Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 15. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, February 10, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A WINTER MORNING.]
OLD FATHER TIME.
"Professor," said May, turning on the sofa where she was lying, "Jack
has brought me a calendar that runs for ever so many years. You know the
doctor says I'll not be well for two whole years, or perhaps three. I
have been wondering what month among them all I shall be able to run
about in; and then I began to think who could have made the first
calendar, and what led him to do it."
"That's very simple, May. Old Father Time just measured the days off
with his hour-glass in the first place, and marked them down with the
point of his scythe. The world has known all about it ever since."
"Please don't, Jack. Let the Professor tell."
"It would be hard, May, to tell who made the first calendar," answered
the Professor. "All nations seem to have had their methods of counting
the years and months long before they began writing histories, so that
there is no record of the origin of the custom. The Book of Genesis
mentions the lights in the heavens as being 'for signs and for seasons,
and for days and years.' And Moses uses the word _year_ so often that
we see that it must have been common to count the years among those who
lived before him."
"The number 1880 means that it is so many years since the birth of
Christ, does it not?" asked Joe.
"Yes," said the Professor, "it has been the custom among Christian
nations to reckon the years from that great event. They began to do this
about the year of our Lord 532."
"Why did they wait so long?" asked Joe.
"You know," he said, "that at first the Christians were very few and
weak; during the first three hundred years they had all they could do to
escape with their lives from their enemies. But after that they became
very numerous and powerful, and were able to establish their own
customs. So in 532 a monk named Dionysius Exiguus proposed that they
should abandon the old way of counting the years, and adopt the time of
the birth of Christ as a starting-point. He thought this would be a very
proper way of honoring the Saviour of the world. So he took great pains
to find out the exact time when Christ was born, and satisfied himself
that it was on the 25th day of December, in the 753d year from the
foundation of the city of Rome. The Roman Empire at one time included
most of the known world; and the Roman people, proud of their splendid
city, counted the years from the supposed time of its being founded. At
first the Christians did the same; but they were naturally pleased with
the idea of Dionysius."
"Was he the first man who tried to find out what day Christmas came on?"
asked Joe. "I should think everybody would have been anxious to know all
about it."
"Doubtless there was much interest on the subject. But you know the
early Christians had no newspapers, and very few books. Scarcely any of
them could even read. Besides, it was very difficult in those times to
travel or gain information; and it was dangerous to ask questions of the
heathen, or for a man to let them suspect that he was a Christian. And
then when we consider that the calendar was in confusion, because even
the wisest men did not know the exact length of the year, and there were
various ways of counting time, we need not be surprised that the
Christians disagreed and made mistakes as to the time when the Saviour
was born. In the fourth century, however, St. Cyril urged Pope Julius I.
to give orders for an investigation. The result was that the theologians
of the East and West agreed upon the 25th of December, though some of
them were not convinced. The chief grounds of the decision were the
tables in the public records of Rome.
"But let us return to Dionysius. His idea of making the year begin on
the 25th of December was thought to be rather too inconvenient, and so
the old commencement on the first day of January was retained, as the
Romans had arranged it. But the plan of Dionysius was carried out with
regard to the numbers by which the years were to be named and called.
Thus the year which had been known as 754 became, under the new system,
the year 1. And the succession of years from that year 1 is called the
Christian era. To get the numbers of its years you have only to subtract
753 from the years in the Roman numbering."
"If we add 753," said Joe, "to 1880, will we get the number of years
since old Rome was founded by Romulus and Remus?"
"Yes," said the Professor; "the rule works both ways. There is, however,
some uncertainty as to whether the Romans themselves were correct in
regard to the age of their city. Very early dates are hard to settle."
"Where did the months get their names?" asked May, "and how did months
come to be thought of at all?"
"The months were suggested by the moon. In most languages the word
_month_ is very nearly like _moon_, as you see it is in ours. From new
moon around to new moon again is about twenty-nine days, which is nearly
the length of a month. The exact time between two new moons is a very
puzzling problem. It always involves a troublesome fraction of a day,
and is, in fact, never twice alike. So it was found convenient to divide
the year into twelve parts, nearly equal, and to call each one a month."
"Why didn't they make them just equal?" asked Gus.
"To do so would have made it necessary to split up some of the days,
which would have been awkward. If you divide the 365 days of the year by
twelve, there will be five remaining."
