, became uneasy, and told him that for what had accrued, he was
welcome, in consideration of his misfortunes; but he was himself
poor, and he begged him respectfully to make the speediest possible
arrangements to give up his room, which he wanted for another boarder.
‘I have been thinking,’ said R. in reply to this, ‘that I might engage
in the practice of physic. In early life I was thought to have a turn
for the profession.’ This suggestion was approved by the landlord, and
means were immediately taken to put it in execution. Dr. R., late of
England, was forthwith announced; and in a few weeks he was in the full
tide of successful experiment.
“This fair weather, however, did not continue without clouds. Many
persons regarded Dr. R. only as one of the adventurers so frequently
coming from England to repay the kindness and courtesy of the Yankees
with imposition and villany. Various inquiries and stories were got up
about him; some having a sprinkling of truth in them, and, for that
reason, being very annoying. R., however, kept on his way, paying
little heed to these rumors, fancying that, if left to themselves, they
would soon die. And such would, perhaps, have been the result, had not
a most unfortunate occurrence given matters another turn.
“In the house where R. boarded, several small sums of money, and
certain ornaments of some value, were missed by the boarders, from time
to time. Suspicions fell upon a French servant in the family; but as
nothing could be proved against him, he was retained, and a vigilant
watch kept over his actions. Discovering that he was suspected, this
fellow determined to turn the suspicion against R.; he, therefore,
in the dead of night, took a valuable watch from one of the rooms,
and laid it under the pillow of R.’s bed. This was done with such
address, that neither the gentleman from whom the watch was stolen, nor
R. himself, saw anything of it at the time. The watch was missed in
the morning, and the French servant was arrested. But as soon as the
chambermaid began to make up R.’s bed, behold, the pilfered watch was
there! The French servant was at once released, and R. was arrested,
briefly examined, and thrown into prison.
“The circumstances in which he had come to the country now all
made against him. The unfavorable rumors that had been afloat
respecting him were revived; all the stories of swindlers that had
visited the country for twenty years back, were published anew, with
embellishments. In short, R. was tried and condemned by the public,
while he lay defenceless in prison, and long before his real trial came
on. The subject became a matter of some notoriety; the circumstances
were detailed in the newspapers. A paragraph noticing these events met
the eye of R.’s brother, who was settled as a minister of the gospel in
a country parish not far distant, and he immediately came to the city.
Satisfying himself by a few inquiries that it was indeed his brother
who was involved in difficulty and danger, he went straight to the
prison, with a heart overflowing with sympathy and kindness. But pride
was still in the way, and R. haughtily repulsed him.
“The pious minister was deeply grieved; but he did not the less seek to
serve his brother. He took care to investigate the facts, and became
persuaded that the French servant had practised the deception that has
been stated; but he was not able to prove it. He employed the best of
counsel; but, in spite of all his efforts, and all his sympathy, R. was
found guilty, condemned, and consigned to prison.
“Up to this time, the pride of R. had sustained him; but it now gave
way. He had borne the loss of fortune, but to be convicted of a low,
base theft, was what his spirit could not endure. His health sunk under
it, and his reason, for a time, departed. His sufferings during that
dark hour, God only knows. He at last recovered his health and his
senses, and then he heard, that, on his death-bed, the French servant
had confessed his iniquity. It was from the lips of his brother, and
under his roof, where he had been removed during his insanity, that R.
learnt these events. He was released from prison, and his character was
cleared of the imputation of crime.
“From this period R. was an altered man. His pride was effectually
quelled; no longer did that disturber of earth’s happiness,--the real
serpent of Eden,--remain to keep him in a state of alienation from his
brother. The two were now, indeed, as brothers. But there were other
changes in R.; his health was feeble, his constitution was broken; his
manly beauty had departed, and he was but the wreck of former days.
But, strange as it may seem, he now, for the first time, found peace
and happiness. He had now tasted of sorrow, and was acquainted with
grief. This enabled him to enter into the hearts of other men, to
see their sorrows, and to desire to alleviate them. A new world was
now open to him; a world of effort, of usefulness, of happiness. In
the days of prosperity, he had no cares for anybody but himself; and
mere selfishness had left him a wretch while in possession of all the
supposed means of bliss. He had now made the discovery,--more important
to any human being than that of Columbus,--that pride is the curse of
the human race, and humility its only cure; that trial, sorrow, and
misfortune are necessary, in most cases, to make us acquainted with our
own hearts, and those of our fellow-men; and that true bliss is to be
found only in a plan of life which seeks, earnestly and sincerely, the
peace and happiness of others.”
Here ended R.’s story of the _School of Misfortune_; and I had no
difficulty in discovering that he had been telling the story of his
own life, though he had, in some respects, as I had reason to suppose,
departed from its details.
(_To be continued._)
Story of Philip Brusque.
CHAPTER VII.
_A new effort to form a government.--Speeches.--Anarchy and
violence.--Despotism._
The morning after the events detailed in the last chapter, was one of
deep interest to the people of Fredonia. Brusque, in connection with
others, had taken pains to call a meeting of all the men, to consult
once more upon events of common importance, and to make another effort
to form some kind of government, that might establish order, protect
life, and ensure freedom. There were none whose feelings were more
deeply enlisted than those of the women; and, as is usual with this
sex in matters of a public nature, they were on the right side. They
felt their own weakness and dependence, and appreciated the necessity
of government and law to protect them from brutality and violence. Nor
did they feel alone for themselves; they perceived that where there is
no government, there can be no safe and comfortable home; that children
cannot live quietly and securely with their parents; that everything we
cherish in life is insecure, and liable to be taken away by the wicked
and the violent.
The several dwellings of the settlement being near together, on the
occasion of which we are speaking, the women were gathering in groups,
with anxious faces; those who had young children, were seen hugging
them to their bosoms, as if, before night, these innocent and helpless
things might have no other protection than a mother’s arm could give.
There was much passing to and fro among them, and they spoke with their
heads close together, and in whispers, as if fearful of being overheard.
At nine o’clock in the morning, persons began to assemble upon the
southern slope of the beautiful hill on which the cave called the
“Castaway’s Home” was situated. It was a lovely spot, covered with a
thick clump of palm-trees, and commanding, through the openings of
the branches, a wide prospect of the surrounding ocean. All the men
of the island were soon there, and as they gathered under the trees,
they were divided into two groups, by their sympathies, feelings, and
purposes, though not by design. In one group was the father of Emilie,
M. Bonfils, a man of more than seventy years, whose locks were as white
as the snow, and whose face beamed at once with benevolence and spirit.
There was, however, in his countenance, at this time, a mingled look
of grief and anxiety by no means usual to him. By his side sat all
the oldest men of the company, together with Brusque, and most of the
educated and intelligent men of the island.
The other group was composed of Rogere, most of the sailors, and
several other men. They were generally young persons, whose education
had been neglected, and whose course of life had left them to the
indulgence of their passions. There were two or three of them who were
kind-hearted, though ignorant and simple men.
The two parties consisted of about equal numbers, some twenty of each.
They sat for some time, looking each other in the face, but saying
little. The Rogereites looked gloomy and scowling; the Brusqueites had
an air of anxiety, but still of resolution. It was apparent to all,
that, if something could not be done for the cause of good order on the
present occasion, riot and bloodshed were likely to be the inevitable
and immediate consequence.
After a long period of silence, M. Bonfils, being the oldest man in
the assembly, arose, and proposed that they should come to order by
choosing a moderator to preside over the assembly. There was instantly
a shout of “M. Bonfils! M. Bonfils!” and as Rogere’s people took no
part, one of the men put it to vote whether M. Bonfils should preside,
and it was decided in the affirmative. The old man, therefore, taking
off his broad-brimmed palm-leaf hat, his long white hair floating down
upon his shoulders, stood before the company. His lip quivered, and for
a moment he seemed hardly able to utter a word; but at length, in a
tone tremulous and faint, and exceedingly touching from its thrill of
feeling, he spoke as follows:
“My friends and compatriots; we are all members of the great human
family, companions in the misfortunes that have borne us hither, and
the mercy which has saved us from a horrible fate. We should then have
a common feeling; we certainly have the same interests.
“I ask you to come to the consideration of the great question to be
proposed here to-day, with a sense of our responsibility, and a due
regard to these considerations. The question to be here proposed is,
I believe, whether this little community shall be delivered from that
state of lawless anarchy and violence which now afflicts it, and be
blessed with a government that shall at once secure liberty and peace.
The real questions are these: Shall our lives be secure? Shall our
homes be safe? Shall our wives and children live in quiet? Shall right,
and not might, be the governing principle of society?
“It is to decide questions thus vital to our happiness and that of
those who are dependent upon us, that we have now met; and I beg you
as fellow-men, as brothers, as friends and neighbors, as you value
life, and liberty, and justice, and a good conscience, to come to their
consideration ready and determined to act for the best good of the
greatest number. Let no man act for himself alone; let no man indulge
prejudices or private feelings. Let us look to the good of all--the
best interests of society, and proceed accordingly.”
Having uttered these words, the aged moderator sat down upon a little
elevation that was near. There was then a deep silence around. At last
Rogere arose, and every eye was fixed upon him, while he spoke as
follows:
“Mr. Moderator; I respect the feelings that have dictated the speech
just uttered by yourself. I acknowledge the obligation to cast aside
selfishness, and look only to the public good. But in reasoning
according to my sense of duty, I come to a very different conclusion
from what some others do. We are all bound to consult the greatest good
of the whole; but how shall we do it? That is the question. We have
already met once before, and the persons here present, after mature
deliberation, have decided that they will have no other government than
such as is founded in nature; they have decided that an artificial
system of government and laws only tends to mischief, to enslave the
many and favor the few. Then why this meeting? Are we a parcel of boys
or silly women, as fickle as the winds, undoing one day what we have
done another?
“Sir, I am opposed to a constitution; I am opposed to enacted statutes
and laws. I am opposed to kings, presidents, judges, legislators, and
magistrates. What are these but public blood-suckers, living upon the
toil and sacrifices of the rest of the community? Away with them, and
let every man do what seemeth good in his own eyes. Things will all
get adjusted to this system in good time. There is an instinct in the
animal tribes which is thought to be borrowed from divine wisdom. The
heron and the bittern are astronomers and navigators by nature; they
know by instinct what man learns with difficulty. They are legislators
too, but that divine instinct bids them leave things to their natural
course. The strongest, by necessity and the laws of nature, become the
leaders, and the rest have only to follow and obey. This is the great
system of the universe; and man, by adopting an artificial scheme of
government, is only sinning against nature, history and experience. I
move you, therefore, that this assembly do now adjourn.”
Scarcely had Rogere finished, when his party shouted in the most
animated manner, and there was a look of satisfaction and triumph in
their faces that seemed to say that their leader had settled the whole
question. When the applause had subsided, the moderator stated that
there was a motion to adjourn, and asked if any one had anything to say
against it. Upon this, Brusque rose, and spoke as follows:
“Mr. Moderator; you have already stated the high and solemn purposes
of this meeting. We are to decide, in the first place, whether we
will adopt some form of government, and if so, what system shall be
established? At the very outset, and before the subject has been
discussed, a motion is offered that we adjourn. It is moved that we
separate, and leave this little colony to that anarchy which is now
desolating the island. We are asked to adjourn, and follow the bittern
and the heron as our examples in legislation. Man is to be the pupil of
the bird; the brute is to be the lawgiver of human beings!
“What, sir, is the state of things? Riot, crime, and violence are now
the order of the day. One murder has already been committed, and the
man whose hand is stained with his brother’s blood is here, as free as
the rest; and that murderer’s hand is lifted up in an assembly, as if
entitled to all the privileges of citizenship. Sir, look at the fruits
of the island, lately so abundant; they are fast disappearing, for no
one has any interest to preserve or increase them. Not only are we in a
state of confusion and fear, not only are the women and children in the
community in distress from apprehension, but, sir, our means of living
are wasting away,--starvation is at our very doors.
“And what is the remedy for all these evils? A good government, that
shall parcel out these lands to the people, and secure to each man
his own; a good government, that shall protect a man in his home, his
earnings, his property; a good government, that will enforce right and
restrain might; a good government, that will punish murder, theft,
violence, and crime. This, and this alone, will bring peace to the
island; this, and this alone, will give security and happiness to all.
Let us have a government, to secure the rights of the people and punish
injustice, and this island may become a paradise. Its rich hillsides
and lovely valleys will be cultivated, and will produce the greatest
abundance of comforts and luxuries. Let us have protection to life,
home, and property, and commerce will spring up, and we can get from
other lands all that they produce which can minister to our enjoyment.
“Who will till the soil, if any man stronger than himself can drive the
laborer away and take the produce? Who will toil, if the violent, and
selfish, and powerful man may take away the result of that toil? Sir,
we are told to follow nature, to look to the instinct of animals for a
guide. And is man, gifted with reason, to throw that reason aside and
follow instinct? The proposition is absurd. If we follow animals, we
must adopt their modes of life. If you adopt the government of wolves,
you must live in rocks and dens, feast upon blood, and have no other
covering than nature provides. If you allow the strong to take what
they can grasp, we go back at once to the savage state.
“Let us then be more wise, more reasonable, more just. Let us remember
that we men act not only for ourselves, but for others. I beseech you
to look upon the anxious groups of wives, mothers, and daughters in
that little valley, whose hearts are now palpitating with anxiety; they
are waiting the result of our deliberations, as involving interests
more dear than life to them. Let them know that you have this day
resolved to establish a good government, and they will ask ten thousand
blessings on your heads. Let them know that this state of anarchy is to
continue, and they will mourn the day that saved them from the billows
to which the relentless pirate had doomed them.”
This speech of Brusque’s had an evident effect, and when the question
of adjournment was put, there was a majority against it. Brusque,
greatly encouraged, then rose, and moved, that it was the sense of
the assembly that the best good of the people required the immediate
adoption of some form of government. No sooner was this motion put,
than Rogere, fearing that it might be carried, sprang to his feet, and,
drawing a dagger, brandished it in the air, at the same time addressing
his party as follows:
“My friends, are you not sick of this folly, this hypocrisy, this
child’s play? Away with it all! let us be men--let us be free. Down
with that hoary fool, and this false-hearted knave!” Saying this, and
pointing to M. Bonfils and Brusque, he led the way, and rushed upon
them. His men followed as with one impulse. The aged moderator was
struck to the ground by a single blow, and Brusque, taken by surprise,
was thrown down, and two stout men, seizing upon him, tied his hands
and feet fast. The rest of Brusque’s party, after a short skirmish,
fled down the hill to the village, where they were received with cries
of consternation and despair.
M. Bonfils and Brusque were taken to the “Castaway’s Cave,” which
Rogere now made his head-quarters, and where his party soon assembled.
After a brief interval, it was proposed by one of the men that Rogere
should be chief of the island, with full power in his hands to govern
as he pleased. His motion was carried by acclamation, and M. Bonfils
and Brusque were required to give their consent. Refusing to do this,
they were bound and taken into one of the lower apartments of the cave,
and, totally unable to move, they were left to themselves.
(_To be continued._)
The Siberian Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER IV.
_A meeting with Tunguses.--A great feast.--The travellers proceed._
The long story of Linsk being finished, Alexis remarked that, although
it was not the best he had heard in his life, he was still obliged, for
he had never heard a Samoide tale before.
“Well,” said the old hunter, a little snappishly, “if you don’t like my
stories, you need not listen to ’em. I didn’t make ’em myself, and only
tell what other people have told me. And as to these Samoides, what can
you expect, when the men are not taller than a keg of brandy, and the
women are about the height of a five-gallon jug? Can we expect to make
a silk purse of a sow’s ear? I could tell you a story of Tartar robbers
and enchanted castles, if you would like that better.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Alexis; “I did not mean to offend you. The
Samoide story will do, but I should like to hear a Tartar tale very
much.”
“Well,” said Linsk, “I will tell you one;” but just as he was about
to begin, they came in sight of some huts belonging to the Tunguses,
a very singular race of people, who inhabit the middle portions of
Siberia. They resemble the Ostiacks, like them living in houses built
of poles set in a circle. They have no towns or villages, but they
wander from place to place, living entirely by hunting and fishing,
in which they display wonderful skill and perseverance. In summer,
they dwell on the banks of the rivers, and in winter retire to the
wooded regions, where they pursue the sable, ermine, marten, and black
fox. They have no fire-arms, but are adroit in the use of the bow and
arrow. In the spring, they carry or send their furs to Yakoutsk, a
considerable town on the Olekminsk river, and the great fur-market of
Siberia.
In a short time, our adventurers came to the group of huts which they
had before descried, and Linsk, who knew the habits of the people, did
not hesitate at once to go up to one of them and prepare to enter it
through a hole about three feet high, that was left as a door. He was
met at the entrance by a man of about fifty years of age, and dressed
in a short coat made of a wolf-skin, and a pair of flannel trowsers,
that looked as much like a petticoat as anything else. He gazed at
the four hunters for a moment with some distrust, but then seemed
satisfied, and made a sign of welcome.
The conversation soon brought other persons out of the several huts
around. These consisted of men, women, and children--all low in
stature, and with skins of the color of a smoked ham. The men were
dressed nearly in the same fashion as the person first described.
The women were attired in short cotton gowns and flannel petticoats
that reached but little below the knee. The children were half naked,
or clad in cotton wrappers. Several of them had on cast-off seal-skin
jackets reaching down to the middle, and making them look like half
boys and half beasts.
They were a queer-looking set of people, but seemed frank and
good-natured, and invited the strangers to spend the night, which was
now approaching, with them. Linsk, who knew the language pretty well,
accepted the offer, and the party was led to one of the largest huts.
Alexis noticed two large rein-deer in a little pen attached to the
dwelling, and observed several large dogs, who now awoke from their
repose and came smelling suspiciously around the new-comers.
On entering the hut, the scene presented was a curious one. The whole
interior consisted of one room. This was circular, of a conical form,
and about twenty feet across. Benches were set around, upon which
the wife and one or two other women were sitting. The fire was built
in the centre, and, there being no chimney, the whole hut was filled
with smoke; but the inmates did not seem to mind it. The children were
crawling upon the floor like pigs.
After staying a while in the hut, it was announced that supper was
ready, and the travellers soon found that it was to be a feast. The men
of the party had been on a fishing expedition, and, having been absent
a week, had scarcely tasted a bit of food during that period, and their
families at home had been fasting in the mean time. One of the huts had
been assigned to the cooking of the meal, and it was to be eaten in the
same place.
When the sable-hunters came to the hut, they found about sixty people
there, of all sexes and sizes. Already had the revel begun; for the
hunger of the party was beyond control. The feast itself was a sight to
see. Four large iron caldrons had been set over the fire, filled with
fishes of all sorts, though chiefly cod. They were thrown in together
without dressing--heads, tails, entrails, fins, and scales! A huge
quantity of deer’s-grease and a little salt had been put in. A brisk
fire had then been kindled beneath, and the whole fried or boiled into
a mighty chowder. The steam that gushed from the door of the hut, was
almost strong enough for a supper. It was so rank as to satisfy Alexis
and his two younger companions, who soon went out of doors, and mingled
with the people there.
A feast of wolves could not have been more voracious. Knives, forks,
and plates were not thought of; each one ran into the hut with a wooden
bowl, and, dipping it into the caldron, brought forth the seething
mass, and while it yet seemed boiling hot, they devoured it with a
rapacity absolutely amazing. The scalding heat seemed not to be the
least hindrance; there was no ceremonious blowing and cooling--down
it went, one dishful after another, as if it were a strife to see who
could devour the most in the shortest space of time!
In two or three instances the children upset their bowls, and picking
up the food from the ground, heedless of the dirt attached to it, ate
it down; no matter if it was trodden upon, it was all the same. One of
the children was seen by Alexis, flat upon his stomach, lapping up the
broth, from the earth, that had been spilt. Among this crowd, the dogs
came in for their share; but they were often obliged to dispute their
claims to the remnants with the greedy children.
Among all this coarseness, the strangers were treated with the utmost
hospitality, as, indeed, they had been ever since their departure from
Tobolsk. After the meal had been finished, a few of the men treated
themselves, apart, to brandy, in which entertainment our adventurers
were permitted to join. A scene of drunkenness followed, after which
the men staggered to their several houses. Linsk and his companions
were comfortably lodged, having drank but sparingly.
In the morning the travellers left their Tungusian friends, and set
out on their journey, offering to pay for their entertainment, which
was, however, refused. Indeed, this had been generally the case, and
they had hardly found any necessity of having money. Proceeding upon
their journey, Linsk, according to his wont, began to talk, and these
Tungusians were naturally the subject of his discourse.
“They are very numerous,” said he, “occupying nearly half of Siberia,
and being confined to the central portions of it. They are as restless
as Tartars, always moving from place to place, and alternately feasting
and starving. They go without food as long as a wolf, and, like a wolf,
they will gorge themselves when they get a chance. They eat food when
and where they can get it. This is the way they are brought up. I have
seen them eat candles, soap, and raw pork. I was once at a place where
a reindeer died of disease; they threw him whole upon a fire, singed
him a little, and then eat him, leaving nothing but the bones! A real
hungry Tungusian will eat twenty pounds of meat in a day!”
Alexis would have expressed some doubt of all this, had not the scene
he had witnessed prepared him to believe it, and had he not found
that Linsk, though loyal to servility, and not a little inclined to
superstition, was still a man of veracity in all that related to his
own observation and experience. He went on with his description,
therefore, without interruption.
“Yet, greedy as these people are, they have their good points, as
I believe all God’s creatures have. They are honest, frank, and
hospitable. If they love feasting, their willingness to share the meal
with a stranger is a greater virtue. And they are not so stupid as one
might expect, from their swallowing such oceans of lard. I know of no
people so cunning in catching fish and game. In the winter season, many
establish themselves in the forests along the branches of the Wittim
and Olekminsk regions, lying to the south of where we now are. A young
hunter from Tobolsk, whom I knew, and who dwelt there one winter, told
me that they were the keenest fellows he had ever met with. They would
trace a fox by his foot-prints upon the frozen snow, and could tell
whether it was grey or black by the shape of his track! They killed
their game with blunt arrows, so as not to injure the skin; and so
careful were they of the sable, that when they found one on a tree,
they would not shoot him, but make fires beneath, and smoke him, until
the creature would fall at their feet.
“The fact is, that the Tunguses are such good hunters that the wild
beasts have found them out, and have pretty much left their country.
The fine sables are now seldom found where they used to be abundant,
and those who would hunt them must go farther north, where we are
going. These people have no books, and their religion is a strange
belief in stupid gods, whom they worship under the guise of little
wooden images. They believe in witchcraft and sorcery; and there are a
good many cheats among them, who pretend to practise these forbidden
arts.”
(_To be continued._)
Wisdom of the Creator.
The fact that the Creator is a Being who thinks, who exercises wisdom,
and exerts power, is illustrated by the provision he has made for the
wants of animals, arising from their peculiar condition. The human
teeth afford a striking instance of this. The infant is to live by
milk taken from its mother, and it can take its nourishment in without
teeth much more conveniently to itself and its nurse, than with them.
Accordingly, it has no teeth; nor do they come till about the time that
it takes other food that may require teeth. We see the same careful
foresight in providing that the horns of calves and lambs do not grow
till they have done sucking, as they would be in the way in performing
that operation. But in regard to the human teeth, a still further
prospective contrivance is made at the very beginning. The jaw of a
grown person is much larger than that of an infant, and the first teeth
are therefore entirely too small to fill the jaw of an adult. It is
accordingly provided that, at the age of eight or ten years, the first
set of teeth shall be shed, and larger ones come in their place. And
the preparation for them is made at the outset--a row of teeth being
actually set in below the first, ready to grow when these are gone!
The providing of milk for young animals is another admirable proof
of the designing wisdom of the Creator. Milk is a fluid of a very
nutritious quality, and no art of man can make it. As soon as the
young are produced, the milk is ready for it, and not before. And how
wonderful, how ingenious, is the whole contrivance by which young
animals are provided with food, in a manner the most curious, and of a
kind the most suitable!
[Illustration: George Washington]
Washington a Teacher to the Young.
There is no name in the annals of any country more revered than that of
George Washington. It is a matter of interest to inquire how he became
so good and great, and how he obtained such a desirable reputation;
how he was able to do so much good to his country and to mankind; how
he was qualified to leave behind him so excellent an example; how he
acquired that great wisdom which guided him in life, and prepared him
for death--which made him, like Moses in ancient days, the leader of a
nation through a wilderness of trial, and suffering, and danger, and
now that he has been dead more than forty years, renders him still the
teacher, not only of the United States, but all the civilized world.
It is a good plan for every one who wishes to be useful, good, and
happy, to study the story of Washington, and see how it was that he
became so useful, so good, and so happy. It is only by study that we
can gain knowledge; and the best way to find out the path of duty
and of success, is carefully to read the history of those who have
been successful. I propose, therefore, to give you a brief outline of
Washington’s life, taking care to present those points in his career
which seem to have been the most influential in forming his character
and shaping his fortunes.
George Washington was born in Virginia, on the 22d of February, 1732.
His father was a wealthy planter; but he died in 1743, when George was
eleven years old. He was, therefore, left to the care of his mother,
who was a good and wise woman.
Now you must remember that when Washington was a boy, young people
had not the advantages that they have now. In Virginia, there were
no academies, high-schools, or colleges. He had, therefore, only
the privileges of a common-school education, where writing, reading,
arithmetic, and a little of geometry, were taught.
Now some boys with these simple helps had never been great; the reason
why they were sufficient for Washington I will tell you. In the first
place, he had a good mother, who, like almost all good mothers,
frequently counselled and advised her son to make the best use of his
time at school; to pay attention to his lessons; to learn them well;
and thus, not only to store his mind with knowledge, but to get into
the habit of studying thoroughly, and of improving his mind. In the
second place, _Washington had the good sense, the virtue, and the
wisdom to mind his mother in these things_. These are the two great
reasons why a common-school education was sufficient for so great a
man, and they are the two chief reasons why he became so great.
Now this shows that the advantages a boy possesses are of less
consequence than the way in which he improves them. A boy may be
sent to a high-school, and go through college, and have good natural
capacity, and yet turn out to be a useless, weak, and ignorant man.
Merely going through a high-school, or an academy, or a college, cannot
make a good, useful, or great man. In order to be good, useful, great,
or even happy, it is necessary in youth to do as Washington did.
Another thing to be noticed here is, that Washington had none of
that folly which some boys think smartness, or a mark of genius,
or manliness--a disposition to disobey a mother or a schoolmaster.
Washington was obedient to both of them. If, therefore, a boy wishes
to be successful in life, let him cultivate obedience to parents and
teachers.
One of the great advantages that followed from Washington’s making
the best of his school privileges was, his adopting good habits. _He
got into the habit of doing everything thoroughly._ He was not willing
to learn a lesson by halves, and when he came to recite, to guess and
shuffle his way out. No, indeed! He did not leave a lesson till he
had mastered it--till he knew all about it--till he had stamped it so
firmly in his mind as to make the impression indelible.
The reason why habits are so important, is, that they hang about a
person, and actually guide him through life. When a man has got the
habit of doing a thing, it is easy to repeat it, and it is hard to
act otherwise. Habits may be illustrated by a rail-road. The cars run
easily upon the track, and it is difficult for them to get away from
it. What work a car would make in attempting to run over the rough
ground! Now, the mind is very like the car; it slides along glibly
enough upon the rails of habit, but it works hard and makes little
progress over a place where it has not been before. Thus, if a boy
gets into the habit of lying, he lies, as a locomotive glides upon its
track, with great rapidity, smoothness, and ease. And if he has once
got into this habit of lying, and then attempts to tell the truth, he
feels as if he had got off the track, and is like a car running over
the common ground.
The importance of this matter of habit is seen upon a little
reflection. We must remember what has been said before, that the things
we do once or twice, we are likely to repeat. We are, therefore, always
forming habits, good or bad; and children frequently get them settled
as a rail-road track, before they are aware of it. Now, these habits
may ruin those who adopt them, and turn into evil the best advantages
that they can enjoy.