"How was it found out that the year had 365 days in it?" asked Joe.
"It took the astronomers to do that," said the Professor; "and until
nations became civilized enough to study astronomy accurately, they did
not know the number of days in the year. This, however, did not prevent
them from being able to count the years, because they could know that
every time summer or winter came, a year had passed since the last
summer or winter. But now the length of the year--that is, the time
occupied by the earth in going completely round the sun--is known within
a fraction of a second."
"Was it worth while to go into it so precisely?" asked May. "Would it
not have been enough to know the number of the days?"
"By no means," said the Professor. "For then the calendar could not have
been regulated so that the months and festivals would keep pace with the
seasons. If 365 days had been constantly taken for a year, Christmas,
instead of staying in the winter, would long since have moved back
through autumn into summer, and so on. In about 1400 years it would
travel through the entire circle of the seasons, as it would come some
six hours earlier every year than it did the last. In like manner the
Fourth of July would gradually fall back into spring, then into winter;
and the fire-works would have to be set off in the midst of a
snow-storm. The old Romans saw the difficulty; and, to prevent it,
Julius Cæsar added an extra day to every fourth year, which you see is
the same thing as adding one-fourth of a day to each year, only it is
much more convenient. This was done because the earth requires nearly
365-1/4 days to move round the sun. The year that receives the extra day
is called, as you know, leap-year. But even this did not keep the
calendar exactly right. In the course of time other changes had to be
made, the greatest of which was in 1582, when Pope Gregory XIII. decreed
that ten entire days should be dropped out of the month of October. This
was called the change from Old to New Style."
"It was rather stupid," said Gus, "to shorten the pleasantest month in
the whole year. I would have clipped December or March."
"Please don't forget to tell us," said May, "how the months got their
names."
"The first six of them were called after the heathen deities, Janus,
Februus, Mars, Aphrodite, Maia, and Juno; July was named after Julius
Cæsar, the inventor of leap-year; August after Augustus the Emperor. The
names of the last four months simply mean seventh, eighth, ninth, and
tenth."
"But," said Joe, "December is not the tenth month, nor is September the
seventh."
"That is true," said the Professor; "but those names are supposed to
have been given by Romulus, who arranged a year of only ten months, and
made it begin with March. His year only had 304 days in it, and was soon
found to be much too short. So the months of January and February were
added, and instead of being placed at the end, they came in some way to
stand at the beginning."
"Now please tell us about the names of the days of the week, and we will
not ask any more questions."
"They were called after the sun, moon, and five planets known to the
ancients, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. You easily
recognize sun, moon, and Saturn, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday are from
names given by some of the Northern tribes of Europe to Mars, Jupiter,
and Venus. Mercury's day seems scarcely at all connected with his name,
but comes from Wodin, who was imagined to be chief among the gods of
those barbarous tribes."
TOMMY'S VALENTINE.
BY MRS. M. D. BRINE.
He was only a little street sweeper, you know,
Barefooted, and ragged as one could be;
But blue were his eyes as the far-off skies,
And a brave-hearted laddie was Tommy Magee.
But it chanced on the morning of Valentine's Day
Our little street sweeper felt lonely and sad;
"For there's _no fun_," thought he, "for a fellow like me,
And a valentine's something that _I_ never had."
But he flourished his broom, and the crossing made clean
For the ladies and gentlemen passing his way;
And he gave them a smile, singing gayly the while,
In honor, of course, of St. Valentine's Day.
Now it happened a party of bright little girls,
All dainty and rosy, and brimming with glee,
Came over the crossing, a careless glance tossing
To poor little barefooted Tommy Magee.
But all of a sudden then one of them turned,
And running to Tommy, thrust into his hand,
With a smile and a blush, and the whispered word "Hush,"
A beautiful valentine. You'll understand
How Tommy stood gazing, with wondering eyes,
After the group of wee ladies so fine,
As with joy without measure he held his new treasure;
And this is how Tommy got _his_ valentine.
LOST IN THE SNOW.
Among the dangers of the winter in the Pass of St. Gothard is the
fearful snow-storm called the "guxeten" by the Germans, and the
tourmente or "tormenta" by the Swiss. The mountain snow differs in form,
as well as in thickness and specific gravity, from the star-shaped
snow-flakes on the lower heights and in the valleys. It is quite floury,
dry, and sandy, and therefore very light. When viewed though a
microscope it assumes at times the form of little prismatic needles, at
other times that of innumerable small six-sided pyramids, from which, as
from the morning star, little points jut out on all sides, and which,
driven by the wind, cut through the air with great speed. With this fine
ice-dust of the mountain snow, the wind drives its wild game through the
clefts of the high Alps and over the passes, particularly that of St.
Gothard. Suddenly it tears up a few hundred thousand cubic feet of this
snow, and whirls it up high into the air, leaving it to the mercy of the
upper current, to fall to the ground again in the form of the thickest
snow-storm, or to be dispersed at will like glittering ice-crystals. At
times the wind sweeps up large tracts of the dry ice-dust, and pours
them down upon a deep-lying valley amid the mountains, or on to the
summit of the passes, obliterating in a few seconds the laboriously
excavated mountain road, at which a whole company of rutners have toiled
for days. All these appearances resemble the avalanches of other Alps,
but can not be regarded in the same light as the true snow-storm, the
tormenta or guxeten. This is incomparably more severe, and hundreds on
hundreds of lives have fallen sacrifices to its fury. These have mostly
been travelling strangers, who either did not distinguish the signs of
the coming storm, or, in proud reliance on their own power, refused to
listen to well-meant warnings, and continued their route. Almost every
year adds a large number of victims to the list of those who have fallen
a prey to the snow-storm.
History and the oral tradition of the mountains record many incidents of
accidents which have been occasioned by the fall of avalanches. During
the Bellinzona war, in 1478, as the confederates, with a force of 10,000
men, were crossing the St. Gothard, the men of Zürich were preceding the
army as van-guard. They had just refreshed themselves with some wine,
and were marching up the wild gorge, shouting and singing, in spite of
the warnings of their guides. Then, in the heights above, an avalanche
was suddenly loosened, which rushed down upon the road, and in its
impetuous torrent buried sixty warriors far below in the Reuss, in full
sight of those following.
On the 12th of March, 1848, in the so-called Planggen, above the tent of
shelter at the Mätelli, thirteen men who were conveying the post were
thrown by a violent avalanche into the bed of the Reuss, with their
horses and sledges. Three men, fathers of families, and nine horses were
killed; the others were saved by hastily summoned help. But one of their
deliverers, Joseph Müller, of Hospenthal, met a hero's death while
engaged in the rescue. He had hastened to help his neighbors, but in the
district called the "Harness" he and two others were overwhelmed by a
second violent avalanche, and lost their lives. In the same year the
post going up the mountain from Airola was overtaken by an avalanche
near the house of shelter at Ponte Tremola. A traveller from Bergamo was
killed; the rest escaped.
History tells of a most striking rescue from an avalanche on the St.
Gothard. In the year 1628, Landamman Kaspar, of Brandenburg, the newly
chosen Governor of Bellenz, was riding over the St. Gothard from Zug,
accompanied by his servant and a faithful dog. At the top of the pass
the party was overtaken by an avalanche which descended from the
Lucendro. The dog alone shook himself free. His first care was to
extricate his master. But when he saw that he could not succeed in doing
this, he hastened back to the hospice, and there, by pitiful howling and
whining, announced that an accident had happened. The landlord and his
servants set out immediately with shovels and pickaxes, and followed the
dog, which ran quickly before them. They soon reached the place where
the avalanche had fallen. Here the faithful dog stopped suddenly,
plunged his face into the snow, and began to scratch it up, barking and
whining. The men set to work at once, and after a long and difficult
labor succeeded in rescuing the Landamman, and soon afterward his
servant. They were both alive, after spending thirty-six fearful hours
beneath the snow, oppressed by the most painful thoughts. They had heard
the howling and barking of the dog quite plainly; and had noticed his
sudden departure, and the arrival of their deliverers; they had heard
them talking and working, without being able to move or utter a sound.
The Landamman's will ordained that an image of the faithful dog should
be sculptured at his feet on his tomb. This monument was seen till
lately in St. Oswald's Church, at Zug.
THE STORY OF GRANDMA, LORENZO, AND THE MONKEY.
BY MRS. A. M. DIAZ.
The children told the Family Story-Teller they did not believe he could
make a story about a grandma going to mill. "Especially," said the
children's mother, "a grandma troubled with rheumatism."