If a boy gets the habit of studying in a half-way, slovenly, slip-shod
manner, he is almost certain to be greatly injured thereby. If he goes
to college, he there continues the same habit; when he comes out, he
still carries it with him; when he enters upon business, it still
hangs about him. He does nothing well, or thoroughly; he is careless
and slovenly in all he does; there is imperfection and weakness in
his career, and finally he turns out an unsuccessful man. If he is a
merchant, he usually fails in business; if a lawyer, a physician, or
minister, he is generally at the tail-end of his profession, poor,
useless, and despised. Such is the mighty influence of our habits; and
remember that they are formed in early life. Remember that every day
feeds and fosters our habits.
It is interesting to trace the way that Washington’s youthful habits
operated upon him. Some of his early schoolbooks are extant, and these
show that he was very thorough in writing. He even took the pains to
write out, in a fine hand, the forms in which notes of hand, bills
of exchange, receipts, bonds, deeds, wills, should be drawn. Thus he
cultivated the habit of writing neatly, of being patient in copying
papers, and of being accurate in making copies; and at the same time
he made himself acquainted with the forms of drawing up business
documents. In all this, we see the habit of doing things patiently,
accurately, and thoroughly. We see that Washington had so trained
himself, that he could sit down and do that which was mere toil, and
which some boys would think stupid drudgery.
Another thing that is remarkable at this early period of Washington’s
life, is, that in writing he was careful to study neatness and
mechanical precision. Several quires of his school-manuscripts remain,
in which he worked out questions in arithmetic and mathematics. These
manuscripts are very neatly executed; there are several long sums which
are nicely done and beautifully arranged. There are, also, extensive
columns of figures, and all set down with careful precision.
Another thing visible in these manuscripts, is, that Washington studied
accuracy; his sums were all right. What a beautiful illustration of
the great man’s life! His youthful manuscripts show that he learned to
render his school-boy pages fair; to work out all his sums right. Thus
he started in life--and thus he became qualified to make the pages of
his history glorious; the footing up of his great account such as the
sentiment of justice throughout the world would approve!
Another thing that had great influence in the formation of Washington’s
character and in securing success in life, was, that very early he
adopted a code or system of rules of behavior. This was found among his
papers after his death, in his own hand-writing, and written at the age
of thirteen. I will give you a few extracts from this code of manners,
or rules of conduct:
EXTRACTS.
“Every action in company ought to be with some sign of
respect to those present.
“Be no flatterer, neither play with any one that delights not
to be played with.
“Read no letters, books, or papers in company.
“Come not near the books or papers of another so as to read
them.
“Look not over another when he is writing a letter.
“Let your countenance be cheerful, but in serious matters be
grave.
“Show not yourself glad at another’s misfortune.
“Let your discourse with others on matters of business be
short.
“It is good manners to let others speak first.
“Strive not with your superiors in argument, but be modest.
“When a man does all he can, do not blame him though he
succeeds not well.
“Take admonitions thankfully.
“Be not hasty to believe flying reports to the injury of
another.
“In your dress, be modest, and consult your condition.
“Play not the peacock, looking vainly at yourself.
“It is better to be alone than in bad company.
“Let your conversation be without malice or envy.
“Urge not your friend to discover a secret.
“Break not a jest where none take pleasure in mirth.
“Speak not injurious words either in jest or earnest.
“Gaze not on the blemishes of others.
“When another speaks, be attentive.
“Be not apt to relate news.
“Be not curious to know the affairs of others.
“Speak not evil of the absent.
“When you speak of God, let it ever be with reverence.
“Labor to keep alive in your heart that spark of heavenly
fire called conscience.”
Such are some of those rules that Washington wrote out in a fair hand
at thirteen. Most of these rules turn on one great principle, which
is, that you treat others with respect; that you are tender of the
feelings, and rights, and characters of others; that you do to others
as you would have others do to you.
But another thing, also, is to be considered, which is, that Washington
not only had a set of good rules of behavior, all written out in a fair
hand and committed to memory, but he was in the habit of observing
them; and he not only observed them when a child, but after he became
a man. He got into the habit of obeying every one of these rules, and
every one of them became a rail-road track to him, and he therefore
followed them; and thus it was that his manners were always so
dignified, kind, and noble; thus it was that his character and conduct
became so great and good.
Now, I would not have my readers suppose that Washington was always
a man; on the contrary, when he was a boy, he loved fun as well as
anybody. He liked to run, to leap, to wrestle, and play at games. He
had a soldierly turn, even in boyhood, and was fond of heading a troop
of boys, and marching them about with a tin kettle for a drum.
Washington, too, was quick-tempered and passionate when a boy; but the
beauty of his story in this point is, that by adopting good habits and
principles he overcame these tendencies of his nature, and he showed
that all quick-tempered boys can do the same, if they please. They can
govern their tempers; they can adopt good rules of conduct; they can
get into the habit of being calm, patient, and just, and thus grow up
to honor and usefulness.
There are many other traits of character belonging to Washington that
are interesting and worthy of imitation. He was accurate and just in
all his dealings; he was punctual in the performance of promises; he
was a man of prayer, and an observer of the Sabbath. And the point here
to be noticed by youth, is, that all these qualities which we have been
noticing appear to be the fruit of seed sown in his youth. They appear
all to have taken root in one great principle--OBEDIENCE--obedience
to his mother, obedience to his teachers--obedience to a sense of
duty, formed into habit in early life. This is the real source of
Washington’s greatness. He was not made greater or better than most
others, but he adopted good habits, and under their influence he became
great.
Another thing to be observed is, that in adopting good habits,
Washington rejected bad ones. He was guilty of no profanity; no
rudeness or harshness of speech; he was not addicted to _sprees_;
he was no haunter of bar-rooms or taverns; he had no vulgar love of
eccentricity; he affected not that kind of smartness which displays
itself in irregularity or excess; he did not think it clever to disobey
teachers or parents; he was no lover of scandal, or of profane and rude
society.
The teaching, then, of Washington’s example is this: study
obedience, patience, industry, thoroughness, accuracy, neatness,
respect to the rights and feelings of others, and make these things
habitual--rail-tracks in the mind. The path of obedience is the
path to glory; the path of disobedience is the path of failure and
disappointment in the race of life.
The Poet and the Child.
There is a man in England by the name of Thomas Campbell. He is a poet,
and wrote two famous pieces, “The Pleasures of Hope,” and “Gertrude of
Wyoming,”--besides many other smaller poems, which are among the most
beautiful in our language. A short time since he was passing through
one of the parks of London, which are extensive fields ornamented with
fine trees, and he there saw a beautiful girl, four years old, led
along by a woman. Mr. Campbell seems to be a lover of children, and so
he wrote the following lines about this little girl. They are very
pleasing lines; and I introduce them here that my fair young readers
may see how kindly a famous poet looks on the face of a child, which
bespeaks goodness.
LINES ON HIS NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.
I hold it a religious duty
To love and worship children’s beauty;
They’ve least the taint of earthly clod,--
They’re freshest from the hand of God.
With heavenly looks, they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure.
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.
I chanced to, yesterday, behold
A maiden child of beauty’s mould;
’Twas near (more sacred was the scene)
The palace of our patriot Queen.
The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew;
Her eyes had a poetic glow--
Her pouting mouth was Cupid’s bow,
And through her frock I could descry
Her neck and shoulders’ symmetry.
’Twas obvious, from her walk and gait,
Her limbs were beautifully straight.
I stopped th’ enchantress, and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more--
But followed her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
I know you love me, _Mister Grey_.
For, by its instinct, childhood’s eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart.
And so she flirted, like a true
Good woman, till we bade adieu!
’Twas then I with regret grew wild--
Oh! beauteous, interesting child!
Why asked I not thy home and name?
My courage failed me--more’s the shame.
But where abides this jewel rare?
Oh! ye that own her, tell me, where?
For sad it makes my heart, and sore,
To think I ne’er may meet her more.
[Illustration: Ostrich]
The Ostrich.
Every one who looks at an ostrich can see that, having very long legs,
he can run pretty fast if he tries. The ostrich is, in fact, swifter
of foot than any other animal. He will outstrip the fleetest dog, or
horse, or even the antelope.
Not only is he the fleetest of running animals, but he is the largest
of birds; but though he is a bird, he cannot fly. In running, he only
lifts his wings a little, flapping them slightly, but deriving no aid
from them in his progress. The ostrich, therefore, is a remarkable
bird, and seems to have been quite a puzzle to a great many wise heads.
Pliny, the old Roman, thought it was rather a beast than a bird, and
the Greeks and Asiatics esteemed it so like a quadruped in some of its
qualities, that they called it a camel-bird.
When a thing is wonderful, people always strive to make it more
wonderful; so they tell very large stories about ostriches eating iron
and brass with a right good appetite! Upon hearing some people talk
about this creature, you would fancy that a shovel and tongs, and a
pair of andirons, would be but a good breakfast for it! Now this is all
nonsense. Iron and brass can no more give nutriment to an ostrich than
a man; it may be that an ostrich, which, it must be confessed, has a
good appetite, sometimes swallows down a spike or a tenpenny-nail to
aid his digestion, just as other birds eat gravel; but this is no doubt
all that can be said about the matter.
The ostrich is a native of most parts of Africa, and of Arabia in Asia.
It is scarce now in all countries, but in the days of ancient Rome it
appears that they were abundant, for the brains of six hundred were
served up at one famous dinner! It is a bird that likes the company
of its own kind very well, and several are often seen together; but
it has not a good opinion of mankind. It seeks places remote from the
haunts of men, and seems to prefer the desert and the solitude. When
pursued, it does not run straight forward, but wheels round in circles,
keeping pretty near its enemy, and is thus often killed by being shot,
or struck with a kind of spear. The creature is generally inoffensive,
and seeks safety by flight; but when attacked, he resorts to the
ungenteel trick of kicking violently, and he often exercises his skill
in this way with serious effect.
In some parts of Africa, the ostrich is tamed, and generally behaves
like a quiet, well-bred bird; it is said, however, not to like
strangers, and to have a spite against ill-dressed people. This is in
bad taste, for the ostrich, having fine silky feathers itself, may seem
to show foolish vanity and pride by picking flaws in the dress of other
people.
There has been a good deal of discussion among learned authors about
the manner in which the female ostrich manages her eggs--which, by
the way, are large and heavy, one of them weighing as much as a small
baby. It is generally agreed, however, that several ostriches lay in
one nest, and that one undertakes to hatch them, but often covers them
up in the sand and leaves them during the day, knowing that the heat
of the sun will carry on the process of hatching as well without her
as with her. I need only add that the ostrich is about as tall as the
Belgian giant, it being between seven and eight feet high!
What do we mean by Nature?
By Nature, we mean the laws by which God works. And what are these?
Have they power to plan, devise, or execute, of themselves? Have the
laws of God any energy independent of him? Have they, indeed, any
existence independent of him? The seed that is imbedded in the soil,
shoots up into a plant. Is not this God’s work? Is there any being
concerned in this but God? Certainly not. What, then, has nature to
do? Nothing--nothing whatever. The Creator makes the soil, the seed,
the moisture, the heat, and he gives them their quickening impulse. The
stem, the stalk, the unfolding leaf, the fragrant flower, the blushing
fruit, are his. He supplies and guides every particle of earth, air,
water, and heat, concerned in the process of vegetation; without him,
these would remain dead, inert and motionless. The seed would remain
but a seed, and the shapeless elements would pause forever in their
state of original chaos.
Nature, then, is not an efficient power; it is not a being; it
contrives nothing, it does nothing, it plans nothing, it produces
nothing. It is only a term, signifying the ways and means by which
God chooses to perform his various works. Nature is but a word, used
to designate the laws of the material universe. But what are _laws_
without the lawgiver? Even if enacted, where is their efficiency
without the executive power? What would be our book of statutes, if
we had no government to sustain and enforce them? Instead of creating
plants outright, God produces them by a certain process, in which
earth, air, water, and heat are employed. This process is uniform, and
we call it nature. So animals are produced by a certain established
process, and this, again, we call nature.
Nature, then, and the laws of nature, are nothing more than the beaten
path of the Creator; they show his footsteps, but they should never
be confounded with God himself. We should never permit his works to
become idols which stand between us and him, casting a shadow over
his Almighty image. We should never look upon God’s works as God, nor
abuse our minds by substituting the thing created for the Creator.
This is mere idolatry, and the worshipper of nature as truly bows down
before senseless images, as he who kneels to Baal or Moloch. Nature
may, indeed, declare the glory of God, and show forth his handy-work;
it may serve to raise our minds from earth to heaven; it may be a
ladder by which we should climb to the skies. But he who goes not
beyond nature, stays forever upon the ladder, and reaches not his
proper destination. And yet, are we not in the habit of doing this? In
referring the seasons to nature; in speaking of the rain, the frost,
and the snow--the spring-time, with its bursting buds and flowers; the
summer, with its harvest; the autumn, with its fruits; the winter, with
its white winding-sheet for the death-bed of the leaves, as the works
of nature--do we not lead our minds from their true Author? Do we not
wrap up in the mist of words the idea that all these are the works of a
being who designs, contrives, thinks, and acts?
A Vision.
“On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,
Weeping thou sat’st, while all around thee smiled;
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou may’st smile while all around thee weep.”
The beautiful sentiment in the above stanza, translated from the
Persian by Sir William Jones, struck me so much the other day, while
I was reading the life of that excellent man, that I laid down the
book to meditate upon it. It was a rainy, dull afternoon--the fog
hung heavily on the mountains--the smoke rose drowsily from the
chimneys--the cat and dog had forgotten their feeds, and were sleeping
on the rug at my feet. I caught the sluggish spirit of the day, and
leaning my head back in my rocking-chair, the room and its furniture
gradually faded from my sight, and the following dream or vision
occupied my imagination.
A little girl appeared before me in her freshest childhood, and her
mind just opening to the outward world. She held in her hand a pure
white blank tablet, which had been given her at her birth, and from
which she was never to part, in this world or the world to come.
At first she ran recklessly and gaily forward without heeding the
tablet, which, nevertheless, received certain impressions from every
circumstance of her life. These impressions were, for the most part,
gradually effaced as she proceeded, though a portion of them were
deepened, and some became brighter and more precious. Among these last
were the marks made by the tender love of brothers and sisters, and
the watchings, and gentle rebukes, and prayers of parents. These, at
first, were scarcely perceived, and often quite unheeded; but I saw
afterwards, when the child had become a woman, and had gone far on in
her journey in life, she would gather from them courage to go forward,
and strength to resist temptation. As she proceeded on her youthful
course, I inferred her diligence from the number and distinctness
of the images on her tablet; and their value, from the frequency
with which she recurred to them, through her whole progress, as to a
well-filled store-house for constant use.
As my eye followed her course, I perceived some figures, scarcely
visible, hovering around her. I looked long and intently before they
were quite defined to my sight; but, by degrees, they became more and
more distinct, till at last I saw every expression--every movement--and
even fancied I detected their purposes.
On one side was a female of thoughtful and tranquil aspect, who
evidently regulated all her steps in relation to far-distant objects,
to which her clear, penetrating glance extended. I at first thought,
from her expression of purity, and her simple robe of snowy whiteness,
that she must be Innocence; but I looked again, and saw her glossy hair
was wreathed with amaranths:
“Immortal amaranth--a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom;”
and which has since ever been, among “the spirits elect,” the emblem
of Virtue. While the young maiden (for she who started a child had
now become a tall and slender girl) kept her eye fixed on Virtue, and
followed her footsteps, her tablet was being inscribed with beautiful
and ever-brightening characters; and though her way sometimes lay
through entangled paths, and clouds were over her head, and darkness
round about her, yet, when it was again light, and I could see her
tablet, I perceived that during these dark passages of her course she
had ineffaceable images. I wondered that Virtue--since, after all, it
was but Virtue in the human form--never faltered, or was bewildered
in these difficult passages, and while I wondered, a new keenness was
imparted to my vision, and I saw the radiant form of Religion bending
from Heaven and communicating her holy energy to Virtue.
But there were other figures in the maiden’s train, and one in
particular, whom I knew at once, by the miraculous variety of alluring
forms which she assumed, to be Temptation. She was always full of
smiles, and promises, and winning ways, and she carried in her hand a
magic glass, by which she excluded the distance from the maiden’s eyes,
and gave false and beautiful aspects to whatever was present or near;
and often did she lure her from the side of Virtue, and plunge her into
troubles, from which she could only be extricated by the intervention
and struggles of her true friend.
Though sometimes, when the maiden yielded to Temptation, that deceitful
spirit led her through the flowery paths, yet she always left her
in the hands of Remorse, a withered hag, whose name was written in
letters of fire on her breast, and who held an iron pen, with which she
engraved black and frightful images on the tablet.
The maiden looked at them with affright and sorrow; and Penitence, a
tender and pitiful nymph, tried to wash them out with her tears; but,
though they became fainter, it was impossible to efface them; and the
maiden, grieving that these records of her wandering with Temptation
must forever and forever remain on her tablet, appealed to Virtue for
aid; and Virtue pointed her to Religion, who, it seemed, could alone
enable her to resist the wiles of Temptation. And now I saw, that,
as her communications with Religion became more frequent, and their
intercourse more intimate, though often assailed by Temptation, the
maiden was always victorious in the contest, and at every step she gave
more and more attention to her tablet, and felt a more intense desire
that it should be impressed with beautiful and brightening images.
I know not how much farther I might have traced her course, had not my
little Helen come bounding in from school--the dog barked, and I was
waked. I told my dream to the little girl.
“And what did the tablet mean?” she asked.
“Oh, it was but a dream, Helen.”
“Yes, but all the rest had a meaning, and there ought to be one to the
tablet.”
“Well, then, my child, let it mean _Memory_; and, if you like my dream,
let it persuade you to store your memory with beautiful and indelible
images.”--_Stories for the Young, by Miss Sedgwick._
[Illustration: Sun and wind]
The Sun and Wind.
A FABLE.
The Sun and Wind once fell into a dispute as to their relative power.
The Sun insisted, as he could thaw the iceberg, and melt the snows of
winter, and bid the plants spring out of the ground, and send light
and heat over the world, that he was the most powerful. “It may be,”
said he, “that you can make the loudest uproar; but I can produce the
greatest effect. It is not always the noisiest people that achieve the
greatest deeds.”
“This may seem very well,” said the Wind, “but it is not just. Don’t I
blow the ships across the sea, turn windmills, drive the clouds across
the heavens, get up squalls and thundergusts, and topple down steeples
and houses, with hurricanes?”
Thus the two disputed, when, at last, a traveller was seen coming
along; and they agreed each to give a specimen of what he could do, and
let the traveller decide between them. So the Wind began, and it blew
lustily. It nearly took away the traveller’s hat and cloak, and very
much impeded his progress; but he resisted stoutly. The Wind having
tried its best, then came the Sun’s turn. So he shone down with his
summer beams, and the traveller found himself so hot that he took off
his hat and cloak, and so decided that the Sun had more power than the
Wind.
Thus our fable shows that the gentle rays of the Sun were more potent
than the tempest; and we generally find in life that mild means are
more effective, in the accomplishment of any object, than violence.
THE KAMSCHATKA LILY.
In Kamschatka there is a lily called the Sarana, which almost covers
the ground with blossoms; the roots of this lily are good to eat when
they are baked, and are sometimes made into bread.
There is a little mouse in Kamschatka, which lays these roots by in
its own store-house, and when the weather is fine, it brings them out
to dry in the sun; sometimes the people of that country look for the
store-house of the little mouse, and carry away the roots; but they
always take care to leave some behind for the poor mouse that has had
the trouble of collecting them.
Habits which concern ourselves.
From our first days we are much absorbed in the affairs of self. It
is necessary we should take food, and we do it for ourselves alone.
This leads a very little child to put everything he can reach into his
mouth. Now, here is a habit; and it becomes so easy for him to carry
his hand to his lips, that he does not know, at length, when and how
often he does it.
It is, likewise, a habit of a selfish tendency; for the hand goes to
the mouth merely to gratify a feeling he himself has. But he soon comes
to do many other things; and in all his little actions he thinks of
self. James will not give John a part of his apple, because he is in
the habit of eating apples, and whatever else he can get, always by
himself. This is wrong; and if he do not reform his selfish habit, he
will be a complete miser when he arrives at manhood.
Habit not only effects our impressions, but our active propensities.
Hardly any habit is the source of more faults than heedlessness. It is
especially so in children. Why is that boy sitting idle in his seat at
school? Because he is heedless. He has formed the habit of looking off
his book, and around the school-room, whenever the eyes of his teacher
are turned from him. He has done it so often, that he is not sensible
of being idle, until his teacher calls him to attend to his studies.
The want of attention not only makes us poor scholars, but poor in
purse, and poor as men.
I will tell you an allegory, to show you the sad consequences of
heedlessness.
“There is a hill called Experience. Many people are going up this hill.
On the top of it is a temple, called the Temple of Truth. On the side
of the hill are fruit-trees, bearing good fruits of all kinds; but if
the people are not careful, they make themselves sick by eating it, and
must take medicine, or they become more and more sick.
“Two men set out to ascend this hill. The name of one was
_Observation_, and that of the other _Inattention_. Observation looked
at everything near him as he went up the hill; and when he became sick,
he thought of the fruit which had made him so, and was careful not to
eat too much of it and make himself sick again. Inattention, when sick,
thought of nothing but of being well again; and when he got well, he
ate again; and when he had hurt himself, he got up again and ran on,
without minding what hurt him.
“As Observation was going up the hill, he fell in company with
Attention, and they walked on together, and soon became friends.
Inattention preferred to walk alone. As he was going on his way, he
came to a river by the way-side, and, although he did not know how to
swim, he jumped into it without thought, and was near being drowned;
when Observation and Attention, arriving at the place, pulled him out,
and saved his life. The three persons then went on together.
“They soon came to another river, and Inattention, regardless of
the dangers which he had just escaped, and of the advice of his
fellow-travellers, would go into it, and was drowned, although they
tried to save him. So the friends went on without him; and after many
years’ travelling, they arrived at the Temple of Truth, on the top of
the hill, and were rewarded for their perseverance and care, while
Inattention was punished for his negligence and folly.”
We should form the habit of keeping our good resolutions. If we wish to
improve, we must see our errors, and resolve to correct them; without
such resolutions, we shall always do the same wrong things which we
do now. But one point we must never forget; which is, that the oftener
we break our good resolutions, the less likely are we to keep any we
may form. Samuel is very apt to be passionate. He will, when he is
angry, sometimes speak improperly to his father, or strike his little
sister. He knows this is wrong, and every night he is sorry for it, and
resolves not to get angry the next day. But he has broken just such a
resolution so often, that it is growing more and more difficult for him
to govern his temper. The only way he can reform, is to form the habit
of making resolutions very deliberately, and always carrying them into
full execution.
It is important that we acquire fortitude. We must bear many
disappointments and much pain so long as we live. If we began to bear
them firmly in childhood, we should all make brave, patient, and
submissive men. God does not send us troubles without intending to make
us better by the use of them. But without fortitude, affliction only
hardens our hearts.
We have seen very young children bear pain without a single complaint.
In sickness, some are so calm and patient, that you would not know,
except by their countenance, that they were sick. It is essential to
form the habit of keeping our little bodily afflictions to ourselves.
It is our duty to do it, for we only make others unhappy by continually
talking of our own troubles. And we make the suffering appear the
greater to ourselves, also, the more we dwell upon and converse about
it. So of extreme cold and heat--we should begin in childhood to bear
them without tears and complaints. It will give us no relief to think
of them, and magnify our sufferings by relating them to others.
Troubles of mind should be borne habitually with fortitude. James has
broken one of his skates, but no one would know it from his appearance;
he does not cry, or fret, or complain to his companions, or at home.
His tears he knows will not mend it; he only determines to be more
careful in future, and, as soon as he is able, to purchase a new pair
of skates.
We should always consider, too, that our Father in Heaven intends to
teach us wisdom and submission to his will, by our smaller, as well as
greater troubles.
Anecdotes of Haydn.
The great musician, Haydn, was the son of a wheelwright. His father
used to play on the harp, and on holidays, his mother would sing while
he played; and whenever the little boy heard this music, he would get
two pieces of wood, like a violin and the bow that plays on it, and he
would seem to be playing to his mother’s singing; and as long as he
lived, Haydn loved to play the airs his mother then sung.
It happened that a relation of his parents, who was a schoolmaster,
came to see them, and, thinking the child clever, he offered to bring
him up, and his parents accepted the offer. When Haydn was at school,
he found a tambourine, and played on it a tune so surprising, that
everybody in the house came to listen to it.
He was afterwards taught to sing; and a person who understood good
music well, coming to hear him, was so pleased with him, that he
emptied a plate of cherries into his pocket.
Such was the beginning of this famous man, who composed many of the
beautiful tunes with which we are all familiar.
[Illustration: Fox and raven]
The Fox and Raven;
A FABLE.
A raven was once sitting upon a tree with a nice bit of cheese in his
mouth. A fox near by, being hungry, approached the raven with the
design of getting the bit of cheese, if he could. So he began to speak
as follows:
“Good morning, Mr. Raven! How fine you look to-day! I never saw your
coat so rich and glossy before. Pray give me a bit of that cheese; I am
very fond of cheese.”
“Hem!” said the raven, taking care not to open his mouth, and seeming
to think that he was not such a ninny as to be flattered out of his
cheese by a fox. But reynard is a sort of natural lawyer, who knows the
weak points of people, and has a faculty, as well as a disposition,
to turn them to account. He thought to himself, “Now the raven has a
hoarse, croaking voice; and the way to flatter any one is to praise
that in which he is most deficient.” So he began:
“Well, my dear Raven, I told you I wanted the cheese--but, in point
of fact, I care nothing about it. I hate cheese, for it spoils the
breath; but I really wanted to hear you sing, and the cheese stops up
your mouth. I beg of you to sing me a little French or Italian air; you
execute those things so deliciously.”
The raven, like many other silly people who have odious voices, fancied
that he sang divinely; so he dropped the cheese, and began; whereupon
the fox picked up the cheese, and holding his bursting sides, ran away,
saying to himself, “O, flattery, flattery; it is the key that unlocks
all hearts. You have only to use the right kind, and you can make a
fool of anybody. But as to these people with croaking throats, who
pretend to sing French and Italian airs, bah! it is too much!”
I don’t see why.
I know a little girl who has a very pleasant home, and the very kindest
of parents, and who is yet often discontented and unhappy. She pouts
her lips, and throws her arms about, and sulks, and stamps with her
feet, and makes a strange noise in her throat, between a growl and a
cry. It is not because she has not enough to eat of good, wholesome
food; nor because she has no time to play, and playthings in abundance,
and brothers to play with her. She is not blind, nor lame, nor deformed
in any way, but has health and strength, and everything which any
little girl could wish, to make her happy in this world, but a good
heart.
What was it, then, that made her fretful? Why, she had a kind mother,
who told her what she must do, and what she must not do. I will tell
you what I heard one day.
“Caroline, you must not take my scissors, my dear.”
“Why, mother? I have no scissors to cut off my thread,” said Caroline,
pettishly.
“Well, my dear, I will give you a pair, but you must not take mine.”
“I am sure I don’t see why; it’s only just to cut my thread.”
Now, these scissors were of the finest kind, and highly polished, and
Caroline’s mother knew that it would soil them if she should handle
them; and that if she had them once, she would want them again.
Caroline’s duty was to obey cheerfully, whether she saw the reason why,
or not.
“Caroline, my dear, you must not climb upon the chair to reach your
work. You must ask some one to get it for you.”
“I am sure I don’t see why. It is less trouble to get it myself than to
ask anybody for it.”
“Very well, my child, you shall do it in your own way, and see.”
That very afternoon, Caroline mounted on a chair to get her work. She
reached too far, and over went the chair, and Caroline with it. Her
work was scattered over the floor--the needlebook in one direction, and
the thimble in another, and the spools in another; and, what was worse
than all, her head struck the edge of the door, and a gash was cut in
her forehead. She cried sadly, and did not get over the hurt for weeks.