Family Story-Teller smiled, as much as to say, "You shall see," took a
few minutes to think, and began:
* * * * *
In Grandma Stimpcett's trunk was a very small, leathery, beady bag, and
in this bag was a written recipe for the Sudden Remedy--a sure cure for
rheumatism, sprains, bruises, and all lamenesses. The bag and the recipe
were given her by an Indian woman. To make the Sudden Remedy, grandma
got roots, herbs, barks, twigs, leaves, mints, moss, and tree gum. These
were scraped, grated, or pounded; sifted, weighed, measured, stewed,
and stirred; and the juice simmered down with the oil of juniper, and
bumble-bees' wax, and various smarty, peppery, slippery things whose
names must be kept private for a particular reason. The Sudden Remedy
cured her instantly; and as meal was wanted, and no other person could
be spared from the place, she offered to go to mill.
She went in the vehicle--an old chaise which had lost its top--taking
with her her bottle of the Sudden Remedy, in case, as Mr. Stimpcett
said, the rheumatism should return before she did.
"Shall you be back by sunset?" asked Mr. Stimpcett, as he fastened the
bag underneath the vehicle.
"Oh yes," said she; "I shall eat dinner at Debby's, and come away right
after dinner. You will see me back long before sunset." Her daughter
Debby lived at Mill Village.
Mr. Stimpcett shook his head. "I don't know about that," said he.
"If I am not back before sunset," said she, "I will give you--give you
five hundred dollars."
The people laughed at this; for all the money grandma had was only about
twenty dollars, put away in case of need.
Now when grandma had driven perhaps two miles on her way to mill, she
stopped at a farm-house to water her horse; and here something curious
happened. A woman came to the door of the house, and the next moment a
large boy, named Lorenzo, hopped out on one foot and two canes, and
began stumping about the yard at a furious rate, cackling, crowing, and
barking.
"That's the way he does when he can't sit still any longer," said the
woman. "He has to sit still a great deal, on account of a lame knee,
which is a pity," said she, "for a spry fellow like him; a good,
true-spoken fellow he is, too." The woman then told how he lamed his
knee.
Lorenzo said he wanted very much the use of his legs that day, because
there was to be a circus just beyond Mill Village. He said he wanted to
go to the circus so much he did not know what to do. He said he began
when he was four years old to go to circuses, and he had been to every
circus that had come around since. "Now this circus is only a little
more than two miles off," said he, "and here I am cooped up like a
hoppled horse."
[Illustration: "THIS BOTTLE CONTAINS THE SUDDEN REMEDY."]
Grandma smiled, and took out the bottle. "This bottle," said she,
"contains the Sudden Remedy--a quick cure for rheumatism, sprains,
bruises, and all lamenesses. Rub on with a flannel, and rub in briskly."
Lorenzo rubbed on with a flannel, and rubbed in briskly, and then seated
himself upon a stone to hear the stories grandma and the woman were
telling of people who had been upset, or thrown from horses, or had
fallen over stone walls, into wells, or down from trees, rocks,
house-tops, or chamber windows. Lorenzo told some stories, and at last,
in acting out one, he thrust forward his lame leg, without thinking of
it, and found it was no longer lame. He tried it again; he sprang up; he
stepped; he walked; he leaped; he skipped; he ran; he hurrahed; he flung
his canes away.
Grandma then invited Lorenzo to ride with her to Mill Village, near
which the circus was to be; and he quickly took a seat in the vehicle,
and having no time to put on his best clothes, he put on only his best
hat, tipping it one side in order to give himself a little of a
dressed-up look.
When grandma and Lorenzo reached Mill Village, Lorenzo got out at a
pea-nut stand, and grandma drove on to her daughter Debby's. She had
just stepped from the vehicle when Lorenzo came running to beg that she
would bring her Sudden Remedy to the miller's house, for the miller had
been taken that morning with the darting rheumatism, and the mill was
not running, and people were waiting with their corn.
Lorenzo drove grandma to the miller's house, and in two hours' time the
miller was in the mill, the wheel turning, and the corn
grinding--grandma's corn among the rest.
Something which was very important to the circus will now be told. The
Chief Jumper--the one who was to do the six wonderful things--lamed his
foot the night before, and could not jump. Now when the man who owned
the circus was looking at the Chief Jumper's foot, a circus errand-boy
in uniform passed by. This errand-boy had been to the mill to get corn
for the circus horses, and he told the man who owned the circus that a
woman had just cured the miller of the darting rheumatism, and told the
name of the medicine.
The circus owner took one of the circus riding wagons and the errand-boy
in uniform and set off immediately to find the woman who had the Sudden
Remedy, and found grandma at her daughter Debby's, just stepping into
the vehicle to go home. Lorenzo was there, fastening the bag of meal
securely under the vehicle. The circus owner offered grandma five
dollars if she would go and cure his Chief Jumper, and as there was time
to do that and reach home before sunset, she went, Lorenzo driving her
in the vehicle. The circus owner and the errand-boy in uniform kept just
in front of them, and some children who knew no better said that that
kind-looking old lady and the great boy belonged to the circus, and had
their circus clothes in the bag underneath.
Grandma was taken into a tent which led out of the big tent, where she
saw the Chief Jumper in full jumping costume, and the Dwarf, and the Fat
Man, and the Clown, and the Flying Cherub; and the Remedy worked so well
that the Chief Jumper thought he might jump higher than ever before.
[Illustration: THE LAME MONKEY.]
The Clown led grandma to the cage where monkeys were kept, and asked her
if she would be willing to cure a poor suffering monkey whose leg had
been hurt by a stone thrown by a cruel boy. Grandma said, certainly, for
that she pitied even an animal that had to suffer pain. The Clown then
took the monkey, and held its paw while grandma patted its head and
stroked its back, and poured on the Remedy, the Flying Cherub standing
near by to see what was to be done.
The circus owner invited grandma to stay to the circus; but as she had
not time, he paid her eight dollars, and led her to the vehicle.
Now we are coming to the most wonderful part of my story. People going
home from mill had told the tale of the miller's cure, and on her way
back grandma was stopped by various people, who begged her to come into
their houses and cure rheumatism, sprains, bruises, and other
lamenesses. This took a great deal of time; but the kind-hearted old
lady was so anxious to ease pain that she forgot all about her promise
to Mr. Stimpcett, and when she reached home it was ten minutes past
sunset.
Three buggies stood near Mr. Stimpcett's house. Grandma thought they
were doctors' buggies. "Oh dear!" she said to herself, "something
dreadful must be the matter!" She counted the children playing at the
door-step. They were all there--Moses, Obadiah, Deborah, and little
Cordelia.
At this moment Mr. Stimpcett came forward and said to grandma that three
gentlemen had come, one after another, and had each asked to have a
private talk with her. There was a large fleshy man in the front room, a
chubby little man in the kitchen, and a sleek, long-faced man in the
spare chamber.
Grandma talked with these, one at a time. They were all medicine
sellers. Each one wished to buy the recipe for making the Sudden Remedy,
and would pay a good price for it. For they knew that thousands and
thousands of barrels of this Remedy could be sold all over the United
States, Mexico, Canada, and Central America, and enormous sums of money
made by the sale.
The summer boarder, Mr. St. Clair, said that the man who would pay the
most money for it ought to have the recipe. Grandma brought from her
trunk the small, leathery, beady bag which contained the recipe, and Mr.
St. Clair stood in the vehicle, held up the bag, and said: "Bid!
gentlemen, bid! How much do I have for it?"
The bidding was interrupted by a Jumper. It was a circus Jumper, but not
the Chief Jumper. While the people were all looking at Mr. St. Clair, a
monkey sprang from the meal bag underneath the vehicle and jumped upon
grandma's shoulder, nearly knocking her over. It was the same one she
had cured. On account of his lameness, he had been loosely tied, and
from a feeling of thankfulness, no doubt, for being cured, he had run
away and followed grandma.
The Stimpcett children--Moses, Obadiah, Deborah, and little
Cordelia--shouted and capered so that the selling of the recipe could
hardly go on; but at last it was sold, leathery, beady bag and all, to
the sleek, long-faced man, for nine hundred dollars, of which grandma
gave five hundred to Mr. Stimpcett, according to the promise she made
before going to mill.
The circus people were written to, but as they did not send for Jacko,
he was kept for the children, to play with. Mrs. Stimpcett dressed him
in a pretty suit of clothes, with a cap and feather on his head. He
showed much affection for grandma, followed her about daytimes both
in-doors and out, and would sleep nowhere at night but at the foot of
her bed, where a bandbox was at last placed for him. The children loved
him dearly; but poor Jacko did so much mischief in trying to knit, and
to cook, and to weed the garden, that it was finally declared that
something must be done about that monkey; and grandma gave him to
Lorenzo, with money enough to buy a grand harmonica.