Was it less trouble to get it herself?
If she had trusted her mother, she would have saved herself all this
pain; but for the sake of knowing the reason why she could not get upon
the chair, she cost herself a severe wound, and a great deal of shame
and sorrow.
It is a good rule, through life, to do what God requires of us, whether
we see why or not. One of the things he requires of us to do, is to
_obey our parents_. (Eph. vi. 1. Col. iii. 20.)
* * * * *
There is a chapter in the Bible, of which you cannot read three verses
without crying.--What chapter is it?
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER VIII.
_Character of the Indians.--Employed in the mines.--Story of
a pickaxe.--Mr. Temple’s conduct considered.--Humanity
of the Indians to him.--His reflections.--Dress of the
Indian men;--of the women._
In 1825, Edmund Temple, a young Englishman, went out to Potosi as agent
for a mining company formed in London. From his “Travels” I shall
select such remarks and incidents as tend to illustrate the present
character and condition of the native Indians. We shall then be better
able to judge what they have gained by their intercourse with Europeans.
“The Peruvian Indians are a strong, healthy race, though not very tall,
and generally laborious, for every kind of labor is performed by them.
In Potosi, however, the miners, all Indians, have acquired a character
for habits of idleness and a propensity to defraud their employers,
which it must be admitted is not altogether without foundation, though
I think the cause of the evils complained of may be traced to harsh
treatment, or to unwarrantable exactions of some sort, aggression being
as frequent on one side as delinquency on the other.
“I know from experience, that, by proper management, their faults and
the disadvantages arising from them may be guarded against, and in a
great degree corrected. A worm, or, if it be thought more applicable,
the adder, will turn when trod upon, and will then resent the injury;
so has it been with these Indians before now; but, with kind usage,
fair remuneration for their services, and an impartial conduct towards
them, they are perfectly tractable, and may become good, faithful, and
willing servants.
“During my residence at Potosi I have had occasion to employ many
Indians, as well miners as those of other trades and occupations; there
is no want of hands, as it has been generally supposed, and I cannot
say that I have any cause of complaint against them; they performed the
work for which they were engaged to the best of their abilities, and at
the completion of it I paid them their hire.
“Sunday, after the hour of early mass, is the customary time of paying
the miners, and all persons employed in the _ingenios_; this practice I
did not adhere to, having preferred settling all such matters, so far
as I had control, on Saturday evening.
“At the appointed hour they assembled in the court before my office,
accompanied sometimes by their wives and children, and if I happened to
be engaged in any business, (despatching the couriers, for instance,
when, in the absence or illness of my companions, I have been employed
many hours of the day ‘writing against time’) these people would
remain, without evincing the slightest impatience, and never approach
to ask to be settled with till called by name as they stood upon the
list of the major-domo.
“They always expressed their thanks when they received their wages,
upon which subject we never had the most trifling misunderstanding,
and only once upon another, namely, upon the subject of a pickaxe that
had been stolen out of our ingenio. It was worth fifteen shillings at
Potosi, and might have been worth five in England; but the example, not
the value, determined me upon giving a color of infinite importance to
the case.
“After the depredation had been made known to me, and when the workmen
had assembled to receive their week’s wages, two shillings _per diem_
each man, I called them all into my office, merely for the sake of
exhibiting myself in the highest possible degree of dignity, (a clerk
never looks so dignified as behind his own counter,) and whilst they
stood like culprits in humility before me, with their hats off, I sat
proudly elevated upon my judgment-seat, with my hat on, and in my hand
a pen--a just emblem of my office, it is true, and at the same time
calculated to convey terror to the mind of the thief, who knew that,
if detected, I should instantly employ it in an application to the
_alcade_ for the infliction of fine and imprisonment.
“When I had fixed the attention of the party, I commenced the dread
inquisition. Alas! many of their forefathers, for crimes of as little
note, or even the bare suspicion of them, had been condemned by a more
horrible inquisition, and before judges less disposed to render justice
and mercy than their present one, although it will appear that even he
was obdurately relentless. I put the question,--
“‘Who stole my pickaxe?’--Dead silence, each looked at each, and all
looked at me.
“‘Who stole my pickaxe, I say?’
“‘_Quien sabe?_’ (who knows?) said a low voice in the crowd.
“‘Who knows?’ said I; ‘why, some of you know; and I, too, must know,
before I pay you one rial of your wages.’ I then proceeded to question
each individual by name.
“‘Gregorio Medrano, did you steal the pickaxe?’
“‘_No, Señor._’
“‘Bernandino Marquete, did you steal the pickaxe?’
“‘_No, Señor._’
“‘Casimiro Chambi, did you?’
“‘_No, Señor._’
“And so on through the whole list with the same profitless result.
“The Indians, like the lower class of Irish, preserve inviolable
secrecy respecting their own concerns; an informer is looked upon as a
wretch unworthy to live among _honest men_, or if permitted to live is
loathed as a demon. Assured, therefore, that I should never succeed in
detecting the exact thief, although we all well knew he was one of the
party present, I proceeded to judgment upon all of them.
“‘Know, then, _hermanos mios_, (dear brothers,) that my sentence is
this; that the major-domo do now, immediately, and on the spot, put
into his hat as many grains of _mais_ as there are of you here present;
that those grains shall be all white save one, which shall be black;
and he who draws that black grain shall pay for a new pickaxe.’
“Here consternation became general and evident, but, from the natural
darkness of the Indian complexion, it was impossible to discover the
delinquent from any change produced on his countenance by the inward
workings of his mind.
“‘Now, señor major-domo, shake your hat well--shake it! I say, that no
suspicion of partiality may be entertained. Let each man in succession
put his hand in and take one grain of _mais_, then withdraw it, taking
care to keep his hand shut, and not to open it until ordered so to do.’
“This being done, they all stood before me with their right arms
stretched out at full length, and the hand firmly closed.
“‘Now for the detection of the thief! Open! _Que es eso?_ (what is
all this?) Major-domo! what is the reason of this?’ said I, for to my
astonishment every hand was empty.
“‘I really don’t know, sir; they must have drawn the grains and
swallowed them, for not a single one remains in my hat!’ said the
major-domo, turning his hat-mouth downwards to prove that nothing was
there.
“Amazement was at its height; it was evidently a case of _bruxeria_,
(witchcraft.) Inaquinte Sambrano observed that it was the miraculous
interference of Saint Dimas,[1] to prove that there was no thief among
them. But, notwithstanding my surprise and confusion, I determined that
the saint should not keep my pickaxe without paying for it.
“I desired the major-domo to give me his hat; upon examining it the
witchcraft was explained. In obeying my orders ‘to shake the hat well,’
every grain of maize had absconded through a rent in the crown, and the
floor being covered with thick straw matting, they fell upon it unheard.
“We therefore proceeded with more caution to a second drawing, when the
black bean appeared, on the show of hands, in that of Basil Calamayo,
from whose wages I directed the major-domo to purchase the best pickaxe
that could be had in Potosi. From that hour I never heard of any
pilfering.”
I do not record this procedure of Mr. Edmund Temple as a pattern of
justice. Mr. Temple, in taking the worth of the pickaxe in the manner
he did, from Basil Calamayo, without doubt punished an innocent person,
and excited the superstitious fears of the ignorant Indians; both, very
wrong actions. Still he pities the poor natives, and when _his own
interest_ does not interfere, speaks very kindly of their character.
And well he might when he had such instances as the following to record.
“When I have arrived weary and faint at a Peruvian hut, with what pure
feelings of gratitude have I made my acknowledgments to the family,
who, from sheer benevolence, have ceded to me the only little store
they possessed. Often have I alighted from my horse at an unseasonable
hour and asked for milk, offering dollars.
“The answer invariably was, ‘_No hai! no hai, Señor!_’ They would not
take the trouble of getting it for money.
“But when I said, ‘I am very unwell, my brother; do me the favor
and God will repay you,’ my feeble voice, pale cheek, and sunken
eye, bearing testimony to what I said, the sire of the family, or
the matron, twisting her ball of thread from the silken wool of the
_vicuña_, would mutter something in Quichua, (the language of the
country,) when instantly an earthen ware pipkin would be seized by one
of the younger members, who would glide away in pursuit of the flock,
and returning quite breathless from the haste he used, would present me
with the milk, without a question as to the payment.
“And this is savage hospitality! could I expect more among the most
polished people of the earth? Should I always have obtained as much?”
In another place Mr. Temple observes, “I felt no apprehension of losing
a single article of my baggage; it had been entrusted to the Indians,
and in their charge required neither guards, nor swords, nor pistols,
to protect it, or to insure its safe delivery.
“On the whole, I believe I am not singular in the opinion that the
worst qualities of the Peruvian Indians have been _imported_, and that
their virtues are their own. They possess a peaceable, unoffending
spirit, free from even an _accusation_ of those great moral crimes
which disgrace civilized nations.
“The dress of the men, excepting the hat, which is precisely the shape
of Don Quixote’s helmet without the niche in it, reminded me of that
of the peasantry of Connaught. They wear coarse brown frieze cloth
breeches, with the waistband very low, and always open at the knees,
the buttons being for ornament, not for use. Shirts are seldom worn;
the legs are bare, with the exception of pieces of hide under the soles
of the feet, tied sandal-fashion round the instep and toes.
“The dress of the female Indians consists of a petticoat, worn much
shorter by the unmarried than by those that are married, and a scarf
of sundry colors round the shoulders, which is pinned on one side of
the chest with a _topa_, a large silver pin; but sometimes they use a
spoon, the handle of which being pointed serves as a pin.
“_Cholas_, those descended from Spanish and Indian parents, are very
fond of dress. I have seen them with _topas_ of gold, set with pearls
and precious stones of considerable value.”
[1] The patron saint of robbers.
Charles and his Mother.
A DIALOGUE.
_Charles._ Mother, may I play with the baby a little while before I go
to school?
_Mother._ She is asleep now, my son; but you may go softly and look at
her.
_C._ She is just going to wake up, mother! she is smiling and moving
her little hands.
_M._ No, she is only dreaming; don’t hold the curtain back so far, the
sun shines on her face.
_C._ I wonder what she is dreaming about; she looks very sober now;
what a pity she can’t tell us when she wakes! Mother, I shall be glad
when Susan grows a little bigger, and can run about, and talk, and play
with me; I don’t think a little baby is good for much.
_M._ And what if she should never grow up, Charles?
_C._ What! be always a little baby?
_M._ No, my son; what if she should die?
_C._ Die! O, that can’t be; she has only just begun to live.
_M._ Who made her live?
_C._ God, you told me.
_M._ And cannot God make her die when he pleases?
_C._ I suppose he can; but he never does, does he? Does he ever kill
such little babies as Susan?
_M._ They very often die, Charles.
_C._ I never heard of that before; I hope Susan will not die. How old
is she, mother?
_M._ Eight months.
_C._ O, mother, mother, that is too young to die; I am sure she won’t.
Here am I, seven years old, and I am not dead yet.
_M._ And I am twenty-seven, my dear boy; but for all that, you and
Susan may both die before I do, if it should please God.
_C._ What makes the tears come in your eyes, mother? we shan’t die, I
know. See how Susan keeps stirring about! see how red her cheeks are!
_M._ She is not well; she is feverish, Charles. Do you know there are
two little white teeth trying to get through her gums, and they give
her a great deal of pain? I shall send for the doctor to-day. The clock
is striking nine, Charles, and you must go to school.
_C._ O dear! and where is my little satchel? and where is my
spelling-book, I wonder?
_M._ You had better look in the breakfast-room; and, Charles, be sure
you shut the window; it is very damp this morning.
_C._ Yes, mother. I wonder what I did with my cap.
_M._ Don’t bang the door, Charles--and don’t forget to shut the
window. I must take the baby down this morning.
TUESDAY MORNING.
_Charles meets the doctor coming out of his mother’s chamber._
_C._ Are you the doctor, sir?
_D._ Yes, my little man.
_C._ Is the baby almost well again?
_D._ O no! no!
_C._ Why, they told me you were coming to cure her, and you came three
times yesterday; for I saw your old horse out of the school-room window.
_D._ But she is very sick, little boy; somebody left a window open
yesterday when it was almost raining, and the nursery maid carried her
into a damp room while they were sweeping the nursery.
_C._ O, doctor, what shall I do? what shall I do?
_D._ Don’t cry, my little fellow; what is the matter, now?
_C._ It was I, it was I, that left the window open! mother told me to
shut it, and I was hunting for my cap and forgot all about it.
_D._ Well, that was wrong; but hush up; if your mother hears you
sobbing so bitterly she will feel much worse. It was a pity you forgot
the window.
_C._ O, my poor little sister! will you cure her? you can cure her sir,
can’t you sir?
_D._ I will try, but God must help us.
_C._ And won’t he help you? do you think he will make Susan die?
_D._ I cannot tell, indeed; but you must ask him to make her well.
_C._ How can I ask him?
_D._ In your prayers; do you not say your prayers every night?
_C._ Yes, the Lord’s prayer, and two other prayers; but there is
nothing in them about Susan’s being sick.
_D._ And can’t you make a little prayer on purpose?
_C._ I don’t know; I never tried.
_D._ Then go up into your chamber, my dear child, and kneel down where
you always say your prayers every night, and pray to God just as if you
could see him in the room with you. You may depend upon it. He is there.
_C._ Shall I ask him to help you cure Susan?
_D._ Ask him to cure her if it is best she should get well.
_C._ Why, it is best certainly. And will it be wrong to tell him how
sorry I am that I forgot the window, and ask him to forgive me?
_D._ No, it will be quite right.
_C._ Then I will go this minute. You must come again before
dinner--won’t you?
_D._ Yes, I must indeed.
WEDNESDAY MORNING.
_Charles comes softly into his mother’s chamber, half dressed._
_C._ Mother, are you there? it is so dark I cannot see you.
_M._ I am here, sitting by the bed, my son.
_C._ The fire is out, and the candle is just going out; may I open the
shutter a little way, so that I can see the baby, mother? I won’t wake
her.
_M._ She is not asleep, my dear boy. But what made you wake at
day-break?
_C._ I kept thinking of Susan when I was asleep, mother. What makes her
so still? is the pain better?
_M._ It is all gone, Charles; she will never feel it again; open the
shutters wide and come here.
_C._ O, mother, mother! (_burying his face in her lap_,) I do not wish
to look at her.
_M._ What is the matter, Charles? tell me.
_C._ She is dead--she is dead! the tears keep rolling down your
cheeks--and she is lying just like my little canary bird--and I do
believe she is dead!
_M._ Yes! my baby is dead, Charles! and--
_C._ Don’t cry, don’t cry! dear mother; you did not cry when I came
in--I will leave off crying if you will, mother.
_M._ Look at her little pale face, Charles;--why are you unwilling to
look at her?
_C._ I do not know. Will you take her off the bed? are you afraid to
hold her in your arms?
_M._ O, no; I have held her a great while to-night, Charles, and she
died in my lap.
_C_. And were you all alone?
_M._ No, there were two or three people with me then, and they were
very kind; but I sent them all away at last.
_C._ Why, mother?
_M._ Because sometimes I wanted to cry, and sometimes to pray, and I
liked better to be alone. I was praying when you came in, Charles.
_C._ Mother, I prayed yesterday about Susan, but God did not mind it.
What makes you pray now that she is dead?
_M._ I was praying that I might remember how happy little Susan’s soul
is, and that I might not be so wicked as to complain because God had
taken her away again; and that I might be a better woman now, and think
more of heaven.
_C._ You need not pray for that, mother; you are a very good woman, the
best woman in the world.
_M._ Nobody can be good without praying, my son; and I had a great many
things to beg of God. I was asking him to make the little boy who is
spared to me, a good child.
_C._ Ah, mother, that is because I forgot the window!
_M._ No, my child, I was not thinking of that then; but if you should
pray to God to help you to cure your faults, you will find it becomes
much easier for you.
_C._ Then why did he not cure Susan’s sickness when I begged him so
hard?
_M._ Are you sure it would have been better for Susan to live?
_C._ I don’t know; she would have cried sometimes, I suppose.
_M._ But she never will cry now, Charles; her soul is with God in
heaven, and her body cannot feel pain now.
_C._ But it would have been better for us if she had lived to grow up,
mother. What makes you cry again?
_Enter Aunt Catherine._
_C._ I am glad you have come, aunt; I have made mother cry again, and I
cannot help crying too. I do think it would have been better for us if
Susan had not died.
_A._ Your mother thought so at first, Charles; but now she knows it
would have been wrong to have wished little Susan here just for her own
pleasure, when the little creature is happier in heaven. Besides, God
would not have taken her if it had been for your mother’s real good to
let her stay.
_C._ I cannot understand that, do you mother?
_M._ I do! I do! but I cannot talk about it now.
_C._ So sudden! three days ago she was well!
_A._ Come, my dear child, come and let me finish dressing you, and your
mother will talk to you about Susan very often; kiss the dear baby’s
cheek, Charles,--your mother is holding her up to you.
_C._ O, if she could only be made alive again!
_A._ Hush--do not sob so loud! come with me, Charles, and I will tell
you how we think God has already made her alive in heaven.
[Illustration: Fish]
John Doree.
We must not always judge of a thing by first sight. Here is a picture
of a fish called John Doree; and a fierce looking fellow he is; but in
point of fact, he seems to be a quiet sort of fish, behaving as well
as others of his race. It is difficult to get at the characters of
creatures down in the deep where John lives; but as he is gaily marked
with gold spots, we may believe that he passes for a kind of fop among
his fellows. His name, John Doree, means the same as Gilded John. Out
of the water and cooked, this fish is much esteemed for his flavor; and
in England he is a favorite upon the table.
* * * * *
☞ The publishers express their hearty thanks to the writers of the
following, and hope the example here set may be followed by many other
black-eyed and blue-eyed friends of Robert Merry.
CARMEL, N. Y., June 23, 1841.
_Gentlemen:_--We have seen several interesting notices
of your little Magazine in the Saturday Courier, and in
other papers, which give it such good recommendation, that
we have determined to send for it. We have no doubt that
if you would send a subscription paper to this village,
many subscribers could be obtained for the Museum. We have
enclosed money enough to take the Museum for eight months,
and if it proves equal to our expectations we will take
it much longer. It is difficult to enclose $1.50 in a
letter, but if we can obtain some subscribers for you, this
difficulty can be remedied. You may be curious enough to
know why the term we is used. We will explain. A short time
since, during the winter, it was proposed in the family to
which we belong, by one of the members, to do something
to help pass away the long evenings more agreeably. One
proposed one thing, another proposed another, but finally
all determined to subscribe for some other paper, although
we already took four; none of which, however, except the
Ladies’ Garland, seemed to suit the younger portion of the
family. Instead of going immediately to our father for the
“money,” we thought the better way would be to obtain it by
our own industry. So we went to work. Each was to put in at
least a penny a week, and more if we thought proper. This
method incited the little ones to industry. In a short time
we had money sufficient to pay for any Magazine. We sounded
around some time to find one which would blend instruction
with delight. We sought in vain among the mammoth sheets;
for such trash as they contained we thought unworthy to
be let loose among the youthful portion of any family.
After a while, looking over the Saturday Courier, we came
across a notice of Merry’s Museum, and, from the hearty
recommendations given, we thought we had found the very
thing for which we had before sought in vain. And now we,
the members of this family, send the cash necessary to take
this paper for the time before named; and please direct it
to
E. L., Carmel, N. Y.
* * * * *
BEES.--When a swarm of bees settle in a hive, the first thing they
do is to build cells which serve for cradles; and then they lay by
something which is called bee-bread. This is gathered from the flowers
like honey; and the use of this bee-bread is to feed the young bees. It
is said that bees know the persons who are kind to them.
I have heard of a lady who attended a great deal to her bees, and they
seemed to be pleased to hear her voice. Sometimes, after a storm, she
would gather them up and wipe them, and lay them in her warm hand till
they recovered; and they would never sting her, but would buzz about
her as if they were pleased and grateful.
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.
[Illustration: Music]
1.
Up in the morning early;
Glad spring is here once more;
And nature wears a smiling face:
Cold winter’s reign is o’er.
2.
Up in the morning early,
And seek the gay, green bowers;
Before the sun drinks up the dew,
That glitters on the flowers.
3.
Up in the morning early;
The birds are on the wing;
The air is full of music sweet;
How merrily they sing.
4.
Up in the morning early;
There’s balm in every breeze;
It comes from every vine-clad bower,
From blossoms of the trees.
5.
Up in the morning early;
O, haste to leave your bed;
Before above the eastern wave
The sun shall peep his head.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 5.
Story of Philip Brusque.
CHAPTER VIII.
Scarcely had these events transpired when Rogere issued an order for
all the men of the island to come forthwith before him, and acknowledge
their allegiance to him; that is, to own him as chief of the island,
and promise obedience to his government. About half of them came, but
nearly a dozen men of brave hearts resolved to die rather than submit.
They were roused to resistance by the women, among whom Emily was first
and foremost. This young lady was small of stature, of a light and
graceful form, and bearing a general aspect rather of gentleness than
spirit; and her general character conformed to this. But now she was
greatly changed; her dark blue eye was lighted with unwonted fire, her
brow was arched, her lip compressed, and all who looked upon her were
struck with the calm, yet determined and resolute bearing of the once
tender and timid girl.
The remainder of the day was spent in the village in making such
preparations for defence as the case admitted; but when evening came
it was seen that it would be impossible to hope to make effectual
resistance. It was with expectations of attack, and the gloomiest
forbodings, therefore, that the villagers, of whom by far the largest
part were women and children, saw the night approach. In spite
of these apprehensions Emily made preparations to go forth alone.
Her design was at first resisted by the leaders, but she whispered
something to one or two of them, and they permitted her to depart.
She took her course toward the rocky cliff along the sea-shore which
has been before described. This was in the rear of the hill upon which
Rogere’s party was posted; the cliff was, indeed, but the base of the
hill, and at a very short distance from the cave where Emily knew that
her father and lover were confined; but she knew, also, that they were
guarded by Rogere and his men.
The direct course from the tents to the cave was by an open lawn,
terminating in a steep ascent up a grassy hill-side. On either hand
was a thick mass of shrubbery and trees, enclosing the space in front
of the cave, forming it into a sort of natural court. Standing in
the middle of this, you could look over the whole island, which lay
outspread before you. The place was, therefore, a sort of castle,
giving its possessor a complete command of the island.
In the rear of this court, the hill terminated in a rocky precipice of
considerable elevation, at the foot of which the surf chafed, foamed
and wrestled in ceaseless thunders. It was here that on one occasion
we have described Emily as meeting with a stranger, and it was to
this point she now bent her steps. Avoiding, however, the open lawn
that led to the cave, she struck off in a different direction, and
involved herself in a labyrinth of trees, through which she glided
like a spirit of the air. The night was calm, and the moon was shining
fair, and therefore she felt the necessity of the utmost caution in
order to escape the observation of Rogere’s party. This necessity was
increasing, by her knowledge that, as she approached the cliff, she
must pass near them, and could only hope to avoid detection by keeping
in the shelter of the trees that skirted the hill, or of the rocks that
beetled along the shore. With a foot, however, as fearless and light
as that of the plover, she threaded her way along the dizzy edges of
the cliffs, keeping an attentive eye to the two enemies between which
she was now making her passage--the wave that thundered below, and the
ruthless men that watched above. At last she reached a projecting angle
of the rock, behind which she passed, and was soon lost in the deep
shadows beyond.
Leaving her to her fate, we must now return to the unhappy and anxious
party at the tents. The women and children had been gathered within the
dwellings, and the mothers had sat down to watch by their offspring. It
is one of the beautiful things in life that children lose their fears
and their cares, and sink into sweet repose, when they know that their
mothers are at the bedside. There is not, perhaps, in the compass of
human experience so blessed a feeling as that of the child going to
sleep in a situation of peril, under the guardianship of its mother.
It is a feeling of bliss which can only be compared to that of the
Christian, who, knowing the uncertainty of life, lays himself down upon
a peaceful pillow at night, trusting in his God.
Such were the scenes within the tent. Without, there were about a dozen
men, either sitting or standing, and armed with such weapons as they
had been able to provide. No fire-arms of any kind had been brought
from the ship, owing to the forecast of Brusque, who dreaded their
introduction into the island. Neither party, therefore, had in their
possession a musket or a pistol. Rogere had a cutlass, and most of his
men were provided with daggers. The party in the tent were similarly
armed; they relied, however, chiefly upon clubs, if an assault should
be made, which various circumstances led them to expect in the course
of the night.
About two hours after Emily had departed, a bustle was heard in the
direction of the cave, and soon a dark mass was seen descending the
hill. This gradually approached the tents, and at last it was seen to
consist of Rogere’s entire force, saving only one man, who had been
left to guard the tent and watch over the prisoners, Brusque and M.
Bonfils. They were not only armed, for the most part, with daggers, but
with heavy clubs, thus presenting a very formidable array.
Rogere was at the head of his force, and marching near to the tents,
which were defended by a rude and slender barricade of boxes, planks,
timber and trees, summoned the party within to surrender. After a short
pause, the leader, who was the captain of the vessel, mentioned in the
early part of our story, replied as follows:--
“M. Rogere, we are here to defend women and children; and you know
the duty of men in such a case. You may succeed, for you have
five-and-twenty men, and we have but twelve; but we shall each man sell
his life as dearly as he can. I say to you, and to the men with you,
that we are here to lay down our lives if it be necessary. I warn you,
therefore, that you provoke a struggle of life and death; and though
you may prevail, some of you, at least, can hardly fail to fall. And,
I ask you, is the object you have in view such as men can consent to
lay down their lives for? Is it such as men are willing to kill their
fellow-beings in order to obtain?”
To this Rogere replied, “You are fools--madmen; surrender to me,
acknowledge my government, and you shall all be free; I will secure to
you your rights and possessions.”
“It is in vain,” said the captain, “for the wolf to preach freedom and
security to the lamb. Sir, we know you better; we know that you are
a ruthless man, bent upon the gratification of your passions. If you
prevail to-night, this island is thenceforth but a scene of cruelty
and oppression. These poor women will become the slaves of one who is
cruel himself, and who will teach his subjects to become little better
than brutes, and these children will be without protection. We have no
chance but to do our duty, and, if heaven so decree, to die.”
“This is sheer madness,” said Rogere; “I am not the brute you take me
for. Grant me one request, and I will leave you in safety, at least for
to-night.”
“And what is that request?” said the captain.
“That you deliver the young lady, Emily Bonfils, up to me,” was the
reply.
“She is not here,” said the leader, “and were she here, she should not
be given up. You must pass through twelve stout hearts before you can
touch one hair of that young lady’s head.”
“We will see,” said Rogere; and ordering his men to advance, they
rushed upon the barricadoes at several points. The captain’s party met
them, and a desperate struggle ensued. There was a fierce clashing
of clubs, with shouts, and cries, and groans. In the midst of the
confusion, Rogere, backed by two of his party, sprung over the bulwark,
and being familiarly acquainted with the arrangement of the tents,
entered that in which Emily’s parents dwelt. It was now only occupied
by her aged mother, who sat upon the ground, with a lamp at her side.
Her countenance bore the marks of anxiety, but not of terror. When
Rogere entered, she arose, knowing him well, and with dignity and
calmness she said, “Why, M. Rogere, is this intrusion into a woman’s
apartment, and at this hour?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Rogere, respectfully; “I was seeking your
daughter--where is she?”
“She is not here,” said the mother.
“Tell me where she is, then!” said Rogere, his passion rising into rage.
“I cannot,” was the calm reply.
“Tell me where she is,” said Rogere, in tones of thunder, “or by heaven
your gray hairs shall not save you!”
“As you please,” said the lady.
“Nay, madam,” said Rogere, his fury rebuked by the calmness of the
lady, “it is vain to resist my power; and why attempt it? Why not
yield your daughter to my care and protection? I am now master of
this island; I am its ruler and its sovereign. I will make Emily my
companion; nay, I will be her slave. Tell me where she is; give her up
to me, and I will treat her tenderly.”
“M. Rogere, do you think me so foolish as to be beguiled by words which
are belied by actions? You came here with force, and, threatening to
take the life of the mother, talk of tenderness to the child! Telling
me that my gray hairs shall not save me, you promise to be kind to my
daughter, if I will give her up to you! Shall the brooding dove believe
the hawk when he asks for her young ones, even though he swears to
protect them? Shall she believe him and give them up? Nay, sir, you
came here to use force, and you will have your way. Yet I fear you
not! Ruthless as you are, you dare not lay your hand upon an aged and
unprotected woman. The blood of a French heart will gush out, every
drop of it will leave his breast, before it will nerve a man’s arm to
such a dastardly deed!”
“Listen to reason,” said Rogere.
“Listen, yourself!” said the lady; “leave this place; withdraw your
men, restore us all to liberty and peace--then come and ask my
daughter; and if she, in the free exercise of a woman’s choice, will
give you her hand, I will not oppose it.”
“This cannot be; I know her heart is set upon that dreamer, Brusque.”
“And you, then, are to play the tyrant; force her to forego her wishes;
compel her to give up the man she loves, and become the plaything of
the man she must abhor! And you call this treating her tenderly! O,
God, is there a being on this earth that can be guilty of such tyranny?
Yes! man, lordly man, is such a creature when the restraints of
government and law are withdrawn.”
“This passes all patience,” said Rogere, fiercely. “I say, old woman,
as you value your life, tell me where your daughter is, or I will
strike you to the earth this instant.”
“Here! here I am!” was heard from the opposite side of the tent, and
Emily, entering at the instant, stood before Rogere. But she was not
alone; a youth of a commanding figure, with pistols in his belt and a
sword in his hand, was at her side. Placing himself before Rogere, he
said briefly, “What means this?”
Rogers was evidently astonished; he gazed at the stranger for a moment,
and satisfying himself that he had never seen him before, replied, “Who
are you? By what right do you meet and question me here?”
“By the best right in the world! I am the brother of this fair girl, I
am the son of this aged and insulted lady!”
“There is some mistake,” said Rogere.
“There is no mistake,” said François; for it was indeed he, François
Bonfils, who has figured in the earlier part of our story; “leave this
place instantly.”
“I go,” said Rogere, “but follow me.”
François followed him out. The battle was raging around, and its issue
was still doubtful. Brusque was at the head of the tent party, and
among them could be seen the aged form of M. Bonfils. Rogere took in
these facts at a glance. His mind seemed for a moment to be bewildered,
and his resolution to falter; but in an instant he rallied, and turning
upon François struck at him with his dagger. This was returned by a
pistol shot, and the ball passing through Rogere’s heart, he fell
senseless upon the ground.
The two companions of Rogere now fled, and François, rushing to the
point where his father and Brusque were engaged in desperate conflict,
and nearly overpowered, fired his other pistol into the midst of the
assailants. One of them fell, and François, rushing in among them,
dealing blows thickly around, soon turned the fortune of the fight.
Rogere’s two assistants now came up, and saying to the men that their
leader was dead, communicated such a panic to his party that they drew
back, and after a little hesitation retreated, leaving the tent party
in undisputed possession of the field.
* * * * *
CHINESE METHOD OF EATING.--The Chinese convey their food to the mouth
with wooden rods called _chop-sticks_--in the management of which they
are very expert.
[Illustration: London]
London.
London, the largest city in the world, and the capital of Great
Britain, contains nearly as many people as the six New England States.
It is about thirty miles in circuit. The river Thames runs through it;
and across this river there are seven or eight bridges. That called
London Bridge is pictured at the head of this article.
There are a multitude of interesting things in this vast city. There
are the Zoological Gardens, in which may be seen quadrupeds, birds,
reptiles, and fishes, all living somewhat according to their natural
habits. Among these creatures, there are two giraffes, elephants, a
rhinoceros, antelopes, tigers, lions, leopards, panthers, monkeys, &c.,
&c.
In London there are several beautiful parks, which are fine grassy
fields with groups of shrubbery and trees, and paths winding about, and
in them you see thousands of people taking the air in fine weather.
In London there are splendid edifices, called palaces, in which the
royal family resides.
The museums of London are numerous and on a scale of great
magnificence. It would take a large volume to describe the curiosities
of this mighty city. There are many people living in it, who have never
been out of it, and who seem to think that having seen London, they
have seen enough.
AURELIA AND THE SPIDER.
The muslin torn, from tears of grief
In vain Aurelia sought relief;
In sighs and tears she passed the day,
The tattered robe neglected lay.
When, busy at his spinning trade,
A spider thus addressed the maid:
“Turn, little girl, behold in me
A stimulus to industry.
This morning, e’er you left your room,
The chambermaid’s relentless broom
In one sad moment had destroyed,
To build which, thousands were employ’d.
By constant work a day or more,
My little mansion may restore;
And, if each tear that you have shed
Had been a needleful of thread,
And every sigh of sad despair,
Had been a stitch with proper care,
Closed would have been the luckless rent,
Nor thus the day have been mispent.”
Exotic Fruits and Flowers in England.
The damask rose was first introduced into England by the learned
Linacre, on his return from Italy, about 1500. Thomas, Lord Cromwell,
in the reign of Henry VIII., enriched the fruit-gardens there with
three different kinds of plums, introduced from foreign lands. The
first orange tree appears to have been taken into England by one of the
Carew family; for a century afterwards they flourished at the family
seat in Surrey. The cherry orchards of Kent were first planted by a
gardener of Henry VIII., and the currant bush was introduced when the
commerce with Zante was first opened, in the same reign.
Sir Walter Raleigh introduced the potato and the tobacco-plant from
America, where they were first found. Sir Anthony Ashly first reared
cabbages in England, and in his monument a cabbage is carved at his
feet. The figs planted by Cardinal Pole, at Lambeth, in the reign of
Henry VIII., are said to be still remaining there. Spilman, who set up
the first paper-mill in England, in 1590, is said to have brought over
from the continent, in his portmanteau, the two first lime-trees, which
he planted at Dartford, and which are still growing there. The first
mulberry trees planted in England are yet standing.
Benevolence of the Deity.
Let us consider the faculties of man, and see how many and how
exquisite the pleasures are which we derive from them. What enjoyment
do parents find in the love and care they bestow upon their children!
How sweet and blissful is the affection which children return to
parents! How pleasant is the love of brothers and sisters--of relations
and friends!
And then, let us reflect upon the beauty that is spread over the face
of nature. Why are flowers so beautiful, and so infinitely varied, if
not to bestow pleasure upon man? Why, if God is not benevolent, has
he made hills and valleys, and rolling waves, and rushing waters, so
beautiful? Why has he made the forms and motions of birds so charming,
if not to give pleasure? If the Creator did not intend to delight us,
why did he spread sublimity over the mountains, and teach man to feel
it? Why did he robe the heavens in azure, and make a myriad race of
beings to feel their mingled majesty and beauty? Why did he clothe all
vegetable nature in green, and make human beings with eyes to relish it
above all other hues? Why did he teach the birds to sing, the waters
to murmur forth melody, the trees to bend in beauty and grace to the
pressure of the breeze? Why, if God is not a beneficent Being, did he
make this world so pleasant--endow it with light, and color, and music,
and perfumes, and place beings here adapted to the appreciation and
enjoyment of these things?
* * * * *
THE HEART.--Every time the heart beats, the blood is sent through the
arteries as water gushes through a syringe, and at the same time an
equal amount is received from the veins. Thus two hundred and fifty
pounds of blood pass through the body every hour.
In the whale, the tube through which the blood is emptied into the
arteries is a foot in diameter, and at every stroke of the heart the
blood rushes with a velocity like that through the sluice of a mill!
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER IX.
_Almagro attempts to conquer Chili.--His misfortunes.--Cruelty
to the natives.--Battle with the Promancians.--Almagro
retires to Peru.--His death._
The conquest of Peru by Francis Pizarro, has been already recorded.
Among the officers who assisted in the conquest, was Diego Almagro--a
chosen friend and fit companion for the ruthless Pizarro. But the
friendships of the wicked are easily set aside whenever self-interest
operates. Pizarro wanted all the gold of Peru; and he persuaded Almagro
to attempt the conquest of Chili.
The Spaniards had heard that Chili was a country rich in gold and
silver; and Almagro, flattered with having such a field of wealth
entirely to himself, was induced to undertake the conquest.
Filled with these sanguine expectations of great booty, he began his
march for Chili near the end of the year 1535. He had an army composed
of five hundred and seventy Spaniards and fifteen thousand Peruvians.
Two roads lead from Peru to Chili; one is by the sea-coast, and
destitute of water or provisions; the other, for the distance of one
hundred and twenty miles, passes over the Andes. This last Almagro
took, for no other reason but because it was shortest, and he was
impatient to reach his golden harvest.
But he paid dearly for his folly; his army, having been exposed to
infinite fatigue and many conflicts with the adjoining savages, reached
the Cordilleras just at the commencement of winter, destitute of
food, and almost of clothing. In this season the snow falls almost
continually, and completely covers the few paths that are passable in
summer.
The soldiers, encouraged by their general, who had no idea of the
dangers of the passage, arrived at the tops of the mountains, but could
go no farther. One hundred and fifty Spaniards, and _ten thousand_
Peruvians, there died by cold and hunger.
The whole army would have perished, had not Almagro resolutely pushed
forward with a few horsemen and reached the plains of Copiapo, and then
sent back provisions to the exhausted and dying soldiers. Those of the
more robust constitutions were, by this means, saved.
The inhabitants of Copiapo, which is the first province in Chili,
received these worn and hungry strangers with all the rites of friendly
hospitality. The Peruvians had been long held in respect by the
Chilians of that province; and the Spaniards, as incorporated with the
soldiers of Peru, were welcomed by the _Ulmen_ or governor of Copiapo.
He was probably a vain man, and wished to impress the Spaniards with a
high idea of his wealth and power: we cannot otherwise account for the
infatuation of his conduct. Had he been a wise man, he would have known
that avarice is never satisfied--that to feed is only to increase it.
Be that as it may, he had, it seems, learned the prevailing passion of
the Spaniards for gold, and he collected from his people a sum equal to
500,000 ducats, and presented them to Almagro. One would think such a
rich present deserved to be gratefully remembered.
But those who worship mammon allow no feelings of friendship or
gratitude to interfere with their selfish propensities. Under the
pretext that the Ulmen had usurped the government which belonged to his
nephew, Almagro arrested the chief of Copiapo, and kept him a prisoner.
About the same time two Spanish soldiers, having separated from the
rest of the army, proceeded to Guasco, where they were at first well
received, but were afterwards put to death by the inhabitants, in
consequence, no doubt, of some acts of violence, which soldiers, freed
from the control of their officers, are very apt to commit.
This was the first European blood spilt in Chili,--a country afterwards
so copiously sprinkled with it.
Had Almagro wished to preserve peace, and impartially examined the
whole transaction, he would, undoubtedly, have found the Chilians
justified by the laws of nations and of nature, in the act they had
committed. True, it was rash, and it afforded him a pretext, which was
all he wanted, to begin his cruel oppressions.
Almagro seized the Ulmen of the district in which his soldiers were
put to death, his brother and twenty of the principal inhabitants, and
without even accusing them of being concerned in the murder, indeed
without assigning any reason at all for his conduct, he ordered them to
be burnt. At the same time he also consigned the Ulmen of Copiapo to
the flames.
Who will say that the savage crime, even allowing the two soldiers were
murdered without provocation, was to be compared in iniquity to that
retaliation in which the civilized Christian indulged? But the savage
never made gold his god.
The cruelty of the Spanish general, and the intentions he now
manifested of enslaving the Chilians, instead of terrifying, at once
roused that brave people to resistance.
It is a melancholy task to record the murders and cruelties of war, but
we cannot blame a people for resisting the progress of an invading
army, especially when they come, as the Spaniards did, to plunder the
country, and make the inhabitants slaves.
Almagro, however, was so elated with his success, and felt so secure
of conquering all Chili as easily as he had obtained the command of
Copiapo, that he would not hearken at all to his Peruvian allies,
who represented to him that the Chilians in the other provinces were
numerous and warlike. He advanced into the province of the Promancians.
At the first sight of the Spaniards, their horses, and the thundering
arms of Europe, these valiant people were almost petrified with
astonishment. But they soon recovered from their surprise, and prepared
to defend themselves. They met the Spaniards on the shore of the Rio
Claro. Almagro despised their force; he knew that the red men had
never been a match for Spanish valor, and so he placed his Peruvian
auxiliaries in front, intending, with his Spaniards, to appear merely
as spectators of the fight.
The Chilians soon routed these allies, or rather slaves of the
Spaniards, and then, nothing daunted by the horses, guns and swords
of the white men, they rushed on with a courage which the superior
discipline of the Spaniards could not resist. The battle was furious,
and continued till night separated the combatants.
The Promancians had lost many warriors, but they had also destroyed
many of their foes; and they encamped in sight of the enemy, determined
to renew the fight on the following morning. The Spaniards, however,
though they had kept the field, had no inclination to dispute another
such day. They had been accustomed to subdue immense provinces with
little or no resistance; but now they had met with a bold and
independent nation, who did not believe them to be invincible or
immortal.
Almagro, finding that his soldiers refused to fight again, abandoned
the enterprize, and immediately began his march for Peru. He returned
by the sea-coast; his dread of the perils of the mountain road being
fresh in his mind. On his return to Peru he attempted to secure that
government for himself, and for this purpose fought a battle with
Pizarro, by whom he was taken, tried and beheaded as a disturber of the
public peace.
Thus perished the first invader of Chili. The thirst of riches was the
moving spring of his expedition. He was disappointed; he then sought to
dispossess _his friend_ Pizarro of the share he had obtained in the New
World, and by him was put to death; thus showing that there can be no
sincere friendships among the wicked.
[Illustration: THE RHINOCEROS.]
The Rhinoceros.
I know not how it may be with others, but I could never see a
rhinoceros without laughing. There was one in Boston a few years ago,
and he looked to me like an enormous pig with a very muddy coat on.
His shape, his aspect, his ways, were all swinish, and his skin seemed
entirely too large for him; it was therefore gathered up in folds
across his back and sides. He eat hay, though he seemed to prefer sweet
apples, corn and potatoes. He was a curiosity indeed.
I believe the rhinoceros to be the only creature that has a horn upon
his nose; and I do not see why that is not a good place for one,
if the creature wants a horn. This animal finds his convenient for
tearing away the trees in his passage through the woods, and perhaps
in digging up roots for food; and in his battles with the elephant, he
often gives his enemy a terrible scratch with it under the ribs. So
his horn answers at one time as a pickaxe, and at another it is like
a warrior’s spear: thus it serves the purposes of peace and war; it
brings sustenance, and it affords defence. Who then shall find fault
with nature for giving the rhinoceros a horn upon the nose?
If one horn upon the nose is a good thing, two must be better; so there
are some of these creatures that have two. The African species, which
is very powerful and numerous in some parts, has two horns; the Asiatic
species, found in India, has but one. This latter kind is seldom more
than six or seven feet long, but those of Africa are sometimes twelve
feet. They are, therefore, excepting the elephant, the largest of
quadrupeds.
In India the hunting of the rhinoceros is famous sport. The people
go out mounted upon elephants, and usually find five or six of these
animals in a drove. Their hides are so thick that it is difficult to
kill them. One will often receive twenty bullets before he falls.
The rhinoceros attacks an elephant fearlessly, and endeavors to get
his horn under him so as to rip him open. But the elephant, finding
what he would be at, turns his tail to the assailant, who gives him a
hunch behind, and tumbles his huge enemy upon his knees. Then the men
upon the elephant fire their guns and pepper the thick hide of the
rhinoceros with their bullets.
Thus goes the fight, and after many adventures, and much danger, and
plenty of accidents and hair breadth ’scapes, and a vast waste of
gunpowder and lead, the game usually runs away, or perhaps it is left
as a trophy of the sportsman’s skill and prowess upon the field.
The rhinoceros feeds entirely upon vegetables, always living near
water, and taking a frequent wallow in the mud, or a bath in the wave.
He is fearful of man, and though dull of sight, has an acute scent and
a sharp ear, which enable him usually to keep out of reach of the being
he dreads so much. It is only when hunted and closely pursued, that he
turns to fight, and then he is fierce and formidable. In confinement
he becomes quiet and stupid, though he sometimes gets into a fury, and
then he rends his cage in pieces with ease. It is almost impossible to
confine him when his rage is excited.
Briers and Berries.
’Twas on a gloomy, smoky day,
(If rightly I the date remember,
For certainly I cannot say,)
About the middle of September,
When I, astride my pacing grey,
Was plodding on my weary way,
To spend the night and preach the word
To people who had never heard
The gospel; or, to say the least,
Had never viewed it as a feast
Of fat things full of marrow.
In sadness as I rode along
And crossed the silver Unadilla,
The robin sung his plaintive song,
And faintly drooped the fading lily:
The smoky sky, no longer blue,
Assumed a dim and dusky grey;
And Autumn, o’er my feelings threw
The coloring of its own decay,
And filled my heart with sorrow.
I, in my mind, was pondering o’er
The miseries that beset the preacher:
The persecutions which he bore--
(The scoff and scorn of every creature--)
His heated brain--his frame worn down,
Emaciated and dyspeptic--
The hardened bigot’s iron frown--
The jeers and satire of the skeptic--
One mocking revelation’s page--
The other ridiculing reason--
And then the storms we must engage,
And all th’ inclemencies of season.
In this desponding, gloomy mood,
I rode perhaps a mile or two--
When lo! beside the way there stood
A little girl, with eyes of blue,
Light hair, and cheeks as red as cherries;
And through the briers, with much ado,
She wrought her way to pick the berries.
Quoth I, “My little girl, it seems
To me, you buy your berries dear;
For down your hand the red blood streams,
And down your cheek there rolls a tear.”
“O, yes,” said she, “but then, you know,
_There will be briers where berries grow_.”
These words came home with keen rebuke
To me, who mourned life’s little jostles,
And called to mind the things that Luke
Has written of the first apostles,
Who faced the foe without a fear,
And counted even life not dear.
And since, from that good hour to this,
Come pleasant or come stormy weather,
I still reflect that human bliss
And human wo are mixed together:
Come smiling friend or frowning foe--
‘_There will be briers where berries grow_.’
BROWNE.
The Crows’ Court of Law.
There is a kind of crow which is seen in the south of England in flocks
about the middle of autumn; it is called the hooded crow. These crows
go away towards the north in spring; they are very tame, and will go
into the yards of houses to pick up food.
They are not very like the common crows, for their backs are
ash-colored, and their heads, throat, wings and tail, are black, and
they have two cries; one of them being like the voice of the common
crow, and the other something like the crowing of a cock.
It is said that in some places where these birds are found, one or two
hundred of them will now and then meet together, as if upon some fixed
plan, and at these times a few of them sit with drooping heads, and
others look very grave, as if they were judges, and others are very
bustling and noisy.
In about an hour the meeting breaks up, when one or two are generally
found dead, and it has been supposed that this meeting is a sort of
trial of some crows who have behaved ill, and who are punished in this
severe way for their bad behavior.
The Story of the Supposed Miser.
A great many miles to the east is a country called France, in the
southern part of which is a large city called Marseilles. In this place
there once lived a man by the name of Guizot. He was always busy, and
seemed very anxious to get money, either by his industry, or in some
other way.
He was poorly clad, and his food was of the simplest and cheapest kind.
He lived alone, and denied himself all the luxuries and many of the
comforts of life.
He was honest and faithful, never taking that which was not his own,
and always performing his promises; yet the people of Marseilles
thought he was a miser, and they held him in great contempt. As he
passed along the streets, the rich men looked on him with scorn, and
the poor hissed and hooted at him. Even the boys would cry out, “There
goes old Skinflint; there goes old Greedy Gizzard.”
But the old man bore all this insult with gentleness and patience. Day
by day, he went to his labor, and day by day, as he passed through the
crowd, he was saluted with taunts, and sneers, and reproaches.
Thus, time passed on, and poor Guizot was now more than eighty years of
age. But he still continued the same persevering industry, still lived
in the same saving, simple manner as before.
Though he was now bent almost double, and though his hair was thin and
white as snow; though his knees tottered as he went along the streets;
still the rude jokes and hisses of the throng pursued him wherever he
went.
But, at length, the old man died, and it was ascertained that he
had heaped together, in gold and silver, a sum equal to two hundred
thousand dollars. On looking over his papers, his will was found, in
which were the following words:
“I was once poor, and I observed that the poor people of
Marseilles suffered very much for the want of pure, fresh
water. I have devoted my life to the saving of a sum of
money sufficient to build an aqueduct to supply the city
of Marseilles with pure water, so that the poor may have a
full supply.”
The Mouth.
The mouth was made to eat and speak with. It is therefore a pretty
convenient and useful thing, and we could not well do without it.
But the mouth, like almost everything else, needs to be taken care of.
Sometimes the mouth will pout, and make a child look very disagreeable.
Sometimes the mouth will eat very fast, and get too much in at a time.
Don’t let your mouth do any such things as these!
I forgot to tell you another very curious thing about the mouth, and
that is, that it laughs! I believe dogs, and cats, and pigs, and
hens, and geese, never laugh; but children laugh, and old people too,
sometimes.
It is well enough to laugh, at proper times. I love to see children
laugh in their play. I love to see them laugh when I tell a funny story.
But I never like to see any one laugh at the misfortune of another.
Tell me, little reader, did your mouth ever laugh at another child
because he was poor? or because he was poorly dressed? or because he
fell down and hurt himself? or because he happened to know less than
you do?
If your mouth has ever done any of these naughty things, I pray you,
little reader, teach your mouth better manners.
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 3.
One of my schoolmates, named Dick Dashall, was a wild rattle-headed
fellow, always sure to get into mischief, but slow enough to get out of
the quagmire. His parents and brothers were poor farming people, who
had hard work to make both ends meet, and could ill afford even the
very trifling cost attending Dick’s education. Dick had been intended
for the hard-working profession of a farmer, but that honest calling
did not at all jump with his restless humor. He never could see the
fun and philosophy of rising with the dawn, and “yoking up” to follow
the plough through the field, or the iron harrow over the furrows. He
did not like the tedious work of planting corn and potatoes, and still
less the more laborious employ of “covering up” or “hilling up,” or
getting in the crops; nor did he relish any of the various details
of hay-making and harvesting. He had no objection, however, to the
merry husking frolic, for then, in the general sport and confusion,
he managed to avoid work himself, while he listened with both his big
ears to the diverting tales that were often on such occasions related
by those present. He disliked as much the tedious employment of riding
the old cart-horse in the plough, as he delighted in scampering away on
his bare back all over the country side, when he could contrive to get
possession of the poor beast. And when he did accomplish that desired
object, never was the dull animal so worked by his owners; for away the
madcap would ride, without saddle, bridle, spur or stirrup, guiding
him only with an old rope, and urging him on with a big bludgeon of a
stick, with which he failed not well to belabor the ribs of his steed,
till they fairly bled and ached again. At length, one of his runaway
frolics terminated fatally to the poor brute, whom he attempted to swim
across a rapid and deep river near the village, in which essay the
horse was drowned, and Dick only escaped by skilful swimming, which was
almost the only valuable accomplishment that he possessed.
Dick seemed to be filled with the very evil spirit of all mischief.
The book and task were perfectly odious to him, and if left to follow
his own inclination, he never would have learned either to read or
write; indeed, as it was, his best attempts with the pen looked more
like pot-hooks and fish-hooks than good civilized letters. No mortal
could have deciphered them. And then his copybook was one blotch of
ink from beginning to end. His arithmetic and grammar books, though
showing, by their numerous thumb-marks and “dog’s-ears,” that they
had been pretty thoroughly handled by his seldom-washed fingers, were
about as intelligible to him as so many volumes of Greek or Arabic;
the deep lore contained in their pages was much too profound for
his understanding, and never did any ideas from them penetrate the
thickness and dulness of his brain; or, if they ever by any chance
found an entrance there, they must have laid in a torpid state, for no
one could ever discover that such scraps of knowledge existed in his
head, through the outlet of the tongue and voice.
But though Dick could not inscribe legible characters with his pen,
yet he had a sort of natural talent for drawing rude sketches with
pencil, pen, or even a bit of charcoal; and most ridiculous and
striking caricatures would he produce with them. The droll expression
and awkward figure of the old pedagogue himself furnished him with
a fertile subject for his wit, and various and laughable were the
burlesque representations he gave of him. Every scrap of paper that
he could lay hands on, every piece of broken slate, and even the very
walls of the school-house and the board fences in the neighborhood,
were covered with all sorts of strange figures, hit off, too, with
no little talent and humor. This love for sketching and caricaturing
seemed to be the peculiar bent of his genius, and it proved to him and
his mates a source of great amusement.
When the term of his instruction had well-nigh expired, and it became
necessary for him to decide to what species of employment he should
devote his talents and attention, it happened that an itinerant
portrait-painter strolled into the village, and, taking the best room
of the inn, announced, through a staring painted placard at the window,
that he was ready to paint, for a small consideration, the portraits
of the good people of the place, in a most artist-like and expeditious
manner. Nor was he long without his patrons. First the squire, and then
the parson and his lady, and the doctor with his lady, and a half-score
of children, and then many of the most substantial farmers and
tradesmen of the vicinity, were seen to enter at the inn-door, and in a
few days return to their several homes, each one bearing in his hands
a large highly-colored piece of canvass, in which one might perhaps
detect some remote likeness to the bearer or some of his family.
Finally, the worthy innkeeper himself, with his rosy-faced dame, and
some half-dozen overgrown daughters, figured in full-length beauty, in
one mingled group, upon the artist’s canvass; and presently a span-new
sign-board of “the white horse” was seen creaking and swinging in
all the freshness of new paint from the tall sign-post at the tavern
door. This flaming specimen of the fine arts proved a great object of
admiration and remark with all the grown gossips and little children
of the village, till at length, the “nine days” having elapsed, the
wonder ceased.
Dick very soon made the acquaintance, and gained the good will of the
artist, first by running on all his errands, in his communication with
his patrons, and afterwards by his unfeigned expressions of admiration
at the inspection of the “artist’s gallery,” which comprised a few
dauby copies of the old masters, and a number of unpaid and unclaimed
portraits from the artist’s own easel. Before the worthy artist took
leave of the village, Dick had so far ingratiated himself into his
favor, that he agreed to take him with him, and impart to him all the
knowledge of his art that he was able to give, receiving in return due
assistance from Dick, as a sort of artist-of-all-work, which phrase
might be understood to comprise any and all kinds of menial occupation.
But Dick was deeply smitten with the love of painting, and eagerly
caught at this golden opportunity of ridding himself from the irksome
drudgery of book and task, and learn to be a painter of faces himself,
while at the same time he should have some opportunity of seeing in his
rambles not a little of the men and manners of the world.
Poor little Dick! when he set forth “to fresh fields and pastures new,”
with an adventurous desire to try his fortunes in the world, he little
anticipated the troubles and perplexities that would beset his way. The
honest artist to whom he had attached himself was neither a Raphael nor
a Vandyke, and the share of patronage he met with in the humble places
where he set up his easel, was very limited in degree, and unprofitable
to the pocket. In some villages which they visited in their rounds,
they found that rival artists had reaped such scanty harvests as the
poverty of the villages afforded; and in other places they found, to
their sorrow, that the flinty inhabitants were no upholders of art, and
felt no ambition to hand down the “counterfeit presentment” of their
features to posterity. So, as there was only starvation to be had,
there was nothing to be done but to pack up their slender wardrobe,
with the paints and pencils, and migrate to a more enlightened region.
The poor artist was, however, both kind and liberal, so far as his
means went, to his little charge, and when he received his hard-earned
dollar, as the recompense of many a patient hour of toil, he freely
shared it with him; and so long as the treasure lasted, they did not
lack for the best of good fare, at village tavern or rural farmhouse.