Lorenzo came for the monkey toward the close of a calm summer's day, and
fed him with frosted cake, which caused him to feel pleased with
Lorenzo. There was a string fastened to his collar; Lorenzo took the
string in one hand, and some frosted cake in the other, and led Jacko
away. The children--Moses, and Obadiah, and Deborah, and little
Cordelia--following on for quite a distance, all weeping.
[Illustration: THE TWO-CENT SIDE-SHOW.]
Lorenzo went about for some time with a circus company. Evenings he
staid inside the big tent to see the doings, and daytimes he had a
two-cent side-show in a small tent of his own, where the monkey played
wonderful tricks, and marched to the music of the grand harmonica.
At last he came to grandma, and told her that as for the Clown, he was a
kind-hearted, sensible man, but that the others were commonly either
drunk, or cross, or both, and that he had to travel nights, wet or dry,
and that he was sick of that kind of life. He sold the monkey to a
hand-organ man, and went back to live in his old home; and the last that
was known of Jacko he was seen in the streets of a town carrying round
the hand-organ man's hat for pennies.
It was grandma and Mr. Stimpcett who saw him, as they were riding past
in the vehicle; and he saw them, and gave a bound, and broke his string,
and leaped into the vehicle, and clasped his paws round grandma's neck;
and the hand-organ man was obliged to place six maple-sugar cakes in a
row upon the sidewalk before Jacko would return to him.
The sleek, long-faced man made his fortune by selling the Sudden Remedy,
but few of those who bought it and took it knew what old lady it was who
sold him the recipe for it.
* * * * *
The Family Story-Teller's next was a story of mistakes, and odd mistakes
they were.
THE CHILDREN'S WEDDING.
It very often happens that children of royal families are by their
parents or by wise statesmen engaged to marry each other almost as soon
as they are born, but the actual weddings do not generally take place
until the children are grown up. One of these weddings did, however,
actually take place, a great many years ago, between two children, and
the story of it is as follows:
January 15, 1478, was the day appointed, when Richard, Duke of York,
second son of Edward IV., aged four years, and created already Duke of
Norfolk, Earl Warren and Surrey, and Earl Marshal of England, in right
of his intended wife, was to lead to the altar the little girl whose
tiny hand would bestow upon him the immense estates and riches of the
Norfolk inheritance.
The little Lady Anne, who was, as an old book informs us, the richest
and most noble match of that time, appears to have been two years older
than her intended husband, and must have reached the advanced age of six
years! She does not appear to have objected to the match, but to have
been quite ready to act her part in the pageant, and no doubt the little
Duke was eager to receive the notice and applause of the courtly throng,
whilst both children looked with astonishment at the sumptuous
preparations, and the costly splendor of their own and the spectators'
dresses.
The ceremony began by the high and mighty Princess, as the little bride
was called in the formal language of the day, being brought in great
state and in solemn procession to the King's great chamber at
Westminster Palace. This took place the day before the wedding, on the
14th of January. The bride, splendidly dressed, most probably in the
bridal robes of white cloth of gold, a mantle of the same bordered with
ermine, and with her hair streaming down her back, and confined to her
head by the coronet of a duchess, was led by the Earl of Rivers, the
bridegroom's uncle. She was followed, of course, by her mother, and by
the noblest of the court ladies of rank, and the gentlewomen of her
household, whilst behind came dukes, earls, and barons, all in
attendance on the little bride.
As soon as she had arrived in the lofty hall of Westminster Palace she
was led to the dais, or place of estate, as it was called, where, under
a canopy, and seated on a chair of estate, or kind of throne, she kept
her estate, _i. e._, sat in royal pomp with the King, Queen, and their
children seated on either hand, whilst her procession of peers and
peeresses stood around and waited upon her. Refreshments were then
brought "according to the form and estate of the realm," which must have
been a very wearisome and formal ceremony for a little girl of six years
old, and which ended that day's ceremony.
On the 15th the Princess came out of the Queen's rooms, where she had
slept, and led on one hand by the Earl of Lincoln, nephew to the King,
and on the other by the Earl of Rivers, she passed through the King's
great chamber in the palace into the White Hall, and from there to St.
Stephen's Chapel. She was followed by a long suite of ladies and
gentlewomen. Meanwhile the little bridegroom, the Queen, and a noble
procession of lords and gentlemen, had already entered the chapel and
taken up their places on the seats appointed for them, ready to receive
and welcome the bride. There were also present the King and the Prince
of Wales, the King's mother, and the three Princesses who acted as
bridemaids, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cecily.
As soon as the bride drew near to the door, between her two noble
supporters, the Bishop of Norwich came forward and received her at the
chapel entrance, intending to lead her and the bridegroom to their
proper places and begin the service. Then the bishop asked who would
give the Princess away? In answer the King stood up and took her hand,
and gave it to the bishop, who placed it in the bridegroom's, and went
on to the rest of the service, concluding with high mass. When this part
was concluded, the Duke of Gloucester brought into the chapel basins of
gold filled with gold and silver pieces, which he threw amongst the
crowds of people who had pressed in to see the wedding, and who were
highly delighted with this part of it.
Then followed the usual wine and spices, which were actually served out
to the royal party in the church itself. The bridal party then left the
chapel, the little bride and bridegroom, escorted by the Duke of
Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham (Richard's two uncles) on either
side. They returned to St. Edward's Chamber in the palace, where a
splendid banquet was prepared, and their numbers were increased by the
bride's mother, who staid at home, strange to say, instead of
accompanying her daughter and the Duchess of Buckingham. Another guest
who now presided at a table on one side of the room with many ladies,
whilst the Earl of Dorset, the Queen's son by her first husband, sat
opposite at another side table, was the Earl of Richmond, afterward
Henry VII., who, wonderful to say, was present, and whom Edward IV. must
have invited to get him into his power. However, as soon as the
marriage feasts were over, he managed to escape abroad without being
stopped by the King.
The banquet completed the festivities of the wedding day, and, tired and
wearied, the baby couple must have been glad to close their eyes in
sleep.
No marriage, however, was complete without a tournament, and so on the
18th, when the children had recovered the fatigue of their wedding, a
grand tournament took place, when the bride became the "Princess of the
Feast," took up her place at the head of the first banqueting table, and
there, supported by the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham, gave her
largesse to the heralds, who proclaimed her name and title in due form.
All the royal family were present, and the foreign ambassadors, and one
of the most distinguished spectators was "my lord of Richmond." The
coursers were running at each other with either spear or sword, and at
the close of the jousts, the Princess of the Feast, with all her ladies
and gentlewomen, withdrew to the King's great chamber at Westminster to
decide upon the prizes. First, however, the high and mighty Princess
called in her minstrels, and all the ladies and gentlewomen, lords and
knights, fell to dancing right merrily. Then came the king-at-arms to
announce to the Princess the names of those whose valor deserved the
rewards she was to give away, as the principal lady on whom the duty
devolved. But the little lady was both very young and bashful, and so to
help her the lovely Princess Elizabeth, then a girl of fourteen, was
appointed, and a council of ladies was held to consider the share each
should take.
The prizes were golden letters, A, E, and M, the initials of Anne,
Elizabeth, and Mowbray, set in gems, and were delivered to Elizabeth by
the king-at-arms. The A was to be awarded to the best jouster, the E to
the best runner in harness, and the M for the best swordsman. The first
prize was then presented by the little bride, aided by Elizabeth, to
Thomas Fynes, on which the chief herald cried out, "Oh yes! oh yes! oh
yes! Sir William Truswell jousted well; William Say jousted well; Thomas
Fynes jousted best; for the which the Princess of the Feast awarded the
prize of the jousts royal, that is to say, the A of gold, to him," quoth
Clarencieux.
Then the other prizes were given with the same ceremonies, the
king-at-arms, Clarencieux, proclaiming in a loud voice before each,
"Right high and excellent Princess, here is the prize which you shall
award unto the best jouster," which Elizabeth received and then handed
to her little sister-in-law, until all had been given, and the
tournament was over. And now the infant marriage, with its pretty
pageantry and joyous festivities, was concluded, and the children
returned to the daily routine of play and lessons, whilst the wonderful
wedding must have gradually faded from their memories.
A HUNTING ADVENTURE.