Oftentimes it chanced that their treasury was entirely exhausted, and
neither paper or specie payments were forthcoming to defray the needful
expenses of the way. At such times, the cost of coach-ride, or even
wagon conveyance, being beyond their reach, their only resource was,
to convey their bodies from place to place upon those natural supports
which Nature has kindly supplied us with, but which often complain of
an undue proportion of fatigue after a long day’s progress in a hot
summer’s day. But poor Dick ever made the best of it, and shouldering
his little bundle, stumped on stoutly at the side of his master, often
beguiling the toil and length of the travel with a merry heart, and
a cheerful singing voice. The natural beauties of the scenes through
which they passed were not lost upon them, nor did the wild rose at the
road-side blush unseen of them, or the sweet lily of the valley waste
its fragrant breath in vain. They each had the artist’s eye and soul
to enjoy the loveliness of the bending and painted skies, the waving
woods, the verdant grass, and the flowing stream.
“Even the air they breathed, the light they saw,
Became religion; for the ethereal spirit
That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows everything to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there--for all was love.
The morning stars, that sweetly sang together,
The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky,
Day-spring and eventide, and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship.”
Every pretty flower that bloomed in the hedge, or at the wood-borders,
Dick would diligently gather, and carefully preserve in a little
book, which he carried with him for that purpose. Many a colored
butterfly with its wings of powdered gold, and many a nameless insect,
streaked or spotted with all the rich hues of the rainbow, would he
hunt down and add to his collection. His great delight at the close
of the ramble consisted in copying, with his paints, the rich colors
of these beautiful objects; and soon he had formed quite a portable
museum of pretty prints, flowers and insects; and in this recreation he
received no little aid from his kind-hearted teacher. He soon became a
proficient in the art of mingling colors, and by a zealous application
to the details of art, in a short time was able to sketch a scene or
strike off a likeness with considerable faithfulness and ability. So
great was his love of the art, that he really derived much pleasure
from his rambles, long and difficult as they often were. In the course
of a few months’ practice, he had learned all that his teacher had to
communicate; and it was often asserted by their rustic patrons that the
little painter was in no respect inferior to his principal with the
brush. Indeed, so conscious were they themselves of this fact, that an
equal partnership was formed between them, and whatever sums fell into
their exchequer, were shared equally between them.
But, alas! there is an end to all human enjoyment, and a severance
of all earthly ties. The poor artist, what with the fatigues of
journeying, often at inclement seasons, and with the wearing labors of
his long and tedious tasks, had gradually undermined a constitution
naturally infirm; and his poor little protegè, as he gazed sorrowfully
upon his wan face and wasted form, saw plainly that the one was getting
paler, and the other thinner and thinner, every day; and soon was
impressed with the certainty that they must soon part from each other,
and that that parting would be at the grave’s foot. And so indeed
it turned out, when a year or two had elapsed from the commencement
of their connection. The elder artist, after struggling on with all
his resolution, and unwilling to yield to the insidious advances of
disease, was at length completely exhausted and subdued. He sank down
on the way at the door of a little village public house, where he was
obliged to take to his bed, and receive the aids and doses of the
doctors, in the feeble hope of a restoration to health. But in vain;
his poor frame, already so much reduced, grew feebler and feebler day
by day, and his sunken cheek grew still more hollow, and the little
light that sickness had lent to his eye trembled and flickered, and
then expired altogether; and finally the poor fellow, after taking an
affectionate and mournful farewell of Dick, and bequeathing to him
all the little possessions that he called his own, resigned himself
patiently to his fate, and without pain or struggle “passed away.”
Dick, after following his remains to the humble church-yard, and
pouring out his soul in the truest sorrow over his dust, departed
sad and solitary on his way. He assumed his poor master’s easel and
other implements, and followed “the painter’s quiet trade” on his
own account. He met with but indifferent success, however; he painted
the rough faces of country squires, and the hard-favored features of
their spouses, without number, but the recompense he received therefor
scarcely served to find him in “meat and manger.” After struggling with
adversity for many a weary year, and encountering every species of
trial and disappointment with the firmness of a martyr, he at length,
in very despair, was obliged to relinquish his beloved profession,
and settle down quietly in a flourishing town, where the products of
his brush could be turned to better account. He was forced to abandon
entirely the higher walks of art, and stoop to a humbler, but more
profitable branch of trade; devoting himself, in short, to the daubing
of chairs, tables, and vehicles of every description, and embellishing
them with as many of the “scientific touches” of his former calling as
the time and pay would justify. In this way he contrived to eke out a
humble but respectable subsistence, and after gaining the good will of
his employer by his faithful and honest exertions, he scraped together
sufficient money to enable him to set up an establishment of his own,
where a flaming board proclaimed that Richard Dashall executed sign,
house and chaise painting, in all its varieties, “in the most neat and
expeditious manner possible;” assisted by two or three active young
apprentices in all his handicrafts. In due course of time he joined to
his fortunes a pretty little lady of a wife, and conjointly they reared
up and educated a numerous progeny. So ends the history of poor Dick
Dashall; and it is that of many an honest and industrious young fellow,
who is cast forth like a weed upon the ocean of life, to sink or to
swim as the chance may be.
[Illustration: _The Fata Morgana._]
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER XIII.
_Messina.--Trade of the place.--The Fata Morgana.--Embark for
Naples.--The Sicilian pilot.--The Faro of Messina.--Scylla
and Charybdis.--Exaggerations of the ancient writers.--
Fatal adventure of a Neapolitan diver._
We found Messina quite a lively, bustling place, with a harbor full
of all sorts of Mediterranean craft. Several American vessels lay at
the quay, loading with oranges and lemons for Boston. These fruits
constitute the chief trade of the place, and give employment to a great
part of the population of the city and neighborhood. Every orange and
lemon is carefully wrapped in a paper before being packed. The paper
absorbs the moisture which exudes from the fruit, and prevents the
rotting. Labor, however, is so cheap in this country that all this
preparation adds but little to the cost of the cargoes. Another article
exported is barilla, a sort of alkali, or potash, made by burning
sea-weed. The _barilla_ is used by our manufacturers for bleaching
cotton cloth.
The city is very handsomely built, and has several fine squares,
ornamented with statues and fountains. It has suffered severely from
earthquakes at different times, and was once nearly destroyed; but its
admirable situation for commerce has caused it to be rebuilt after
every catastrophe. It stands just within the narrow strait which
divides Sicily from the Italian coast, and has a very safe harbor,
formed by a strip of land running out into the sea, in the shape of
an elbow, which appears almost the work of art. In the interior, the
city is enclosed by steep, rocky hills, which rise immediately from the
walls, and shut out all prospect of the country; but the view toward
the sea is very grand. The strait is six or eight miles wide in this
part, though in the clear and transparent atmosphere of these regions,
it does not appear to be more than three or four. The mountains of
Calabria rise up majestically from the blue sea, dark, craggy, and
frowning, with now and then a fleecy white cloud melting away on their
summits. Feluccas, with latine sails, are gliding up and down the
straits; and the white walls of Reggio rise from the water’s edge on
the opposite side.
This is the spot on which that remarkable phenomena, called the Fata
Morgana, has been observed. On the Italian side of the strait the
inhabitants are sometimes astonished to behold in the air the images of
castles, towns, palaces, houses, ships, &c. Being unable to account for
these appearances, they ascribe them to magic; and these airy phantoms
are supposed to be the work of a fairy named Morgana. The true cause is
a certain rarefaction of the air, which brings into view objects far
below the horizon; and the phenomena is not difficult to explain by the
principles of optics. This appearance is not uncommon, near the shore,
in all parts of the world. Lighthouses, towers, ships, &c., appear
stretched up to three or four times their actual height. The sailors
call this _looming up_. None of these apparitions, however, are so
remarkable as the Fata Morgana.
On the 7th of March I went on board an Italian brig bound to Naples.
It was a dead calm by the time we got out of the harbor, so we drifted
back again and dropped anchor. Next morning the calm continued, and on
looking across the water, we saw little specks of white cloud, hanging
motionless on the sides of the mountains,--a sure sign that no wind
was stirring there. The sea was as smooth as glass, and I expected a
long delay; but presently a light breeze came down the strait. Though
this was ahead, we determined to take advantage of it. We therefore got
out the boats and warped out of the harbor, when we set our sails and
beat up the straits to the north. Italian sailors are not very expert
in the nicer arts of seamanship, and we made very little headway by
our tacking. About the middle of the afternoon we dropped anchor,
close to the Sicilian shore. There was a little village, with a pretty
church at the water’s edge. The coast exhibited low sand-hills, with
patches of green soil. After lying at anchor two or three hours, the
wind hauled round, and we set sail again. About sunset we reached
the mouth of the strait, where the extreme end of Sicily approaches
close to the Italian shore. This is called the Faro of Messina. Here
we set the pilot ashore, after an immense bawling and vociferation,
occasioned by a dispute as to the amount of his fee. The Italians can
seldom bargain to the amount of a shilling, without making a clamor and
din as if it were a matter of life and death. The pilot wanted about
twenty cents more than the captain was willing to pay. They plunged at
once into a noisy dispute;--argued, contradicted, bawled, sputtered,
grinned, stamped their feet, and flourished their arms like a couple of
bedlamites. The sailors took part in the squabble; every ragged rogue
put in his oar, and had something to say, till the hurly-burly became
outrageous. The pilot was a queer looking fellow, with a red cap,
tattered unmentionables, japanned with tar, a beard like a shoebrush,
and a bluff, burly face, all bronzed by the sun, and weather-beaten--in
short, the very picture of an old Triton; and so I called him from
the moment he first met my eyes. I never laughed more heartily than
at the sight of this squabble; but at length they agreed to split the
difference, and old Triton paddled ashore, tolerably well satisfied.
The sun was going down as we passed out the strait. We had but a small
breeze before, but almost in an instant we were assailed by violent
gusts of wind that obliged us to take in our canvass. The captain
pointed toward the rocky shore, and said to me, “There is Scylla.”
I looked in the direction, and saw a huge, craggy rock not far from
the shore, against which the waves were dashing. Here were Scylla and
Charybdis, so famous in classical history, and so terrible to the
mariners of old times. Homer, in his Odyssey, thus describes them:
“Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,
And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms:
When the tide rushes in her rumbling caves,
The rough rock roars, tumultuous boil the waves;
They toss, they foam, a dire confusion raise,
Like waters bubbling o’er a fiery blaze.”
The ancients, who were timid and unskilful in their navigation, give us
exaggerated accounts of the dangers of the sea. Scylla they imagined to
be a horrid monster, who sat on the seashore, and devoured the crews
of such vessels as came within her reach. Charybdis was a fearful
whirlpool, which swallowed up both ships and men. Very little of this
description is true. Scylla is no monster, but only a steep, craggy
rock, which is dangerous enough should a vessel run against it, but
it is so easily seen that none but a very unskilful navigator need be
afraid of it. Charybdis is no whirlpool, but only a spot where the
winds and currents, drawing through the narrow strait between Italy and
Sicily, cause a rough, chopping sea, with sudden and violent gusts.
These, indeed, were great dangers to the small craft used by the
ancients, but American sailors would laugh at them.
Some writers are of opinion that there was in reality a dangerous
whirlpool in the strait, and that it has been destroyed by one of
those violent earthquakes that have so often shaken the earth and sea
in this quarter. It is my opinion, however, from a view of the coast
on both sides, that no such alteration has taken place, and that the
spot was no more dangerous in ancient times than it is at present.
The marvellous part of the description is owing to the fictions and
exaggerations of the ancient poets. But, at any rate, the water is very
deep in the strait, and, like many other places in different parts of
the world, it has the popular reputation of being bottomless. There
was a man at Messina, famous for his exploits in swimming and diving,
like our “Sam Patch.” He used to dive to immense depths in the water,
and could walk on the bottom of the sea, if we are to believe his own
story, for nobody ever went down with him to ascertain the truth. The
king of Naples tempted him to dive into the gulf of Charybdis, by
throwing a golden cup into the sea. He plunged in after it, but was not
seen again till some days afterwards, when his body was found on the
shore, thirty or forty miles distant.
CHAPTER XIV.
_A calm among the Lipari islands.--Manners of the
crew.--Stromboli.--A natural lighthouse.--A gale
of wind.--Fright of the crew and danger of the
vessel.--Loss of the topmasts, and narrow escape from
shipwreck.--Arrival at Lipari._
Next morning, as I went on deck, I found the wind had died away, and
left us becalmed among the Lipari islands. We were close to the island
of Stromboli, which looked like the top of a mountain rising out of
the water, with the smoke constantly pouring out at the top. All these
islands are volcanic, and send forth flame and smoke occasionally,
but Stromboli is constantly burning. Notwithstanding this, there are
several thousand inhabitants upon it, who live chiefly by fishing. They
pass a strange life, constantly pent up between fire and water. All day
we lay becalmed, and I amused myself with looking at these curious
islands through a spy-glass, and watching the odd behavior of the crew.
They were picturesque-looking mortals, as all the Mediterranean sailors
are: exceedingly ragged, noisy, and good-humored. When they were not
telling stories, or cutting capers, they were sure to be eating.
Indeed, there was very little time during the voyage that their jaws
were not in motion. The principal food was bread and vegetables. There
was a pile of greens on the deck nearly as big as a haycock: it was a
species of fennel, which the Italians eat raw. The sailors munched it
by handfuls as they went about their work. There was no meat in all the
ship’s stores, but now and then a mess of fish was served up to the
crew. They drank freely of red wine, but I never saw any one of them
intoxicated.
The calm continued through the day and the following night. After dark,
the summit of Stromboli began to grow red, and all night long it shot
up streams of fire, giving a light that might be seen a great way off.
This island is a natural lighthouse, loftier and more efficient than
any work ever constructed by man. Volcanoes, with all their danger, are
not without their uses.
A little after sunrise, a light breeze sprung up from the north, and
by ten o’clock it blew pretty fresh. This was a head wind again, but
we preferred it to a calm, as we were enabled to make some progress
northward, by tacking. In a few hours, the clouds rose thick in the
northwest, and the wind increased to a gale, with a violent chopping
sea. We took in sail as fast as possible, but nothing could surpass the
confusion and fright of the sailors. They ran fore and aft, as if out
of their wits, and instead of pulling the ropes, did little else but
cross themselves, fall on their knees, and pray to the Virgin Mary. I
began to feel alarmed, though I had seen worse weather than this--and
there was really no danger to the vessel with proper care--yet, with a
crew half frightened to death, any accident might be the destruction
of us all. The captain bawled to the sailors, who paid no attention to
him, but bawled to one another, and cried, “_Santissima Vergine! San
Gennaro! Santa Rosolio!_” and the names of forty other saints, male
and female. My apprehensions became serious when I saw matters growing
worse, instead of better. The crew did nothing which they should have
done, and the vessel pitched, rolled, and floundered about, at the
mercy of the winds and waves. The gale came on in harder gusts than
ever; the sea dashed over the bows; and amid the roaring of the storm
and the cries of the frightened wretches around me, I began to think
it was all over with us. There was, however, one savage-looking fellow
among the crew, whose looks gave me some hope: he was a real caitiff in
appearance, and was evidently born to be hanged; therefore I concluded
he could never be drowned.
Meantime, the masts were bending like twigs under the gale; the
rigging was slack and crazy--worse than ever was seen on the clumsiest
wood-thumper in Penobscot Bay. I saw it was impossible the spars
could hold on much longer, unless the wind went down. Presently the
foretopmast snapped short, just above the cap, and went over the side
with an awful crash! The main-topmast followed almost immediately, and
left us little better than a mere hulk. It is impossible to describe
the scene of confusion and terror that followed. The miserable crew
lost all courage and self-possession. They threw themselves upon their
knees, and called upon the saints to save them. Had they behaved with
the least coolness and discretion in the beginning of the gale, they
might have guarded against this disaster. For my part, I almost gave
myself over for lost; and as to my gallows-looking friend, I am quite
certain that he lost for a time all hopes of dying by a rope. In fact,
there was not a man in the whole crew but would have given his whole
ragged wardrobe for the chance of a dry death. The vessel was now
entirely unmanageable, and fell off with her broadside to the wind.
A heavy sea came rolling on, and how we escaped being thrown on our
beam-ends, I hardly know; but the vessel continued to roll and labor,
with the sea dashing over the deck, to such a degree that I expected
every moment would be our last. By good fortune at length she fell off
still further, and brought her stern to the wind. The crew recovered
from their fright sufficiently to attempt doing something to save their
lives. With great exertions they got the wrecked spars clear, and set
a little sail on the lower masts. By this help we began to scud before
the wind. Having once more the vessel under some control, we gathered
courage; but the gale was as furious as ever, and the sea increased in
violence. We continued to scud for an hour and a half, when the cry of
“_terra! terra!_” raised by the whole crew, announced the discovery
of land, ahead. Such had been the hurly-burly, confusion, and terror
on board, from the beginning of the gale, that not a man of the crew
could guess where we were, or what land was in sight. Some thought it
was Stromboli, and others imagined it to be the coast of Sicily. I
now began to have more fear of the land than of the water, and wished
for sea-room. Had there been any shoals in this quarter, we should
infallibly have been shipwrecked; but fortunately there were none, as
all the coasts have bold shores.
The land was high and mountainous, and we presently made it out to be
the island of Lipari, about thirty miles from Stromboli. We steered
as close to the island as we dared, and ran under the lee, where the
height of the land broke the force of the gale. In this shelter we
cast anchor, and found ourselves tolerably safe, with the probability
that the gale would blow over in a few hours. I thanked Heaven for
our escape; but formed a resolution never to trust myself at sea with
Italian sailors again, as long as I had any other means of pursuing my
rambles. In the midst of all these dangers, I would have given more for
a couple of Yankee cabin boys than for the whole twenty lubbers of our
valiant crew.
(_To be continued._)
THE PILOT.
The curling waves with awful roar
A little boat assailed,
And pallid fear’s distracting power
O’er all on board prevailed,--
Save one, the captain’s darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm,
And, fearless, with composure smiled
At danger’s threatening form.
“And fear’st thou not?” a seaman cried,
“While terrors overwhelm?”
“Why should I fear?” the child replied,
“My father’s at the helm.”
Thus when our earthly hopes are reft,
Our earthly comforts gone,
We still have one sure anchor left--
God helps, and He alone.
He to our cries will lend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief,
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.
Turn, turn to Him, ’mid sorrows wild,
When terrors overwhelm,
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father’s at the helm.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XIII.
_Sick-room incidents and reflections._
In my last chapter I concluded the story which Raymond told me, and
which I entitled the “School of Misfortune.” At the time, I supposed he
only related it for my amusement, but I have since believed that he had
a farther design; which was, to show me that wealth, used to puff up
the heart with pride, is a source of positive evil; and that poverty,
sickness, misfortune, humiliation--provided they make the heart tender
toward mankind, and open new springs of sympathy in the soul--are like
kind and gentle schoolmasters, teaching us the true art of happiness.
I believe now, that Raymond intended to impress this great lesson on
my heart, as well because it is useful to all, as because he probably
foresaw approaching events, in relation to my own circumstances, which
might make it specially needful to me.
There is nothing which more shows the advantages of civilization, than
the care and kindness bestowed upon the sick, among Christian nations.
With savages, the sick person is usually left to himself, where, like
a wild beast, he must await, in solitude, the result of his disease.
There is little sympathy offered to him--there is no kind hand to
wipe the cold sweat from his brow; no watchful friend at his bedside
to supply every want, and alleviate, as far as may be, every pain.
Sickness with the savage is solitary and desolate; with Christians,
though it has its pains, it has its alleviations. I suffered much
during the period of my confinement, as well from my broken limb as the
fever that raged in my veins. After this was past, I also suffered from
excessive languor.
But still, in the midst of all this, and though my mind was pained
with shame and mortification, for the folly which had brought these
evils upon me, I had a sense of peace and happiness shining through
it all. This was wholly derived from the kindness of my friends. When
Raymond sat by my bed, his benignant eye resting upon me, I felt an
indescribable degree of delightful emotion, composed, I believe, partly
of gratitude, and partly of a confidence that all that could be done,
would be done, in my behalf. Often, as I awoke from my sleep, and saw
him patiently watching by me, the tears would gush to my eyes; but they
were not tears of unhappiness. I think he perceived my emotion, and I
believe he understood my feelings. One thing is certain--that sick-bed
was the best schoolmaster of my life; it brought me Raymond’s wise
counsel; it brought me wholesome shame for my folly; it taught me my
dependence on others. It also taught me one other lesson--and that is,
never to distrust the kindness and virtue of my fellow-men. It seemed
to open a window into the human heart, letting light and sunshine in,
where people are too apt to see nothing but selfishness and darkness.
This latter lesson was enforced by many circumstances. Not only was
my bosom touched by the kindness of Raymond, but also by that of my
uncle. Twice each day did he come to see me, and he always treated me
with more tenderness than seemed to belong to his nature. He was a hale
man himself, and it was his boast that he had never had a sick day in
his life. Indeed, he had little sympathy for sickness, and usually
expressed himself in terms of contempt toward everybody that chanced to
be less robust than himself. When I was at the height of my fever, he
insisted that all I wanted, in order to make me well again, was some
roast beef and raw brandy! Still, he did not interfere with the course
prescribed by the physician, and took pains to see that every thing
was done for me that was deemed useful or necessary.
My companions of the village often sent to inquire after me, and Bill
Keeler frequently stole in just to look at me, and say, “God bless you,
Bob!” All these things went to my heart; but nothing affected me more
than an event which I must notice with some detail.
The schoolmaster of the village was one of those men who seek to
accomplish every object by some indirect means. He was what is called
a cunning man, and was, withal, exceedingly fond of power, in the
exercise of which he was capricious, tyrannical and unjust. At first he
treated me with the greatest attention, and in fact picked me out as
one of his favorites, upon whom he lavished his smiles and his praises.
He had great faith in flattery, and believed that any person, young or
old, might be caught by it; and while it seemed to be his object to
propitiate me, he laid it on pretty thick. I was well enough pleased
with this for a time, though I had a sort of distrust of the man who
could condescend to such means, and enter into such schemes of policy;
and even though I yielded to his views, in many things, I had still no
respect for, or confidence in, him.
There was in the school a boy by the name of William Bury, son of a
poor Irishman, that lived in the village. He was remarkably small of
his age, but exceedingly active, and withal lively and intelligent. At
the same time he was shrewd and witty, and, perceiving the weak points
of the schoolmaster’s character, occasionally made them the target of
his wit. As the master rendered each boy in the school a spy upon his
fellows, he knew everything that was said and done; and poor Bill Bury
was often punished for the freedom with which he indulged his tongue.
In process of time, Will and myself became the antipodes of the school:
I was the favorite, and he the reprobate. Whatever he did was wrong:
whatever I did was right. Under such circumstances, it was natural that
we should be rivals, and it was, no doubt, a part of the plan of the
politic schoolmaster, to keep us thus divided, that he might rule the
more effectually.
During this state of things, several of the school boys were one
day skating upon a river that ran along the western border of the
town--Will and myself being of the number. It had been filled with
heavy rains, and was now of considerable width and depth. In the
deepest part there was a breathing-hole in the ice, which, of course,
we all sought to avoid. As I was swiftly skating toward this place,
with the intention of turning aside as I approached it, one of my
skates struck a small stick, which brought me down, and--carried
forward by the impetus of my course--I was instantly plunged into
the opening of the ice. I sunk beneath the surface of the water for
a moment, but then rose, and caught hold of the ice, which, however,
broke in my hands as I grasped it.
It was but a few seconds before I was completely chilled; but, by this
time, the boys around had raised a shout of terror, and several of
them had gathered at a little distance, and were soon either silent
with dismay, or raising idle screams for help. Among the number I
noticed Bill Bury, and though I had been accustomed to speak lightly
of him, I confess that at that fearful moment my only hope rested in
him. Looking at me intently for a moment, and then casting a searching
glance around, he sped away like an arrow. in the space of a minute,
he returned, bringing a rail which he had plucked from a neighboring
fence. Calling aloud for all around to give place, he laid the rail
down upon the ice, and dexterously slid it across the opening,
pushing it so close as to bring it within my reach. I was, however, so
benumbed, that, in attempting to take hold of it, I lost my grasp of
the ice, and sunk senseless beneath the wave.
Will hesitated not an instant, but plunged into the water, and, as I
rose, he caught me in his arms. Grasping me tight by the right arm,
while he held on to the rail by the left, he supported himself and
me; at the same time he commanded the boys to get two more rails.
These were brought and laid across the opening, and thus support was
furnished for two of them to come and lift us out.
In this way my life was saved: I owed it to the courage, skill, and
devotedness of Will Bury--my rival, and, as I had esteemed him, my
enemy. I was not so base as to overlook his generous conduct, or to
permit the relation in which we stood to abate my praises of his noble
action. But the schoolmaster, being one of those people who have
always a selfish object in everything they say and do, fearing that
his entire system of tactics would be broken up if Will and I should
become friends, took a different course. He indeed praised Will for
an act that no one, it would seem, could fail to admire; but, at the
same time, he sought every occasion, from that day, to ruin him in my
estimation. At the same time he tried, in many cunning and sly ways, to
poison Will’s mind with jealousy of me.
It was not long, therefore, before we were again in antagonist
positions, and at last an open breach took place between us. In process
of time, Will went to learn a trade of a carpenter, at the distance of
a mile or two, and then I seldom saw him. Whenever we met we did not
speak to each other. This was the state of things, when the accident
happened which laid me on a bed of sickness. While I was recovering,
I often thought of Will Bury, and my heart reproached me keenly for
permitting my better feelings to be turned against him. In short, I
yearned to see him, and it was while I was one day thinking about him,
that I saw him come softly to the door and ask Raymond how I was. I
instantly called him to my bedside, and I never felt a warmer emotion
than when he came, and I threw my arms around his neck. He, too, was
much affected, and tears--the first I ever saw the gay-hearted fellow
shed--fell upon my cheek. From that day we were friends; and I thus
learned to put a just value upon a generous heart--though it may belong
to a poor boy.
(_To be continued._)
A Little Child’s Joy.
What joy it is, from day to day,
To skip and sing, and dance and play--
To breathe the air, to feel the sun,
And o’er the spangled meadows run.
What joy to move my limbs about,
To hoop and halloo, call and shout,
Among the woods, and feel as free
As any bird upon a tree.
What joy, when hungry, ’tis to eat,
What pleasure in our daily meat;
How sweet, when sleep the eyelids close,
To sink in calm and soft repose.
What joy, as morn begins to break,
Refreshed and vigorous to wake--
To feel, amid the dews and flowers,
New life bestowed on all my powers.
But who bestows this constant joy
On every little girl or boy?
’Tis God, our Father, bright and wise,
Whose goodness every joy supplies.
Then let me love and praise the Lord,
And strive to know his holy Word;
To do no wrong, and think no ill,
And evermore perform his will.
[Illustration: Mammoth skeleton]
The Mammoth.
In several of the United States persons have frequently found the bones
of a huge animal, called the Mammoth, or Mastodon. One skeleton, nearly
complete, has been found, and set up in Peale’s Museum, in Philadelphia.
There is no such creature to be found now, on the earth, as a
Mastodon--nor has there been, since the memory of man. It seems that it
must have resembled an Elephant, but was twice as large.
In Siberia, a few years ago, a fisherman discovered the body of a
Mastodon, imbedded in the ice: the skin was nearly entire, and it was
covered with woolly hair. After about two years, this body thawed out,
and fell to the ground from the elevated place in which it was first
discovered. The flesh, as well as skin, gradually disappeared, but the
bones were secured, and being taken to St. Petersburgh, in Russia, were
set up in a museum, where they are still to be seen.
The remains of many other animals, now extinct, are found in different
countries, as well as traces of vegetables, such as are not met with
now on the face of the earth. This is a very interesting subject, and I
propose hereafter to say more about it.
Geordie and the Sick Dog.
AN ENGLISH STORY.
It was Saturday afternoon, and had been longed for all the week by
little Geordie, as he was called, for he was a very little fellow.
Geordie had built himself a boat, and had promised to give it a fine
sail in a pond, not a great way from the house in which he lived,
called the fen ditch.
So away he went, before he had quite eaten his dinner, with his boat in
one hand, and the remains of a slice of bread and butter in the other;
for his mother was a poor woman, and Geordie did not get meat every
day, and never on a Saturday.
But his cheeks were rosy, and his eye was bright, and his ringlets
laughed in the wind as he ran along, looking at his boat with eyes of
delight all the way, and every now and then taking a huge mouthful,
and then stopping for breath, for fear the dry crumbs should be blown
down his chest.
There was a beautiful breeze, as he called it,--for he called
everything beautiful that pleased him. He had a beautiful piece of
bread and butter; and a beautiful knife; and a beautiful pair of
shoes,--only his toes peeped through them.
He had a kind, cheerful, and tender heart, and so everything appeared
beautiful to him, and few things had the power to make him discontented
or peevish; but, just as Geordie got over the Warren hills, which led
to the place of his destination, he saw Harry Dyke, the groom at the
great house of Lady Clover, coming over the swale, as it was called,
with several of the boys of the village dancing about him, apparently
in great delight.
When he came nearer, he found that Harry was carrying, wrapped up in a
piece of an old sack, a little dog, which Geordie recognised as being
one which he had before seen, with its two fore paws leaning over
the ledge of the sash-pane in Lady Clover’s carriage, when she drove
through the village.
One of the boys had got a couple of brick-bats, and a long piece of
cord, and seemed very officious. He called out to Harry, “Harry, let me
throw him in, will you?--there’s a good fellow. But wo’n’t you give him
a knock on the head,--just one knock to dozzle him?”
“Why, they are going to drown that little pet-dog, that us children
used to say, lived a great deal better than we did; and, when I have
been very hungry, I have often wished I was Lady Clover’s lap-dog,
for I heard say that she sometimes gave it rump-steak for its dinner,
with oyster-sauce.” So thought little Geordie to himself; he did not,
however, say anything.
“O! here is little Geordie,” said one of the boys. “Geordie, Geordie,
come and have some sport!--we are going to drown a dog in the ditch.”
“What are you going to drown it for?” said Geordie.
“O! to have some fun, I suppose. No, it is not that; it is because
my lady can’t bear the nasty thing--it has got the mange, or some
disorder. There;--do not touch it. Don’t you smell it?”
The poor little dog looked at Geordie, and struggled to get out of the
sacking, and gave a whine, as if it would be glad to get away from its
enemies.
“Lay down, you beast,” said Harry, and gave it a severe blow on the
head; “lay down; I’ll soon settle your business.”
By this time they had come to the fen brook, and the dog was placed
on the ground, and taken from the sack-cloth in which it was wrapped.
It was a deplorable looking creature, and its hair was off in several
places; it yelped wofully as it looked around, while the boys began to
prepare the noose and the brick-bats.
“O! do not drown him,” said Geordie; “pray, do not drown him. What are
you going to drown him for?”
“Why, because he is sick, and ill, and dirty. He is no good to any
one,” said Harry. “My lady used to be very fond of him; but now, he
looks such an object, she says he is to be destroyed.”
“Give him to me,” said Geordie; “I’ll have him, and keep him till he
gets well--he shall have half my dinner every day. Here, little dog,
have this piece of bread and butter.”
“Go away, and leave the dog alone,” said the boy who had the cord; “you
are not going to spoil our sport. Get out of the way with you.” And so
he drew near, and fastened the cord to the dog’s neck.
“O! do give him to me! Pray don’t drown him,” said Geordie; “pray do
not. O! do give him to me; I will make him well--indeed I will. Do
let me have him?--there’s a good Harry Dyke,” and the tears came into
Geordie’s eyes.
“Go along, Mr. Dog Doctor,” said Harry; “go along, Mr. Cry Baby.”
“Here, Harry, I’ll give you my boat for the little dog--it is a
beautiful boat; here, put it into the water instead of the dog--do, do,
do;” and so Geordie thrust the boat into Harry’s hand, and, without
waiting to settle the bargain, laid hold of the dog.
“Leave go of him,” said the boy with the cord and the brick-bats,
“leave go, I tell you; if you do not, it shall be the worse for you.
Leave go, or”----
“Ay, you may rap my knuckles,” said Geordie, “I do not mind
that.--Harry Dyke, Harry Dyke, am I not to have the dog, and you have
the boat?” said he, struggling.
“O! I do not care about it,” said Harry; “take him, if you will have
him; the boat will do for my brother Tom, and I wish you joy of the
bargain.”
The other boys hearing this, were much disconcerted; and would, no
doubt, have molested Geordie still further, but the little fellow no
sooner heard Harry’s tacit consent, than he immediately set off at full
speed, with the dog under his arm, in the direction of home.
When he reached his home he was quite out of breath, and his mother was
fearful something had happened to him. “Why, Geordie, Geordie, what is
the matter with you; and what have you got under your arm?”
Geordie laid down the dog, and the sight of the poor creature, whose
looks told the state of disease in which it was, made the good woman
quite afraid to have it in the house; and, without hearing anything of
the circumstances connected with the poor animal, or giving Geordie
time to explain, she declared it should not set foot in the house,
and drove Geordie and his purchase out of it together; telling the
latter to take it from whence it came, and that the house was not to be
converted into a hospital for sick dogs.
Geordie was more disconsolate than ever; he went into the fields, with
the dog under his arm: now be laid it down, and patted it; then he
talked to it, and, in his childish manner, tried to comfort it. The
poor creature looked up to Geordie, and wagged its tail, and seemed
quite glad to find somebody could feel for it.
“Ay, that is the way of these ladyfolks,” thought Geordie to himself;
“they like their pets, and fondle them enough while they look pretty
and frisk about, and play about; but, when they get sick, and ill, or
old, then they hang and drown them. I wonder what makes them do it.”
What to do with the dog Geordie knew not. At last, however, he
bethought himself that he would take him up into a little loft, over a
small stable which his father had, and there make him a bed with some
nice hay, and try and make him better.
So he mounted the ladder, and got into the loft. He soon made the poor
thing a bed, and then he thought he would get him something to eat; but
Geordie had no money. He had, however, a good many marbles, for Geordie
was a capital hand at ring-taw; and so he took his marble-bag, and went
into the green, where several boys were playing, and very soon sold his
marbles. They produced four-pence, for there were more than fifty, at
sixteen a penny.
He then bought some dog’s-meat at the butcher’s, and a halfpenny worth
of milk, and a halfpenny worth of sulphur, to mix with the milk; for
somebody once said, in his hearing, that sulphur and milk were good
physic for dogs.
He then washed the animal, and fed him; and what with washing, and
physicing, and comforting, in a few days the poor dog regained his
strength; in a few days more he regained his coat; and it was not many
days more before he was as well as ever.
Geordie then ventured to bring him in to his father and mother; who,
seeing the animal quite changed in appearance, and a lively, handsome,
little dog, and not very old, were quite pleased with him; and no less
pleased with their son’s conduct, when it was all explained to them.
Some weeks after this, Lady Clover came through the village, in her
carriage, as usual, and was astonished to behold her little dog
sitting, with his fore paws out of Geordie’s mother’s parlor window,
just as he used to sit out in her ladyship’s carriage.
Lady Clover alighted, and went towards the house. The dog immediately
began to bark, nor would the soft tones of the lady’s voice by any
means pacify him. In a few minutes she learned the whole of her former
pet’s history, and wished to have him again. “She would give Geordie a
crown for him,” she said; but Geordie would not sell his dog.
“No, I thank you, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow,” said the little dog. “He
might be sick again, my lady, and then he would be drowned, my lady.”
“Bow-wow, wow--bow-wow, wow.”
“Keep the plaguesome creature quiet,” said her ladyship, “and hear
me.”--“Bow-wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow,” said the little dog.
Her ladyship could not obtain a hearing, and left the cottage in high
displeasure. “I would not sell him for his weight in gold,” said
Geordie,--“not to Lady Clover.”
It was some years after this that Geordie grew almost a man, and Chloe,
for that was the dog’s name, grew old; Geordie’s father had prospered
in life; and, from being a poor cottager, had become a respectable
farmer.
One night he returned from market with a considerable sum of money,
arising from the sale of his crops, the principal part of which he had
to pay away to his landlord in a few days.
Some evil-disposed fellows had obtained a knowledge of this money being
in the house, and determined to break into and rob it--perhaps also to
murder those who might oppose them.
It was a very dark night, and all were sound asleep, when Black Bill,
and two companions, approached on tip-toe, to make an entrance in the
back premises.
By means of a centre-bit they had soon cut a panel out of the
wash-house door; they then entered the kitchen without making the least
noise. Black Bill had a large carving-knife in one hand, and a dark
lantern in the other, and, supposing the money to be in the bed-room,
was mounting the stairs, to take it at any hazard.
The stairs creaked with the weight of the robber, and in a moment Chloe
aroused the whole house with her barking--her shrill voice was heard in
every room. In a moment Geordie was up, and his father’s blunderbuss at
his shoulder.
“Speak, or I will fire!” said he. No answer,--but a scampering through
the passage. Geordie followed--he heard the robbers making their
escape; he fired--the robber fell.
Lights were procured. It was found that the fellow was only slightly
wounded in the leg, which prevented his running away. In the morning
it was discovered who the robber was--it was the very boy, now grown a
man, who _had the cord and the brick-bats_!
Chloe did not live long after this, but died of sheer old age; not,
however, you see, till she had amply repaid the kindness which had been
bestowed upon her by Geordie.--Learn from this, my little readers, a
lesson of _humanity_!
[Illustration: Sable hunter]
The Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER V.
_A dissertation upon going on foot.--A fearful adventure
with wolves._
Having taken leave of their Tungusian friends, the travellers proceeded
on their journey, hoping, before many days, to reach Yakootsk--a large
town on the Lena, and the great fur market of eastern Siberia. Here
they intended to stay a few days, and then proceed down the Lena, in
pursuit of game. Alexis expected also to find a letter there, from his
sister, which was to be sent by the mail, and which would, of course,
travel faster than the pedestrian party.
Incited, therefore, by several motives, the adventurers pressed
cheerily forward upon their journey. But it was now October, and the
ground was covered with snow. Every day, indeed, more or less snow
fell, and the hunters found their progress much impeded by it. But in
travelling, as in almost everything else, practice makes perfect. A
man who is well trained to walking, can travel farther in a month than
a horse; and as the power of going from place to place, without being
dependent on horses, railroads, or even money, is a great thing, I
advise all young persons--particularly young men--to learn to perform
journeys on foot. The best way to travel over a country, is to go as
a pedestrian. You can then stop and see the people along the road,
and thus get acquainted with their manners and customs; their ways of
living, acting and thinking.
Some of the pleasantest passages in my own life, occurred when I
was journeying on foot; and they are perhaps more delightful in my
recollection, that I had then a good, sound pair of legs--and now,
alas! one of them is replaced by a “timber toe!” If I had time, I could
relate many little incidents, to show that a traveller on foot is ever
welcomed to the hut, the log-cabin, or the farm-house, along the road;
and that his stories, his news, or even his company, are esteemed good
pay for his lodging and his fare.
But I must proceed with my story of the sable-hunter--or I shall never
get through with it. When I began, I expected to despatch it in two or
three chapters; but the journey, as well as old Linsk’s tongue, is much
longer than I expected.
For some time after the party started, Alexis found his feet sore and
his limbs weary, at night--and more than once, he felt homesick and
discouraged. But he was a youth of much energy of character, and he
felt the importance of making a great effort in behalf of his father
and sister, upon whose happiness the whole power of his soul was now
concentrated. Beside these motives to effort, Linsk took pains to
enliven the spirits of his party, by putting a cheerful face upon
things, and by telling his tales, of which he seemed as full as a
hive is of bees. And there was this difference between Linsk’s tongue
and the little honey-makers--that while they grow torpid as the cold
weather comes on, his organ of speech seemed to wag all the faster
for it. A flurry of snow was usually a prelude to a story, and a real
storm seldom failed to bring out something interesting. Alexis remarked
that the tale was always lively in proportion as the day was dark,
or the journey tedious; and Linsk seemed, indeed, as ready to attack
blue-devils with a joke, as he was to send a bullet after a bear. I
note these things with some particularity, because I conceive that
cheerfulness is a great virtue, and that it is of infinite importance
in those passages of life which seem to demand of us patient endurance
and protracted effort. Cheerfulness is the best of all stimulants, and
I advise my young friends to lay in a good stock of it. It produces two
excellent effects--it makes a person agreeable to himself and to others!
As I have said, the weather was now stormy, and the country through
which the hunters were passing, was to the last degree dreary and
desolate. It was generally level, or slightly undulating, and nearly
destitute of vegetation. Occasionally they came to extensive forests,
consisting of low pines and cedars, and sometimes there was a deep
ravine, where the fir trees grew to a considerable height, and so
matted together as hardly to admit the light between them.
One gloomy afternoon, as the party were winding their way through a
forest, which covered a range of broken hills and ridges, the younger
portion had gone before, leaving Linsk a little in the rear. Turning
an angle in the road, they lost sight of him, and went on for several
minutes, forgetting that he was not with them. By and by, they heard a
sharp whistle, and then a rifle-shot, and then a call, that made the
sullen woods echo, as if filled with twenty voices. They instantly
looked around, and seeing that Linsk was not with them, turned back,
and ran with all their might, knowing that something must have
happened, to cause so loud and urgent a summons.
Turning the angle in the road, and pushing on for about a dozen rods,
they came upon a scene which amazed and alarmed them. There stood old
Linsk, battling for life, in the midst of a pack of wolves. One of the
beasts lay dead at his feet; but another had hold of his leg, and a
huge fellow, nearly as tall as the old hunter himself, was laying his
paws upon him, and threatening to seize him by the throat.
The coolness of Linsk was admirable. He waited his opportunity, and
then stretching himself to the full height, he brought down his
powerful arm, and striking his dagger in the side of the wolf, laid him
prostrate in an instant. He then bestowed a kick upon the rude fellow
that had hold of his leg, and hitting him by the side of the head,
made him roll over and over in the snow. Linsk fell upon him, but the
creature, being only stunned, got up, and was about to run away, when
the old hunter, now more furious than the wolves themselves, seized him
by the tail, and whirling him round and round, sought to dash out his
brains upon the frozen earth. The animal seemed amazed and frightened,
and set up such a hideous howl, that all the rest of the pack took
to flight; and even the beast upon which Linsk had fastened, slipped
through his fingers and fled for life. Happening to take the direction
of the young men, now coming up and near at hand, he came pretty near
Alexis, who levelled his rifle and shot him through the head.
“Well done!” cried Linsk, clapping his hands; “well done,
Alexis!--you’re a true hunter, after all! Whew! I am all out of breath.
Bravo, boys! It’s the first bit of fun I have had since we set out! St.
Nicholas! that fellow has stuck his forks into my calf, as if I was a
piece of pork--the beast! and I suppose he expected to make a supper of
me. I guess he’d found me the toughest bit of meat he ever undertook
to carve. The knave!--to think of attacking an old fellow, all alone,
while his companions had deserted him. The fool! to expect that an
old hunter wouldn’t give, as well as take. However, he’s got his last
supper; a bullet in the stomach is hard of digestion, and so he’s
finished. Poor fellow--I can’t help liking a wolf, after all!”
While Linsk was uttering this last observation, Alexis came up, and
although he was curious to know why his old friend could have an
affection for an animal that had just threatened his life, and actually
thrust his fangs into his flesh, he did not attempt now to inquire into
the subject. The hunter was, indeed, in too great a state of excitement
for any deliberate conversation. He went on, with one exclamation after
another, describing, by snatches, the attack of the wolves, and his own
feats in the fray.
After spending some time on the spot, and taking a view of the several
animals that had been slain, they proceeded on their way. Linsk was
greatly excited by the adventure, and, having talked about it for some
time, began to tell of other scenes of the kind, in which, at various
times, he had been engaged. Some of these tales were worth repeating,
and if I can remember them long enough, they shall appear in the next
chapter.
(_To be continued._)
The Tongue.
Every child has in his mouth a thing to talk with, called the tongue.
This is made to tell the truth with. When the tongue tells a lie, it
does that which is very wrong.
The tongue is made to say kind and pleasant things to our friends. When
it says a saucy thing to anybody, it is a naughty tongue.
When the tongue says a disobedient word to a father or mother, it is a
wicked tongue. When it says an unkind word to a brother or sister, it
is a very bad tongue indeed.
When the tongue swears, it does that which God has expressly forbidden.
When the tongue speaks dirty words, it is a vile tongue. What little
boy or girl would like to carry about such a tongue in his mouth?
Now, my young reader, let me ask you a few questions. What sort of a
tongue have you? Does it always speak the truth? Does that tongue of
yours ever say saucy words?
Does your tongue ever say any disobedient words to your parents? Does
it ever say any unkind words to a brother or a sister? Does it ever
swear? Does it ever utter any bad words?
O, my little friend, if your tongue ever does anything wrong, what
shall be done? Can you tell me how to correct an evil tongue? I can
tell you. Let every child take good care of his tongue, and see that it
never behaves ill.
What is Selfishness?
There was once a dog and a cat sitting by a kitchen door, when the cook
came out and threw several pieces of meat to them.
They both sprung to get it, but the dog was the strongest, and so he
drove the cat away, and ate all the meat himself. This was selfishness;
by which I mean, that the dog cared only for himself. The cat wanted
the meat as much as he did; but he was the strongest, and so he took it
all.
But was this wrong? No,--because the dog knew no better. The dog has
no idea of God, or of that beautiful golden rule of conduct, which
requires us to do to others as we would have them do to us.
Dr. Watts says,--
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature too.”
But children have a different nature, and a different rule of conduct.
Instead of biting and fighting, they are required to be kind and
gentle to one another, and to all mankind.
Instead of being selfish, like the dog, they are commanded to be just
and charitable, by which I mean, that they should always give to others
what is their due, and also give to others, if they can, what they
stand in need of.
If a child snatches from another what is not his, he is selfish,
and very wicked. If a child tries in any way to get what belongs
to another, he is selfish, and is as bad as a thief or a robber.
Selfishness is caring only for one’s self. It is a very bad thing, and
every child should avoid it. A selfish person is never good, or happy,
or beloved.
How miserable should we all be, if every person was to care only for
himself! Suppose children and grown-up people, were all to be as
selfish as cats and dogs. What constant fighting there would be among
them!
How dreadful would it be to see brothers and sisters snarling at each
other, and pulling each other’s hair, and quarrelling about their food
and their playthings! We ought to be thankful that God has given us a
higher nature than that of beasts, and enabled us to see and feel the
duty of being kind and affectionate to one another.
And as we can see and feel this duty, we ought to be very careful
always to observe it.
* * * * *
A THOUGHT.--There are one thousand million people in the world. Each
individual has a heart, and that heart beats about seventy times a
minute. By means of this beating of the heart, the blood is sent over
the body, and life is sustained. How great must that Being be, who
can keep one thousand millions of hearts beating seventy times every
minute--thus sending the blood through the veins and arteries of one
thousand millions of people!
WINTER.
MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY G. J. WEBB.
[Illustration: Music]
’Tis winter; ’tis winter; the morning is gray:
A cold looking sky is above us to-day;
And see, where the hilltops are naked and brown,
The pretty white snowflakes come quietly down.
They come in their beauty, like spirits of light,
And wrap the chilled earth with a mantle of white:
Beneath it the daisies are sheltered and warm,
And safe from the blasts of the pitiless storm.
And soon, when the sunbeams of summer shall come,
They’ll start up anew from their snow-covered home:
They’ll spread their green leaves over valley and plain,
And catch the bright dews in their blossoms again.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 6.
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER X.
_Second attempt against Chili.--Valdivia reaches
Mapocho.--Founds the city of St. Jago.--Temper
of the natives.--Terrible battle.--Sends to Peru
for help.--Officers taken.--Their treacherous
escape.--Valdivia Perseveres.--Final success and
arrangements._
The next who attempted the conquest of Chili, was Pedro de Valdivia,
a Spanish adventurer, and, like all the others, eager to distinguish
himself, and to gain a fortune. However, he was not so cruel and
avaricious as many of the adventurers. He determined to establish a
permanent settlement in Chili. He began his march in the year 1540,
with 200 Spaniards, and a numerous body of Peruvian auxiliaries; he
had also some monks, several women, and a great number of European
quadrupeds, with everything requisite for a colony.
He pursued the same route as Almagro, but, as it was in the summer, he
passed the Andes without trouble, and entered Copiapo. But he found
a cool reception, though it was warm weather. The people had learned
the fate of Peru, and were determined not to allow their country to be
plundered by the Spaniards, if they could help it.
They, of course, began to attack Valdivia, on all sides; but still the
Spaniards made good their way, and reached the province of Mapocho, now
called St. Jago. This lies about 600 miles distant from the confines of
Peru. It was a beautiful country, pleasant and fertile, and had such a
large population, that its name was interpreted to signify “the land of
many people.” It lies upon the mountains of the Andes, and is 140 miles
in circumference. The mountains in the north part abounded with gold,
and in the east were rich mines of silver.
Valdivia admired the country, and determined to possess it. He
accordingly began his settlement, by founding a city, which he named
St. Jago, in honor of that apostle. At that time, Christians really
believed that God was well pleased with having his followers conquer
the heathen; and the most cruel and wicked of the Spanish adventurers
always made a parade of their religion, or rather, their superstitions.
Valdivia went on, for a time, very successfully with building his city;
but the natives were forming plans to destroy him. These he suspected,
and seized and confined a number of their chiefs. Still, he was not at
ease, and, wishing to watch their movements, he took sixty horse, and
went out to scour the country. The Mapochians in the vicinity, who
were watching for such an opportunity, immediately fell upon the colony
with terrible fury, burned the half-built houses, and assailed the
citadel, where the inhabitants had take a refuge, on all sides.
The battle began at day-break, and was continued till night; fresh
troops of Indians constantly pouring in to fill the places of those
shot down by the Spaniards. The commander of the fort sent, during
the night, a messenger to Valdivia, who immediately returned. The
Indians were thus attacked on both sides; the musketry and horse
made a terrible slaughter among them; they had no arms but bows and
slings, yet they fought most furiously, till nearly all their army was
destroyed.
Valdivia thus relieved the siege, and rebuilt the city; but, for six
years, the natives were constant in their attacks; they cut off the
Spaniards at every opportunity, destroyed the crops, and, finally,
rendered all the fertile plains around St. Jago uncultivated and
desert; and then retired to the mountains.
The Spanish soldiers had become heartily tired of this fighting life.
A few battles did very well, but to spend year after year in warfare
was not at all comfortable. So they finally determined to kill their
general, and then return to Peru. Valdivia discovered the conspiracy,
and finally succeeded in quelling it.
About the same time, he obtained possession of a rich gold mine, in
the valley of Quillota; and, by distributing the gold freely among his
men, he found that they soon grew contented. But he discovered that he
needed more soldiers, as the natives were far from being subdued; and
he had constantly to keep a detachment of troops to guard the miners.
At length, Valdivia resolved to send, by land, two of his captains,
Monroy and Miranda, with six companions, whose spurs, bits, and
stirrups he directed to be made of gold, hoping thus to entice the
Spaniards in Peru to come to his assistance.
These messengers were escorted by thirty horsemen, who were to
accompany them to the borders of Chili. They reached Copiapo: here they
were attacked by one hundred archers, commanded by Corteo, an officer
of the Ulmen. The Spaniards were all slain, except the two captains,
who, dreadfully wounded, were taken prisoners, and brought before the
Ulmen.
That prince resolved to put them to death; but, at the solicitation of
his wife, the Ulmena, he finally consented to spare them. She unbound
them with her own hands, dressed their wounds, and treated them like
brothers. When they were fully recovered, she desired them to teach her
son the art of riding, as several of the horses had been taken alive in
the defeat.
The two Spaniards readily consented to her request, hoping that they
should find means to escape. This was natural; nor would it, perhaps,
have been wrong, had they not committed a most horribly ungrateful
crime to effect it. They were not strictly guarded, and frequently
rode out with the young prince. One day, as this youth, the son of
their benefactress, was riding between them, escorted by his archers,
and preceded by his lance-bearer, Monroy suddenly attacked him with a
poiniard he had concealed, and gave him several mortal wounds; while
Miranda wrested the lance from the officer; and, in the confusion
caused to the escort by seeing their young prince bleeding on the
ground, these two treacherous Spaniards easily escaped.
But this breach of faith was ultimately of great disadvantage to the
Spaniards. That one unprovoked murder probably caused the death of
hundreds; because the natives never, after the occurrence, seemed to
have put any faith in the professions of the white men.
The succeeding year or two were spent by Valdivia in fighting, and
founding cities. The natives were gradually losing strength and
hope; many were slain in the wars, and some yielded to what seemed
inevitable, and became the allies of the Spaniards.
Still, there was much for these invaders to endure. At one time, the
Copiapians, to revenge the murder of their prince by Monroy, killed
forty Spaniards; and, not satisfied with that vengeance, they persuaded
the Coquimbanes to massacre all the inhabitants of a colony which had
been founded in their territory, and to raze the city of Serena, which
Valdivia had caused to be built, to its foundations.
In 1549, the city was rebuilt in a more advantageous situation: but
every advantage had to be purchased at the point of the sword, and paid
for by human blood.
After a contest of nine years, and almost incredible hardships, the
Spanish power seemed established in that part of Chili which had,
formerly, been under the dominion--or, rather, superintendence--of the
Peruvian empire. Valdivia then proceeded to distribute the conquered
lands among his officers, as had been done in the West Indies and Peru.
Then he was ready to undertake the conquest of the remaining provinces
of Chili.
He accordingly began his march, with a pretty large army of Spaniards
and Indians, and proceeded 240 miles, to the bay of Penco, where, on
the 5th of October, 1550, he founded a third city, called Conception.
He had now arrived in the vicinity of the Araucanians; and, before we
proceed with the story of the war, I will give you some account of
the character and manners of this brave, free, and, in many respects,
wonderful people.
CHAPTER XI.
_Chili continued.--Customs, manners, arts, character, religion,
language, &c., of that nation of Chili called Araucanians._
The word _auca_ signifies _free_; and the Araucanians pride themselves
on their liberty and independence. They possess great strength of
constitution, and enjoy their health and faculties till they are very
old. They rarely begin to be gray before they are sixty or seventy, and
are not bald or wrinkled till eighty.
Their complexion is of a reddish brown, but much clearer than that
of any other Indians. One tribe, the Boroanes, which live on the
mountains, have as fair complexions, red and white, as Europeans; but,
in general, the Araucanians are well distinguished as “red men.” They
have round faces, small, animated eyes, a rather flat nose, a handsome
mouth, even and white teeth, and small feet and hands.
The men pluck out their beards, but the hair on their heads they permit
to grow to a great length. It is coarse, and black, and they wind it
in tresses around their heads, and on no account allow it to be cut.
The women are delicately formed, and many of them, especially among the
Boroanes, are very handsome.
Their moral qualities are superior to those of any other of the native
nations of America. They are courteous, hospitable, faithful to their
engagements, grateful for services rendered them, and, generally,
generous and humane towards the vanquished. They are exceedingly brave
and patriotic, and enthusiastic lovers of liberty.
These noble qualities are obscured by the vices inseparable from
the half-savage state of life they lead, unrefined by literature,
and unenlightened by the Christian religion. They are often guilty
of drunkenness; they practise polygamy, and they are very proud of
themselves, and entertain a haughty contempt for all other nations.
The men dress in the following manner: they wear a shirt, vest, and a
pair of short, close breeches; and a cloak, called a _poncho_. It is
an oblong piece of cloth, about three yards long and two wide, with an
opening in the middle for the head--and is a very commodious and useful
garment.
Their clothes are made of wool, which they manufacture into cloth; and
all the dress, except the poncho, is colored a greenish blue. This is
the favorite color of the nation; but the poncho may be either white,
red, or blue, with stripes a span broad, on which are wrought the
figures of flowers and animals, in all manner of colors, and the border
is ornamented with a handsome fringe.
The Araucanians wear on their heads a bandage of embroidered wool,
in the form of the ancient diadem. They raise this, as a mark of
courtesy, when saluting any one; when going to war, they ornament it
with beautiful plumes. They also wear, around the body, a long woollen
girdle, handsomely wrought. Persons of rank wear woollen boots, of
various colors, and leather sandals; but the common people always go
barefooted.
The dress of the women is very modest and simple. It consists of a
tunic, a girdle, and a short cloak: the tunic descends to the feet; it
has no sleeves, and is fastened on the shoulders by silver brooches.
The color of the dress is always blue, and the fashion is never varied.
But women seldom “forget their ornaments;” and these Araucanian ladies
decorate their hair, which, divided into tresses, is allowed to float
gracefully over their shoulders, with a profusion of false emeralds,
and they wear necklaces of glass, and rings of silver on every finger,
if they can obtain them.
They build their houses of a quadrangular form; the walls are made
of wood, plastered with clay, and sometimes of brick; and the roof
is covered with rushes. The size of the dwelling corresponds with
the number of women a man can maintain, as each wife has her own
fire-place. The interior of these houses is very simple, as they have
no more furniture than is absolutely necessary. They live in scattered
villages, each family on lands inherited from its ancestors--the right
of private property being sacredly established. They will not live in
walled cities, because they think the walls are a mark of slavery.
They manufacture their cloth from the wool of the Chilihueque, or
Araucanian camel. They make use of the spindle and distaff, and have
two kinds of looms; the first is somewhat like our common loom. The
women perform all the domestic manufacture, and are likewise expert
at sewing. They had needles and looms when first discovered by the
Spaniards; in short, all the arts I shall describe, existed among them
then, in as great perfection as they do at the present day.
From the excellent clay of their country the men manufactured pots,
plates, cups, and large jars to hold their fermented liquors. They
baked their pottery in ovens, made in the declivity of hills; and they
had the art of varnishing their ware. They also extracted gold, silver,
copper, tin, and lead from the earth, purified it, and made a variety
of curious and useful articles.
They had discovered the art of making salt upon the sea-shore; and,
from the juice of plants and from mineral earths, they procured dyes
of all colors for their clothes, and also knew how to fix the color,
by means of a certain luminous stone. They used the bark of the tree
_guallai_, as a substitute for soap, and obtained oil from the seeds of
the _madi_.
They also manufactured baskets, mats, fishing-nets, ropes, and all
their implements of labor and weapons of war. Their agricultural labors
were considerable. They cultivated Indian corn, pulse of various
kinds, potatoes, pumpkins, pepper, and large strawberries. They made
use of spades, and a light plough, in tilling their grounds. They had
domesticated the _Chilihueque_, an animal shaped like a camel, but
having long hair, or rather, wool, which served for all purposes of
making cloth. They had also hogs and domestic fowls in plenty.
Their government is like that of Venice--an aristocratic republic. They
have three orders of nobility, the dignities of each hereditary in the
male line; but these nobles, though they administer the laws, have no
power to make laws, but are obliged to govern according to the customs
and traditions of the people. The highest rank is the Toquis; next,
Apo-Ulmenes; third, Ulmenes. But these chiefs have no power of exacting
contributions, or taxes, from the people; nor can they call upon them
for their service, except in time of war.
The offences which are deemed deserving capital punishment, are,
treachery, murder, adultery, the robbery of any valuable article,
and witchcraft. Husbands and fathers are not subjected to any
punishment for killing their wives and children, as they are declared
to be the natural masters of their lives. In this particular, the
odious wickedness of barbarous life is most strikingly displayed. No
influence, save that of the _Christian religion_, can protect women
and children from oppression; and yet there are women in _Christian
countries_, who appear indifferent to, or wholly insensible of, the
precious privileges which the Gospel of Peace has bestowed on them!
The ulmenes are judges in all cases between the people; in questions of
national importance, the whole body of nobles meet together in grand
council.
Whenever the grand council determines to go to war, they elect a
commander-in-chief; and he is chosen for his fitness, without regard to
rank. Sometimes they elect one from the common class, if there is no
one among the nobles more distinguished for bravery.
The new general assumes the title of toqui, and a stone hatchet; and
all nobles and people take an oath of obedience to his orders. He is,
in fact, dictator; but yet his power is not quite supreme, for he
cannot put any one to death without the consent of his officers.
Every Araucanian is born a soldier and a patriot--all are ready to
fight for their country; so that there is no difficulty in raising an
army, which usually consists of five or six thousand men. The toqui
appoints his lieutenants; these appoint subordinates; and so on, till
the army is organized.
The army is at present composed of infantry and horse. They formerly
had only foot-soldiers; but, perceiving the great advantage which
the Spaniards derived from their cavalry, the shrewd Araucanians set
themselves to providing horses, and, in 1568--only seventeen years
after their first opposing the Spanish arms--they were able to furnish
several squadrons; and, in 1585, they had their cavalry regularly
organized.
The infantry is divided into regiments and companies; each regiment
has 1000 men, and contains ten companies. The cavalry is divided in a
like manner. They have all their particular standards, but each bears a
_star_, the national device. The soldiers are not clothed in uniform,
but all wear, beneath their usual dress, cuirasses of leather,
hardened by a peculiar mode of dressing; and their shields and helmets
are made of the same material.
The cavalry is armed with swords and lances; the infantry with pikes
and clubs, pointed with iron. They formerly used bows and slings; but,
when fighting with the Spaniards, they found these would not do; so,
to avoid the effect of the musketry, they adopted pikes and clubs, and
immediately closed in and fought hand to hand with the enemy.
They used fire-arms with great skill, whenever they took powder and
muskets from the Spaniards; but, as soon as the powder was expended,
they returned to their own way of fighting. They were, however, very
anxious to learn the secret of making powder, and, it is reported,
tried one very extraordinary experiment.
There happened to be a few _negroes_ with the Spanish troops; these,
the Araucanians thought, were the powder magazines; or, at least, that
the Spaniards used them in making powder. So, happening to take a poor
black man prisoner, the Araucanians first covered him with stripes from
head to foot, and then burned him to a coal, in order, by reducing
it to powder, to obtain the so much wished for secret. But the cruel
experiment failed!
The troops of this warlike nation are very vigilant, and always choose
excellent positions. They are, moreover, acquainted with the art of
constructing military works, and of protecting themselves with deep
ditches, which they guard with branches of thorn.
When action becomes necessary, they separate the cavalry into two
wings, and place the infantry in the centre; the files being arranged
in such a manner that a pikeman and one who carries a club always fight
side by side. They are brave, indeed utterly fearless, in battle.
Though they know full well that the first ranks will be exposed to
almost certain destruction, they eagerly contend with each other for
these posts of honor. As soon as the first line is cut down, or swept
away by the cannon, the second occupies its place, and then the third,
pressing on, until they succeed in breaking the front ranks of the
enemy. In the midst of their fury, they preserve the strictest order,
and perform all the evolutions directed by their officers. The most
terrible of these are their club-bearers, who, Hercules-like, destroy
or beat down all before them.
The prisoners they take are usually made slaves, until they are
exchanged or ransomed. They seldom put a prisoner to death.
The religious system of the Araucanians differs, in some respects,
from that of other Indian nations. They acknowledge a Supreme Being,
the author of all things, whom they call _Pillan_--a word derived from
_pulli_, the soul, and signifies the supreme essence. This Supreme
Being is the great Toqui of the invisible world, and has a number
of subordinate spirits, to whom is entrusted the administration of
affairs of less import. There is a god of war, a benevolent deity, and
the _guembu_, a malignant being, the author of all evil. If a horse
tires, the guembu has rode him; if the earth trembles, this evil spirit
has given it a shock; and he suffocates all who die,--so think the
Araucanians.
Then the people believe in genii, who have charge of all created
things, and who, united with the benevolent meulor, are constantly
at war with the power of the wicked guembu. These genii are of both
sexes--the females are lares, or familiar spirits, and always watch
over mankind. Every Araucanian thinks he has one in his service. They
sometimes invoke these deities, and implore their aid on urgent
occasions; but they have no temples of worship, nor idols of any
description; nor do they offer any sacrifices, except in case of some
great calamity, or on concluding a peace. At such times they sacrifice
animals and burn tobacco.
They believe in the immortality of the soul. This consolatory truth
is deeply rooted, and seems innate with them. They think the soul,
when separated from the body, goes to a country west, beyond the
sea: one part of this land is pleasant, and filled with everything
delightful--it is the abode of the good; the other part--desolate and
wretched--is the habitation of the wicked.
Missionaries are much respected, and well-treated among them, and
have full liberty of preaching their tenets; but yet, very few of the
natives have ever been converted to Christianity. Still, they would
seem to be the most likely of any of the Indian nations, to become,
by suitable instruction, rational and real Christians. Their mode of
worship, or manner of thinking respecting religious subjects, is more
pure and spiritual than that of any other heathen people; and if books,
in their own beautiful language, could be furnished them, and schools
could be established among them, and good men and women, teachers of
righteousness, in example as well as precept, would devote themselves
to the work of instruction, it seems as though this interesting nation
might be soon raised to the high rank of a civilized and Protestant
Christian republic.
The Araucanians divide time as we do, into years, seasons, months,
days, and hours; but in a different method. They commence their solar
year on the 22d of December, calling this solstice _Thaumathipantu_,
the head and tail of the year; and they denominate June,
_Udanthipantu_, the divider of the year, from its dividing it into two
parts.
They divide the year into twelve months, of thirty days each, and add
five intercalary days to make out the solar year. The months are named
from the most remarkable things produced at the time: thus--January is
called _Avuncujer_, the month of fruit; February, _Cogi-cujer_, the
month of harvest--and so on. The natural day is divided into twelve
parts, six being allotted to the day, and six to the night; so that the
Araucanian hour is as long as two of ours.
In astronomy, they have made wonderful progress, considering that they
have had no written signs, to perpetuate their observations. They
have divided the stars into constellations, and named these from the
number of remarkable stars that compose them. Thus, the Pleiades are
called _Cajupal_, the constellation of six; and the Antartic Cross,
_Meleritho_, the constellation of four; because the first has six stars
that are very apparent, and the last four.
They are well acquainted with the planets, and believe that these
globes are so many earths, inhabited in the same manner as ours; for
this reason they call the sky _Guenu-mapu_--the country of heaven; and
the moon, _Cuyen-mapu_--the country of the moon. They believe comets to
be exhalations or vapors from the earth, inflamed in the upper regions
of the air; and never exhibit any fear at the sight of these, or of
eclipses of the sun or moon. It is plain that they consider these as
natural phenomena, but whether they know the course of eclipses or
not, cannot be gathered from the imperfect knowledge we have of their
language.
The Araucanians hold oratory in high estimation. The eldest son cannot
succeed to the right of his birth, if he is deficient in this talent.
So parents accustom their young sons, from childhood, to speak in
public, and carry them to the national assemblies, where the best
orators of the country display their eloquence.
They are as careful as ever were the Greeks, to speak their language
correctly, and to preserve its purity. They are so particular about
introducing foreign words, that when a foreigner settles among them,
they oblige him to relinquish his name, and take another in the Chilian
language.
The speeches of their orators are in the Asiatic style, highly
figurative, allegorical, and elevated. They abound with parables and
apologues; and yet they are seldom deficient in all the essential parts
required by the rules of rhetoric; they have a suitable exordium, a
clear narrative, a well-founded argument, and a pathetic peroration.
Their poets are called _gempin_, signifying _lords of speech_. What a
beautiful and expressive name! Unrestrained enthusiasm is the prime
characteristic of their poetry. The principal subject of the songs is
the exploits of their heroes, somewhat in the manner of Ossian. Their
verses are composed mostly in stanzas of eight or eleven syllables--a
measure that appears most agreeable to the human ear. They are blank,
but occasionally a rhyme is introduced, according to the taste of the
poet.
The Araucanians have three kinds of physicians: the _ampines_, who
employ only simples. These doctors are skilful in their knowledge of
herbs, and understand pretty well the curing of most common diseases.
Then there are the _vileus_, a class of doctors who believe that all
contagious disorders proceed from insects: these are the regular
physicians, and despise the poor herb-doctor as much as our own
regular-bred M. D.’s do the quacks. The third class--_machis_--maintain
that all serious disorders proceed from witchcraft, and pretend to
cure by supernatural means; for which reason they are employed in
desperate cases, when the exertions of the other doctors have failed.
Sometimes the three kinds of physicians are called to hold a regular
consultation--but they seldom agree.
Besides these professors of medicine, there are surgeons--_gutorne_--
who remedy dislocations, and cure wounds and ulcers. And there is also
a class who dissect bodies, in order to learn from the entrails if
they are infected with poison; and in this way they obtain a tolerably
correct notion of the human anatomy.
Before the arrival of the Spaniards, the Araucanians made use of
bleeding, blistering, clysters, emetics, cathartics, and sudorifics--all
which remedies have their peculiar names in their language. They let
blood with the sharp point of a flint, fixed in a small stick; and they
still prefer this instrument to a lancet. Almost all their medicines
are obtained from vegetables.
The internal commerce--that is, the traffic among themselves--is
entirely carried on by barter, and regulated by a kind of conventional
tariff, according to which all commercial articles are appraised under
the name of _cullen_, or payment, as was the custom in the time of
Homer. Thus, a horse or bridle forms one payment; an ox, two--and so on.
Their external commerce is carried on, also, in the same way of barter;
the Araucanians receive wine and European merchandise in exchange for
_ponchos_, or Indian cloaks, horned cattle, horses, ostrich feathers,
curiously wrought baskets, and other trifles.
The Spaniard who engages in this trade, applies directly to the heads
of families. If they tell him he may trade, he proceeds to their
houses, and distributes, indiscriminately, his merchandise to all
those who may present themselves. When he has completed his sale,
he gives notice of his departure, and all the purchasers hasten to
deliver to him, in the first village he arrives at, the articles agreed
upon as payment; and never has there been known an instance of the
least failure of punctuality. Would that those who bear the name of
Christians, would always observe as good faith in their contracts as
these Indians!
The pride of this people has been before noted. They are as proud
of their valor and liberty as ever were the Romans. They believe
themselves the only people in the world that deserve the name of men!
This high opinion of themselves makes them hold every other nation in
great contempt. They call the Spaniards by names which signify _vile
soldiers_ and _assassins_. The other Europeans they call _moruche_,
or strangers. But to each other they are all benevolence; and their
language seems formed to express their kindness. They have six or
seven very expressive words in their language for the term _friend_.
For their relations of the most distant degree, they have terms which
express particular regard and good will. In consequence of this mutual
affection, they are always ready to assist each other. Not a beggar
or an indigent person is to be found throughout all the Araucanian
territory; even the most infirm and incapable of assisting themselves,
are decently clothed. What a lesson should this furnish to Christian
nations!
Nor is the benevolence of the Araucanian confined to his own
countrymen: he is hospitable towards all strangers, of whatever nation;
and a traveller may live in any part of the country, without the least
expense.
They are very eloquent in expressing their good will, and sometimes
rather tiresome in their compliments. They are naturally fond of
honorable distinction, and they will not endure to be treated with
the least contempt or neglect. If a Spaniard begins to speak to one
of them with his hat on, the Indian immediately says--“_Entugo tarmi
curtesia_”--take off your hat!
By attention and courtesy, anything may be obtained from them; and
the favors they receive are always remembered; but ill-treatment
exasperates them to such a degree, that nothing but revenge can appease
them.
The Araucanians allow polygamy; a man may marry as many wives as
he can purchase and maintain. This is the worst feature in their
social policy, and seems almost the only obstacle which retards their
civilization, or prevents them from becoming Christians. But even in
these marriages, they show a higher sense of the natural laws of man,
than the profligate Caribs did. The Araucanians, in their marriages,
scrupulously avoid the more immediate degrees of relationship.
Their marriage ceremonies have very little formality, and consist in
nothing more than carrying off the bride by pretended violence; and the
bridegroom is obliged to give a variety of presents to the parents of
the bride, and provide a grand entertainment for all the relations.
The first wife is always respected as the real and legitimate one; the
others are called _iardimo_, or secondary wives. The first wife has
also the authority of the mistress of the house; but the other wives
are not always obedient, and the husband who has a number of these
help-meets, has a deal of trouble to maintain harmony among them,
though they generally treat him with great respect.
Celibacy is considered as ignominious. Old bachelors and old maids are
called by names that signify old, idle, good for nothing.
Besides the usual female occupations of taking care of the house and
children, spinning, weaving, and so on--that females in all countries
perform--the women are not obliged to do much of the labor of living.
But they pay the greatest attention to the cleanliness of their houses,
sweeping them and the courts several times in the course of the day.
Whenever they make use of any utensil, they immediately wash it.
The same attention to cleanliness is paid to their persons; they comb
their hair twice a day, and once a week wash it with the soap made from
the bark of the _quillai_; which keeps the hair very clean. There is
seldom to be seen on their clothes the least spot of dirt.
The men are likewise equally fond of being neat and clean. In warm
weather they bathe themselves several times a day, and it is rare, even
in winter, that they do not bathe at least once a day.
Children are very kindly treated, and rarely, if ever, punished--the
Araucanians holding it as an established truth, that chastisement only
renders men base and cowardly.
The usual diet of this people is very simple. They are fond of Indian
corn, and potatoes: of the last they have cultivated more than thirty
different kinds, from time immemorial. Although they have both large
and small animals, and birds in plenty, yet they eat but little flesh,
and that is simply boiled or roasted. They rarely eat pork, though they
know how to prepare black puddings and sausages; nor do they make much
use of fish. They prefer bread and vegetables, especially potatoes,
roasted, with a little salt.
Their usual drinks consist of various kinds of beer, and of cider, made
from Indian corn, apples, and other fruits. They are extremely fond of
wine, which they purchase from the Spaniards; but they have never taken
any pains to cultivate the vine, which might be easily raised in the
country.
The master of the house eats at the same table with his wives and
children. The plates are earthen; the spoons and cups are made of horn
and wood. The ulmenes, or nobles, have, in general, wrought plate for
the service of their tables; but they only make use of it when they
entertain some stranger of rank--then they make all the show possible,
as they like to be considered rich. In summer, they are fond of dining
in the shade of trees, which for this purpose are always planted round
the house. Besides dinner, supper, and breakfast, they have, every
day, their luncheon, which consists of a little flour of parched corn,
steeped in hot water in the morning, and in cold in the evening.
Such is their common mode of living; but, on the occasions of
funerals, marriages, or any other important event, they make great
entertainments. Sometimes, three hundred persons are present, and the
feasting continues two or three days. These are called _cahuin_, or
circles, because the company seat themselves in a circle around a large
branch of cinnamon wood.
They have also a custom, somewhat similar to our New England raisings,
huskings, and quiltings. When there is any work which requires the
combined aid of several persons--such as threshing their grain,
building a house, &c.--the Araucanians, or all who wish to partake of
the feast, assemble, and work until the labor is completed. But they
generally come in sufficient numbers to finish the job in a few hours,
and then devote the remainder of the day to amusement.
Music, dancing and play, form their customary diversions. Their musical
instruments are very rude, their voices rather harsh, and the manner
of singing not very agreeable to a stranger. But their dances, of
which they have several, are lively and pleasing. The men and women
sometimes dance together, but oftener apart.
Their games are very numerous, and, for the most part, very ingenious;
they are divided into sedentary and gymnastic. It is a curious fact,
and worthy of note, that they have the game of chess, which they call
_comican_, and which has been known to them from time immemorial. They
have also a game, _quechu_, which is almost similar to our backgammon.
The youth exercise themselves frequently in wrestling and running,
and playing ball, which they like exceedingly. But the _penco_ is
a favorite game, because it has some resemblance to the siege of a
fortress--and they delight in war.
The _penco_ is thus played. Twelve or more persons join hands, and
form a circle, in the centre of which stands a little boy. Their
adversaries, who are equal in number, and sometimes superior, endeavor
by force or stratagem to break the circle, and obtain the boy, in which
the victory consists. But this is no easy matter. The defenders make
almost incredible efforts to keep themselves closely united, and the
besiegers are often compelled, by weariness, to relinquish the attempt;
and then the defenders shout for their victory.
The aboriginal inhabitants of Chili, from the ocean to the Andes,
from Peru to Magellan, all speak the same language. It is a regular,
harmonious, and rich language, and so elegant, expressive, and copious,
that Europeans who have studied it, think the Chilians must, in former
times, have possessed a much greater degree of civilization than at
present; because mere savages could never have formed a dialect so
perfect.
It differs from every other American language, not less in its words
than in its construction. It is so copious, that a complete dictionary
of it would require more than one large volume; and in sweetness and
variety it greatly excels the other Indian dialects.
The Araucanians are very particular to teach their children to speak
with propriety and elegance; and it is probably this care which has
preserved the language so pure. They will not converse in Spanish,
though they easily learn that language, or, indeed, any other; but they
scrupulously adhere to their own tongue,--and it is through this medium
that, if ever they embrace Christianity, they must be taught. It seems,
from many circumstances, as though this people were peculiarly prepared
to become Protestant Christians, whenever they can be instructed in the
arts of reading and writing, and furnished with the Word of God.
Such are the character and manners of the Araucanians of the present
day: most of the customs we have described are original, though a few
of them have been derived from the Spaniards.
A Long Nap.
Did you ever see a bear? A bear is a creature as large as a small
cow.--Some bears are black, some white, and some brown.
Bears live far away in the woods and mountains. They do not get
together, as people do, and build houses: not they!
Every bear looks out for some hole in a tree, or cave in a rock, and
there he makes his bed. If he can get enough to eat, he cares for
nobody else.
When winter comes, bears of some kinds grow sleepy, and, crawling into
a hole, or lying down beneath the shelter of thick trees, they shut
their eyes and go to sleep. Like the little striped squirrel, and
wood-chucks, and toads and lizards, they thus sleep till spring.
[Illustration: Lord Bacon]
Lord Bacon.
The word _bacon_ is usually applied to a piece of smoked pork, and
sometimes means nothing more than _ham_. But, in the present case,
it is applied to one of the greatest and most useful men that ever
lived,--and this may show that the same word may signify very different
things.
Now, this Lord Bacon--whose Christian name was Francis--as I have said,
was a great and useful man; but what did he do? He was no warrior, and
never fought a battle; he was no king, and never wore a crown; he was
no giant, and never performed any great feat of bodily strength: but he
did more for the good of mankind than any giant, king, or warrior. He
taught the world how to think, how to reason, how to find out truth!
He was born in London, in the year 1561. He was bred a lawyer, and held
office under Elizabeth, then queen of England. But, after a time, he
offended the queen, and his hopes of high preferment were disappointed.
After queen Elizabeth died, and James I. came to the throne, he was
made a judge, and held several important stations, and at last was
honored with the title of Viscount St. Albans--which meant that he was
one of the nobles of the land; or, in other words, that he was to be
called a lord.
But the offices and honors he enjoyed, were not the foundation of
Bacon’s claims to the respect and gratitude of mankind. You must
remember that he lived almost three hundred years ago; and then the
people, even those who were learned, held many absurd opinions,
and, what was the worst of all, they had false and foolish modes
of reasoning. Thus it often happened, that even the learning and
philosophy of those days rather led to error than to truth.
Now, Bacon applied himself to the teaching of better modes of thinking
and reasoning. Instead of bewildering the mind with theories and
fancies, he taught the world to study into facts; to gather stores
of knowledge; and to make this knowledge the starting-point--the
foundation of their philosophy. He taught this great and simple truth,
and the result of it has been, that mankind, since his time, have
discarded many absurd errors, and gone on making new and wonderful
discoveries. Many of the great inventions, and much of the science and
knowledge now current among mankind, are the result of Bacon’s wise
and useful lessons.
This great man died in 1626; and though he did so much for the world,
he can hardly be said to have led a happy life. He was once imprisoned
in the Tower of London--a dreary old castle--fined 200,000 dollars,
turned out of parliament, and declared unworthy of serving his country!
Perhaps he did something wrong, though the general opinion is, that he
suffered this on account of unjust accusations. He was liberated from
the tower, and the fine was remitted by the king; but from this period,
he lived in privacy, devoting himself to the writing of books. They are
now held in great estimation, for their stores of wisdom.
Habits which concern Others.
Not only for our own sakes, but on account of all with whom we
associate, it is our duty to take great care of our habits. The general
principle which should lead us to do this is, that we cannot live for
ourselves alone. We must think of others; we must speak and act with
them in our minds. And we are bound to form such habits as shall tend
to their good--to make us useful in the world. We must, in a word, deny
ourselves. If, while we are children, we take pleasure in giving a part
of what we enjoy, be it only a bunch of flowers, or an apple, to one of
our school-mates, we shall thus prepare ourselves to make others good
and happy, when we come to manhood. But a selfish habit will be very
hard to change hereafter.
We should form the habit of associating with good persons. A lad may
have many pleasant things about him; he may be witty, or bold, or
smart; but, if he is coarse in his manners--if he is vulgar, profane,
or addicted to falsehood, we should shun his company. We are apt to
become like those with whom we freely associate; and although we do
not mean to imitate their faults, and do not think there is any danger
of it, yet we may soon fall into the same bad habits. To be safe,
therefore, we should never trust ourselves unnecessarily with any but
good people.
You may think it will be easy to break away from the company and
acquaintance of a boy, when you find him to be very bad; but it will
not be so. Many have been ruined for life by the friendships they have
formed with vicious children, while at school with them. They continued
to associate with them, and caught their vices in youth, and even up to
manhood. If we wish to do good in the world, we must be good; and we
cannot be good, if we are very intimate with bad persons.
It is our duty habitually to speak well of others. We are accustomed to
do the opposite of this--to say all the bad things of others which we
think the truth will allow. This is wrong. A little boy once said to
his mother--“When will these ladies be gone, so that we can talk about
them?” And what was to be said about those ladies? Probably the family
were in the habit of speaking of the faults of their visiters. If there
was anything that could be ridiculed in their dress or their remarks,
then was the time to discuss it.
Now, we all know the power of habit; and if we could only learn to
think what _good_ things we could say of others, and keep all that was
bad to ourselves, what an immense improvement there would be among
school-children, and in the whole world! It is our duty to love all
men; let us, therefore, try to speak well of every one, and we shall
soon love them. If we talk much against them, we cannot love them.
We should practise punctuality, for the sake of others, as well as
ourselves. He who is punctual, will accomplish far more in a day, than
he who is not so. Washington was remarkable for this virtue. He once
rode into Boston without any escort, because the soldiers were not
punctual to meet him on the line, at the time they promised. His mother
taught him, when a boy, to have certain hours for every employment, and
to do everything at the appointed time. This habit helped, in his after
life, to make him a good man. He was able to do what, without it, he
never could have done.
We injure others by a neglect of punctuality. A girl says to
herself--“It is a little too cold, or a little too warm, to go to
school to-day;” or--“I feel a slight headache;” and so she remains at
home. Now, she thus not only loses all she might that day have learned,
but gives her teacher trouble. He must note her absence; and when the
time comes for a recitation the next day, she is behind her class, and
gives him and them farther trouble. We ought never to say--“It is only
once--I will not do so again;” and think thus to excuse ourselves; for,
from the force of habit, the oftener we are tardy, or otherwise fail in
our duty, the more frequently shall we be likely to do so, and the more
injury shall we do others, of course, by this fault. So that, on every
account, we should be punctual.
Among the habits essential to a good character, is moral independence.
We hear much said about being independent in regard to property. Some
persons think that condition all-important. But it is only so, if it
can be proved indispensable to a higher and nobler independence--that
of character. Let us inherit a patrimony, or earn a fortune by industry
and economy, or by the power of superior talents; we shall still be
miserably dependent on others, if we do not form our own opinions,
as respects our duty, and practise what we feel to be right, and not
merely what others tell us is right.
We should first understand in what true independence consists. It is
not eccentricity, or oddity, or affectation; nor is it an unreasonable
pride and confidence in ourselves. We sometimes see boys, at school,
who put on airs, and pretend to be very independent in all they say and
do. There is no virtue in this. Ann is called very smart, because she
is not afraid to _speak her mind_, as she terms it, about everybody and
everything. She does it, when she knows it will give others pain. This
is not true independence.
Sarah is always saying queer, strange, and, what some call, independent
things. But she does this merely for display. She is very dependent,
for she lives on the opinion of others. She is always imagining what
people will say of her. Another girl is trying to be eccentric. If she
can find out what her companions expect her to think, or do, or say,
she will strive to think, act, or speak, in exactly the opposite way.
True independence is a habit of forming our own opinions on all
subjects, without regard to those of our neighbors. It leads us, under
all circumstances, to think, speak, and act according to what we
believe to be our duty. We should never wait for others to act, through
fear of doing differently from them. It is our duty to be considerate
of the feelings of others, and to be prudent and accommodating where
their happiness is concerned. But if we feel any course to be right,
we should always pursue it, let us suffer as we may from the unjust
censure of others.--_English Magazine._
[Illustration: Black skimmer]
The Black Skimmer of the Seas.
This bird, which is sometimes called _sheerwater_, is a lover of the
ocean, and spends nearly his whole life in skimming along its surface,
or in sitting upon its shores.
A person, on looking at the creature’s bill, might think it a very
clumsy contrivance; for the lower mandible, or jaw, is a great deal
longer than the upper one. People used to think that there was
some mistake of nature, in giving this bird what seemed to them so
inconvenient a tool for getting a living with. But this was only
one of those instances in which ignorance led to presumption, and
presumption to folly. A better knowledge of the sheerwater’s ways of
life has served to show, that in this case, as in all others, the
Author of nature has shown wonderful skill in adapting means to ends;
in supplying His creatures with the best possible contrivances for the
trade or profession they are to follow.
Now, the black skimmer is made for a fisherman; he is made to feast
upon shrimps, and small fishes of various kinds, that live near the
surface of the water. Accordingly, he is provided with a bill, the
lower part of which is the longest, and which he can dip in the water
while he is skimming close over its face. In order to prevent this from
impeding his progress, it is shaped like the blade of a knife, and thus
it cuts the water with ease. As he speeds along, his bill scoops up the
little fishes, and by the impetus of his flight, they are carried along
in his bill, and swallowed as he goes.
No better proof of the success of the ingenious contrivance furnished
by nature to the sheerwater can be needed, than that he is a lucky
fisherman, and seems to enjoy an almost perpetual banquet. His wings
are made of vast length, on purpose to assist him in sustaining his
continued flight; and thus he seems to sail as if the wind were made on
purpose for him; and he feasts as if the wide ocean were his larder.
This singular and interesting bird comes to us along the northern
shores of the Atlantic, in May, and retires to the south in autumn,
where he spends the winter. His favorite haunts are low sand-bars,
raised above the reach of the tides. He builds his nest on dry flats,
near the ocean. His body is nineteen inches long, and his wings, when
expanded, are forty-four inches from tip to tip. Thus the sheerwater,
instead of being shabbily treated, is a striking instance of the
adaptation of nature’s work, to the purposes of its great Author.
The Squirrel.
The more we examine the works of nature, the more we shall be made to
feel that there is infinite variety in them--that almost every part
of the universe is filled with inhabitants appropriate to it; and
that each individual thing is fitted to the place it occupies. Among
plants, for instance, there are nearly a hundred thousand kinds already
recorded in the books of the botanists; among animated beings, there
are, perhaps, even a greater number of species. And what a countless
number of each individual kind, whether in the vegetable or animal
world! Every part of the earth is occupied. The earth, the air, the
sea--each and all are inhabited by myriads of living things. And how
wonderfully are they all adapted to their several designs! How well is
the fish fitted to his element; how admirably is the bird adapted to
the life he is to lead!
Among quadrupeds, the lively little fellow, whose name we have placed
at the head of this article, is a pleasing illustration of the success
with which nature accomplishes her designs. The squirrel is made to
enliven the forest, to live among woods, to gather his food and make
his nest, and spend a great part of his life amid the branches of the
trees. And how perfectly is he at home in his domain! He springs from
limb to limb--from tree to tree; he ascends or descends the trunks at
pleasure, and seems to be as safe, in his airy evolutions, as the ox,
or the horse, upon the solid ground--or the bird in the air, or the
fishes in the river.
How perfect an instance of adaptation is this! How nice must be a piece
of machinery, that could be made to operate with such celerity, in such
a variety of ways, and with such certain success! And how pleasing, as
an object of mere beauty, is the squirrel! How graceful his form--how
cheerful his aspect--how seemingly happy his existence!
[Illustration: Gothic arches]
Gothic Architecture.
The modes of building in different countries, and in different ages of
the world, have resulted in several distinct styles of architecture.
Among the ancient Egyptians, it would seem, from the low and massy
forms of their edifices, that they were fashioned in imitation of
caves--the first habitations of savage man. The temples, of which many
ruins remain along the borders of the Nile, seem almost like structures
hewn out of the rock; so heavy are the columns, and so low the arches.
Among the Greeks, the style of architecture seemed to be suggested by
the wooden cabin, supported upon the trunks of trees. Thus the lighter
and loftier columns supporting their edifices, seem to be a leading
feature of their buildings.
In China, the houses appear to be fashioned after the tent, as if the
idea had been borrowed from the pastoral age, when the inhabitants
subsisted upon flocks, and dwelt in tents.
The Gothic architecture appears to be an imitation of the grove; the
roof being supported by pillars, branching upward. The engraving will
give some idea of this style of building. It flourished from the year
1000 to 1500, A. D., and was particularly used in the construction
of churches, monasteries, and other religious buildings, during that
period. In France and Germany there are still to be seen many churches
in this style; and though they have an ancient and gloomy appearance,
they are very beautiful, and the sombre light within, seems well fitted
to a place of worship. In England, also, there are many Gothic edifices
of the olden time, among which Westminster Abbey, in London, is a fine
specimen. In Boston, Trinity Church is somewhat in the Gothic taste;
and at Hartford there is a fine specimen, in the Episcopal Church.
There are also several other edifices in this country, of recent
structure, which are imitations, in part, of ancient Gothic buildings;
but a pure example of this style is hardly to be found, except in
Europe, and among the edifices of past centuries.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Recovery from sickness.--Change of character.--Story of a quack._
In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and
was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and
yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature
bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and
excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I
was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a
full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape,
the walk--each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and,
having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former
state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.
But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits--nor, indeed, from
that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions.
My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no
small degree abated my self-appreciation. I was humbled, if not before
the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had
served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had
never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness
of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.
I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but
others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or,
rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody
else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change
should have come over me: he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its
effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He
insisted upon it that I was “_in the dumps_” about something; and, half
in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.
In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage
than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man
of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for
physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had
faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He
believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift,
than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens
in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more
gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made
up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, “in a bad way,” he was
casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person,
notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town,
chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and,
if I may use the expression, he was a _regular_ quack.
I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large,
stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small,
fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deep-set beneath a shaggy
eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a
frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object,
seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we
sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor’s dress
was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes--the
fashion of the time--and top-boots, the upper portion being not a
little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded
crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous
width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown.
His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called
butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same
hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for
the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the
“_but’nut doctor_.”
Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said “good day” to the loungers
around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sliding
his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called
for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid
of tobacco out of his mouth--which he held in his hand, to be restored
to its place after the liquor was discussed--he applied himself to
the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, a
lickerish smile came over his face, and turning round to the company,
he said, in an insinuating tone--“Does any on ye know of any body
that’s sick in these parts?”
There was a momentary pause--and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag
of the village, replied: “Nobody, I guess, unless it’s Deacon Kellig’s
cow.”
“Well,” said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which
followed--“well, _I_ can cure a cow; it’s not as if I was one of your
college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to
a brute. But, the scriptur’ says, a marciful man is marciful to a
beast--and I prefer follerin’ scriptur’ to follerin’ the fashion. If
Providence has given me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any
of God’s critters that stand in need on ’t.”
“Well,” said Matthew, “do you cure a cow with the same physic that you
cure a man?”
“Why not?” said Farnum; “it’s better to be cured by chance, than killed
by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it’s a
beast, or a man. Nater’s the great physician, and I foller that.”
“What is nater?” said Olmstead.
“Nater? Ah, that’s the question! Nater’s----nater!”--
“Indeed?--but can’t you tell us what it is?”
“I guess I could, if I tried: it’s the most mysteriousest thing in the
univarsal world. I’ve looked into ’t, and I know. Now, when a cow has
lost the cud, so that it won’t work up or down, I go to a place where
there’s some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark _up_; and I cut
some on ’t _down_; and I cut some on ’t _round and round_. I then make
a wad on ’t, and put it down the cow’s throat. That part of the bark
that’s cut up, brings the cud up; that part that’s cut down, carries it
down; and that part that’s cut round and round, makes it work round
and round: and so, you see, there’s a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it
sets everything agoin’, and all comes right, and the critter’s cured as
clean as mud. That’s what I call nater!”
This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to
derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the
speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in
the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew
was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had
hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by
his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight
of knowledge.
“Why,” says Farnum, “there ’tis agin, squire; it’s nater--it’s clear
nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into
things from my childhood. Now, here’s my but’nut physic--it’s true, an
Indian give me the fust notion on’t; but I brought it to perfection,
from my own study into nater. Now, all them doctors’ stuffs that you
git at the pottekary’s, is nothin’ but pizen; thur’s no nater in’t.
My physic is all yarbs--every mite on’t. I can cure a man, woman, or
child, jest as sure as a cat’ll lick butter! There’s no mistake.”
“Well, how did you find it out, doctor?” said my uncle, seeming anxious
to give him an opportunity to unfold his wisdom.
“Can you tell why a duck takes to water?” said Farnum, with a look of
conscious importance. “It’s because it’s in him. ’Twas jest so with
me. I had a nateral instinct that telled me that there was something
very mysterious in the number seven. I expect I got some on’t from
the scriptur’, for there’s a great deal there about it. Well, one
dark, rainy night, as I was goin’ along thro’ some woods, thinkin’
about somethin’ or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind
was blowin’ desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel
through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down
into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it’s all exactly
like human nater. Well, now, if you’ll believe me, jest as that are
thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted
jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times
more, and so kept goin’ on, till he’d hooted jest forty-nine times.
Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin’, but I couldn’t tell
what. I went home, but I didn’t sleep any. The next day I couldn’t eat
anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I
was thinkin’ of the bridge, and the wind whistlin’, and the river, and
the dark rollin’ water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times
seven times.
“Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin’
all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and
tell’d him I was sick. He ax’d me what was the matter, and I related
the story of the owl. ‘You are the man I have been seeking for,’ said
he. ‘The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and
he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In
seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at
midnight.’
“True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night
agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge--agin the owl was there,
and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I
saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret.
‘Man,’ said he, ‘is subject to seven times seven diseases; and there
are seven times seven plants made for their cure. Go, seek, and you
shall find!’ Saying this, the dark figure leaped over the bridge, and
disappeared in the waters. I stood and heerd a gurgling and choking
sound, and saw somethin’ strugglin’ in the stream; but the Indian
disappeared, and I have never seen him sence. I went from the place,
and I soon found the forty-nine yarbs, and of these I make my pills.
Each pill has seven times seven ingredients in it; though but’nut’s the
chief, and that’s why it’s called but’nut physic. You may give it in
any disease, and the cure for ’tis there. I’ve tried it in nine hundred
and thirty-seven cases, and it haint failed but six times, and that,
I reckon, was for want of faith. Here’s some of the pills; there’s
forty-nine in a box, and the price is a dollar.”
Such was the doctor’s marvellous tale, and every word of it was no
doubt a fiction.
It may seem strange that such an impostor as this should succeed;
but, for some reason or other, mankind love to be cheated by quacks.
This is the only reason I can assign for the fact, that Dr. Farnum
sold six boxes of his pills before he left the tavern, and one of
them to my uncle. The next day he insisted upon my taking seven of
them, and, at his urgent request, I complied. The result was, that
I was taken violently ill, and was again confined to my room for a
fortnight. At length I recovered, and my uncle insisted that if I
had not taken the pills, I should have had a much worse turn; and,
therefore, it was regarded as a remarkable proof of the efficacy of
Farnum’s pills. Some two or three years after, I saw my own name in the
doctor’s advertisement, among a list of persons who had been cured in a
wonderful manner, by the physic of the butter-nut doctor.
I have thought it worth while to note these incidents, because
they amused me much at the time, and proved a lesson to me through
life--which I commend to all my readers--and that is, never to place
the slightest confidence in a quack.
The Apple; a German Fable.
There lived a rich man at the court of King Herod. He was lord
chamberlain, and clothed himself in purple and costly linen, and lived
every day in magnificence and joy. Then there came to him, from a
distant country, a friend of his youth, whom he had not seen for many
years.
And to honor him, the chamberlain made a great feast, and invited all
his friends. There stood on the table a great variety of excellent
viands, in gold and silver dishes, and costly vessels with ointment,
together with wine of every kind.
And the rich man sat at the head of the table, and was hospitable to
all; and his friend who had come from a distant country, was at his
right hand. And they ate and drank, and were satisfied.
Then the stranger addressed the chamberlain of the king: Such splendor
and magnificence as your house contains, is not to be found in my
country, far and wide! And he spoke highly of his magnificence, and
pronounced him the happiest of men.
But the rich man, the king’s chamberlain, selected an apple from a
golden dish. The apple was large and beautiful, and its colour was red,
approaching purple. And he took the apple and said, This apple has
rested on gold, and its form is very beautiful! And he reached it to
the stranger and friend of his youth.
And the friend cut the apple, and behold! in its middle was a worm!
Then the stranger cast his eyes on the chamberlain. But the lord
chamberlain looked upon the ground and sighed.
[Illustration: Pretender and sister]
The Pretender and his Sister.
“The _Pretender_! What a curious title!--and pray who can he be, Mr.
Merry? And who is the girl at his side, that you call his sister?”
I will answer these questions, my gentle reader,--and let me tell you
now, that there is nothing I like better than to answer the inquiries
of my young friends, when I am able.
Well, as to this Pretender--he was a personage that figured in the
history of England, some hundred years ago. His name was Charles
Edward. He was a grandson of Charles II., a king of England, who was
driven from the throne about the year 1690; and, thinking that his
father, James III., ought to be king of England, he determined to make
an effort to set him upon the throne. He was born 1720, and when he was
twenty-two years old, he entered upon this great project.
Being at Rome, he induced the Pope to espouse his cause; he then went
to Paris, and king Louis XV., having promised to assist him, fitted out
a fleet, with 15,000 men; but they were defeated by the English, as
they were on the point of sailing. After this, the French king would do
no more for Prince Charles Edward, and the daring young man set out, in
1745, in a little vessel of eighteen guns, and arms for 1500 men.
He landed on the northwest coast of Scotland, and the people there
seemed delighted to see him. He was a descendant of the former kings
of Scotland, of the Stuart line, and it was natural enough for them to
have a feeling of favor for one who thus claimed kindred with them.
Accordingly, the Scottish nobles flocked to the standard of Edward,
bringing with them hundreds of their brave soldiers.
He was soon at the head of a large and powerful army. With this he
marched forward, defeated the English troops that advanced to meet him,
and, in three months after his arrival, he took Edinburgh, the capital
of Scotland.--France now sent him aid, and, with a force of 7000 men,
he marched southward into England, and took the town of Carlisle. At
Preston Pans, he defeated an English army of 4000 strong; and such
was his success, that the English government, under King William, of
Orange, trembled for their safety.
They therefore made great efforts, and in April, 1746, they sent a
large army against him, under the Duke of Cumberland. At Culloden,
the two armies met, and a terrible battle followed; Prince Edward
was defeated, and his army entirely dispersed. He was scarce able to
save his life by flight; and, indeed, he wandered about, from place to
place, among the wilds of Scotland, being every day in danger of being
seized and given up to the English government, who offered $150,000 to
anybody who would bring him to them. It seems strange that so large
a bribe could be resisted; but, such was the love that the Scottish
people bore him, and such their fidelity, that no one was found to
betray him, though many people were entrusted with the secret of his
being among them. Even the poor mountaineers refused to give him up,
though offered a sum of money that would have made them very rich.
At last, a faithful Scottish nobleman, by the name of O’Neil, took him
in charge, and after wandering along the sea-shore in a skiff, flying
from island to island, and experiencing the greatest sufferings and
dangers, he was put on board a French frigate, that had been sent for
his rescue. He was now taken to France, and soon after, giving up all
hopes of seeing his family restored to the throne, he settled in Italy,
where he died in 1788, in the 68th year of his age. He was the last
of the Stuart line, and was called the _Pretender_, on account of his
_pretending_ to set up claims to the throne of England.
Winter.
December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but
they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.
Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled
and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that
the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the
vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must
remain till spring again returns.
Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead,
to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever
from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the
gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of
leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to
the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.
Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the
field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of
happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by
the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern
retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole
generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung
their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long
home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and
that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold
and fearful slumber.
Winter means all these melancholy things; but it also means something
more. It means that the granary of the farmer is full; that his barn
is supplied; that there is good and ample store for the beasts that
look to man for support, and for man himself. It means, too, that
the comfortable fire will be kindled, around which the family will
assemble, and where, secure from the bitter blast without, there will
still be peace, comfort, and content. It means, too, that there is such
a thing as poverty, shivering, without fire, without food--perhaps,
without sufficient shelter; and it means that charity should seek and
save those who are suffering in such a condition.
And winter means something more than all this: it means, by its
examples of decay and death, to teach us that we, too, must pass away;
and that it is well for us to make preparation for the great event.
Winter also brings us to the end of the year, and suggests a serious
self-inquiry, and self-examination. It would ask us if the last year
has been one of profit or loss? Are we better, and wiser, than when it
began? Are we more kind, more just, more patient, more faithful, more
fond of truth?--Summer is the season for the harvest of the field;
winter is the season for the moral harvest of the heart. Let it not
pass with any of us as a barren and unproductive season, in which we
neither sow nor reap the fruits of wisdom and peace.
The Hand.
Every limb and member of the body is made for some good purpose.
The eye is made to see with; the ear is made to hear with; the nose is
made to smell with; the mouth is made to eat and speak with.
The feet are made to run and walk with; the hands are made to work
with, to write with, and to do many other things.
But do you think children’s hands were ever made to strike their
brothers, or sisters, or playmates? Were your little hands ever made to
snatch away things from each other?
Who gave you hands? God gave them. Did he give you hands to steal with?
Did God give you hands that you might throw stones at geese, or dogs,
or hens, or cows, or any other innocent animals?
Did God give you hands to injure or wound any of the creatures he has
made?
Take care of your little hands, then, my children! Take care that the
hands God has given, do nothing that God disapproves.
Nuts to Crack.
THE WORD “FAST.”--This is as great a contradiction as we have in the
language. The river is _fast_, because the ice is immoveable; and then
the ice disappears _fast_ for the contrary reason--it is loose. A clock
is called _fast_ when it goes quicker than time; but a man is told to
stand _fast_, when he is desired to remain stationary. People _fast_
when they have nothing to eat, and eat _fast_ when opportunity offers.
* * * * *
MILITARY COURTESY.--Gen. Meadows, equally renowned for his wit and
bravery, being on a reconnoitring party, in the Mysore country, a
twenty-four pound shot struck the ground at some distance from the
General, and was passing in such a direction as would have exposed him
to danger had he continued on his route; quick as lightning he stopped
his horse, and, pulling off his hat very gracefully, as the shot rolled
on, good-humoredly said: “I beg you to proceed, sir; I never dispute
precedence with any gentleman of your family.”
* * * * *
A DOCTOR, in Scotland, was employed by a poor man to attend his wife,
who was dangerously ill. The doctor gave a hint, amounting to the
suspicion that he would not be paid. “I have,” says the man, “five
pounds; and if you kill, or cure her, you shall have it.” The woman
died, under the hands of the doctor, and, after a reasonable time,
he called for his five pounds. The man then said: “Did you kill my
wife?--did you cure her?” “No.” “Then,” said the poor man, “you have no
legal demand,” and turned upon his heel.
* * * * *
HOW TO SHAKE OFF TROUBLE.--Set about doing good to somebody: put on
your hat, and go and visit the sick and poor--inquire into their wants,
and minister to them; seek out the desolate and oppressed, and tell
them of the consolations of religion. I have often tried this method,
and have always found it the best medicine for a heavy heart.
* * * * *
A FATHER’S IMPULSE.--When Lord Erskine made his _debut_ at the bar, his
agitation almost overpowered him, and he was just going to sit down:
“At that moment,” said he, “I thought I felt my little children tugging
at my gown, and the idea roused me to an exertion, of which I did not
think myself capable.”
* * * * *
THE SUBLIME.--Over the stall of a public writer, in Rue de Bac, at
Paris, is the following inscription: “M. Renard, public writer and
compiler--translates the tongues, explains the language of flowers, and
sells fried potatoes.”
* * * * *
FEELING FOR ANOTHER.--A Quaker, once hearing a person tell how much he
felt for a friend who needed his assistance, dryly observed: “Friend,
hast thou ever felt in thy pocket for him?”
* * * * *
“What are you writing such a thundering big hand for, Patrick?” “Why,
do you see, my grandmother is deaf, and I am writing a loud lether to
her.”
* * * * *
A KNOTTY CASE.--Not many years ago, a man appeared in court, whether as
plaintiff, defendant, or witness, tradition does not inform us. Be this
as it may, the following dialogue ensued:--Court--“What is your name,
sir?” “My name is Knott Martin, your honor.” “Well, what is it?” “It
is Knott Martin.” “Not Martin, again! We do not ask you what your name
is _not_, but what it _is_. No contempt of court, sir.” “If your honor
will give me leave, I will spell my name.” “Well, spell it.” “K-n-o-tt,
Knott, M-a-r, Mar, t-i-n, tin--Knott Martin.” “O, well, Mr. Martin, we
see through it now; but it is one of the most _knotty_ cases we have
had before us for some time.”
* * * * *
GOOD.--It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most
pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend
what he intended to do with his daughters, he replied: “I intend to
apprentice them to their mother, that they may become like her--good
wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society.”
* * * * *
A LEARNED CHARACTER.--“Give me ‘Venice Preserved,’” said a gentleman,
last week, on going to a celebrated bookseller’s at the West-end.
“We don’t sell preserves,” said an apprentice, newly-imported from
the country; “but you will get them next door, at Mr. Brown’s, the
confectioner.”
* * * * *
TEN TO ONE.--Strict attention to office hours is a duty incumbent upon
every public officer. We heard of a case of an American consul, in a
foreign country, who was not remarkable for his attention to duty. A
gentleman, calling one day, found his office shut, and a label sticking
upon the door, with these words: “In from ten to one.” Having called
again several times within those hours, without finding him, he wrote
at the bottom of the label--“Ten to one he’s not in.”
To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d
Friends of Robert Merry.
It is now about a twelvemonth since our acquaintance commenced; and I
hope the feeling is such between us, that there is a mutual desire to
continue it. I know that the young, the happy, and the gay-hearted,
are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad--disposed to
look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more ready to
preach than practise charity.
I will not pretend to deny that, now and then, a person gets cross
and crabbed as he grows old, and like cider too long kept, turns to
vinegar: but this is not my case, or, if it be, my ill-humor never
displays itself toward the young. They are to me the buds and blossoms
of life, and their presence ever brings the welcome feelings that
belong to sunshine and summer.
Old age has been often compared to winter--the close of the year;
the season of desolation; the period of storms and tempests; the
funeral-time of the vegetable world; the time when the leaves, the
fruits, and the flowers are laid in their tomb, and covered over with
a winding-sheet of snow. This is a sad picture at first view; and I
believe many a child is led to avoid old people from the habit of
regarding them in this light--from the idea that they are shrivelled,
frost-bitten, bitter, and disagreeable.
Now, I will not deny that there is some resemblance between winter and
old age: an old man has not the warm blood of youth; his pulses are,
perhaps, like the river, chilled and obstructed by ice; his temper
is sometimes capricious and gusty, like the winds of December; and
his head, bald, or covered with a few silvery hairs, is like the oak,
stripped of its covering, and having its boughs powdered with snow.
All this may be true enough; but it is not good reason why the old
should be deserted by the young. I remember very well, that, when I
was a boy, there was a fine old walnut-tree, upon a hillside, not far
from where I lived. Now, I never thought or cared about this tree, till
the time when winter approached. Then, when the leaves were scattered,
the nuts were all ripe, then it was that the tree became an object of
interest to me. Then it was that I loved to visit it; to climb its
limbs and give it a shake, and hear the fruit rattle down like hail.
Never, in all my boyhood days, did I meet with anything more delightful
than this!
And let me tell you, my black-ey’d and blue-ey’d friends, that this old
walnut-tree was like many an old person you may meet with. You will
remark that, in this case, it was when winter had come, or was near at
hand, that the fruit was ripe, and ready for those who would climb up
for it and gather it. And let me tell you, that old people, like this
tree, have many a good nut to crack, many a good story to tell, to
those who will climb up in the lap and ask for it.
This is my view of the matter; and I hope that young people, instead of
running away from me, as a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will
treat me as I did the old walnut-tree--give it a shake, and see if the
nuts don’t rattle down!
I am not fond of making great promises; but, as I am anxious to have
my readers, who have set out on a journey with me, still keep me
company--at least for one year more--I am ready to engage to do my best
to please them. I shall, if I live, tell the rest of my own story, and
bring the history of Brusque to a close. The tale of the Sable-Hunters,
the travels of Thomas Trotter, the stories of the Indians, will be
continued and completed; and a variety of other things are in store.
I can promise one thing more--and that is, some tales from the pen
of Peter Parley. That pleasant, kind-hearted old man is no more; but
I knew him better than anybody else, and all his papers are in my
hands. Among them are several tales, and I intend to publish them in my
magazine. My young readers, perhaps, do not know how shabbily poor old
Peter was treated. The fact was, that several people in this country,
as well as in others, wrote stories, and put his name to them; thus
pretending that they were actually his! Some of these were very silly,
and some were very improper. This cut Peter to the heart, and it served
greatly to shorten his days. I am sorry that, even now, people are
palming off trumpery works of their own as Peter Parley’s.
But the tales that I propose to give, are genuine; there is no mistake.
They are by the same hand that wrote the tales about Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America; and I hope they may be as acceptable as those were.
I return a thousand thanks to my many young friends, who have written
me letters, whether of criticism, advice, or commendation. I am glad
to know that so many of them like Bill Keeler: let them be assured his
whole story will come out in due time. I shall be very glad to get the
bear story, which L. S., of Vermont, offers to tell. The Indiana legend
of the Wolf and the Wild-cat, is received, and will appear soon. Jane
R---- will accept my thanks for--she knows what! If she were not so
many hundred miles off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is
a blue-eyed or black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly
received from Alice D----, and were very welcome. Ralph H---- will see
that I have done as he requested; I have given a portrait of the fine
gray squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as
ever.
ROBERT MERRY.
WINTER--A SONG.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
“Tell me what does winter mean!”
’Tis a drea-ry change of scene--
When the meadow yields its bloom,
And the blo-soms seek their tomb.
Winter is the time of storms,
When the cloud in angry forms,
O’er the land in terror sweeps,
And the sighing forest weeps.
’Tis the funeral time of flowers,
Withered in their lovely bowers;
While the zephyr sings in grief,
O’er each shrivelled stem and leaf.
’Tis the dreary time of snow,
Falling chill on all below,
As a winding-sheet it weaves
O’er the graves of myriad leaves.
Winter is a time of tears,
For the poor, in youth or years,--
Where the storm drives keenly in,
And the blanket’s brief and thin.
Winter is the time of wreck,
When the billow cleaves the deck,
And the mariners go down
Where the battling surges frown.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged unless indicated below. Obsolete and alternative
spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were not corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. One Footnote was moved to the end of the chapter. Obvious
printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed
letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end
of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line
endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to
common usage. Page numbers in the Table of Contents were corrected to
match book pages.
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