While travelling in India, an English officer once spent a night in a
small village, the inhabitants of which were much alarmed by a large
panther which lurked in the jungle just beyond their houses. They begged
the officer to kill it before he proceeded on his journey. He succeeded
in finding and wounding it the next morning, but before killing it, had
a terrible struggle, which he describes as follows:
"Having warned the village shikaree to keep close behind me with the
heavy spear he had in his hand, I began to follow the wounded panther;
but had scarcely gone twenty-five yards, when one of the beaters, who
was on high ground, beckoned to me, and pointed a little below him, and
in front of me. There was the large panther sitting out unconcealed
between two bushes a dozen yards before me. I could not, however, see
his head; and whilst I was thus delayed, he came out with a roar,
straight at me. I fired at his chest with a ball, and as he sprang upon
me, the shot barrel was aimed at his head. In the next moment he seized
my left arm, and the gun. Thus, not being able to use the gun as a club,
I forced it into his mouth. He bit the stock through in one place, and
whilst his upper fangs lacerated my arm and hand, the lower fangs went
into the gun. His hind claws pierced my left thigh. He tried very hard
to throw me over. In the mean while the shikaree had retreated some
paces to the left. He now, instead of spearing the panther, shouted out,
and struck him, using the spear as a club. In a moment the animal was
upon him, stripping him of my shikar-bag, his turban, my revolving
rifle, and the spear. The man passed by me, holding his wounded arm. The
panther quietly crouched five paces in front of me, with all my
despoiled property, stripped from the shikaree, around and under him. I
retreated step by step, my face toward the foe, till I got to my horse,
and to the beaters, who were all collected together some forty yards
from the fight.
"I immediately loaded the gun with a charge of shot and a bullet, and
taking my revolver pistol out of the holster, and sticking it into my
belt, determined to carry on the affair to its issue, knowing how rarely
men recover from such wounds as mine. I was bleeding profusely from
large tooth wounds in the arm; the tendons of my left hand were torn
open, and I had five claw wounds in the thigh. The poor shikaree's arm
was somewhat clawed up, and if the panther was not killed, the
superstition of the natives would go far to kill this man.
"I persuaded my horse-keeper to come with me, and taking the hog-spear
he had in his hand, we went to the spot where lay the weapons stripped
from the shikaree. A few yards beyond them crouched the huge panther
again. I could not see his head very distinctly, but fired deliberately
behind his shoulder. In one moment he was again upon me. I gave him the
charge of shot, as I supposed, in his face, but had no time to take aim.
In the next instant the panther got hold of my left foot in his teeth,
and threw me on my back. I struck at him with the empty gun, and he
seized the barrels in his mouth. This was his last effort. I sprang up,
and seizing the spear from the horse-keeper, drove it through his side,
and thus killed him."
EAGLES AND THEIR WAYS.
The great golden eagle is one of the most distinguished members of its
mighty family. It is found in many parts of the world, a kingly
inhabitant of mountainous regions, where it builds its nest on rocky
crags accessible only to the most daring hunter.
This noble bird is of a rich blackish-brown tint on the greater part of
its body, its head and neck inclining to a reddish color. Its tail is
deep gray crossed with dark brown bars. Some large specimens which have
been captured have measured nearly four feet in length, while the
magnificent wings expanded from eight to nine feet.
The golden eagle is no longer found in England, but is still plentiful
in the Scottish Highlands, where it makes its nest on some lofty ledge
of rock among the mountain solitudes. Swiss naturalists state that it
sometimes nests in the lofty crotch of some gigantic oak growing on the
lower mountain slopes, but Audubon and other eminent ornithologists
declare that an eagle's nest built in a tree has never come under their
observation.
The nest of this inhabitant of the mountains is not neatly made, like
those of smaller birds, but is a huge mass of twigs, dried grasses,
brambles, and hair heaped together to form a bed for the little ones.
Here the mother bird lays three or four large white eggs speckled with
brown. The young birds are almost coal-black, and only assume the golden
and brownish tinge as they become full grown, which is not until about
the fourth year. Eaglets two or three years old are described in books
of natural history as ring-tailed eagles, and are sometimes taken for a
distinct species of the royal bird, while in reality they are the
children of the golden eagle tribe.
Eagles rarely change their habitation, and, unless disturbed, a pair
will inhabit the same nest for years. It is very faithful to its mate,
and one pair have been observed living happily together through a long
life. Should one die, the bird left alone will fly away in search of
another mate, and soon return with it to its former home. Eagles live to
a great age; even in captivity in royal gardens specimens have been
known to live more than a hundred years.
Eagles are very abundant in Switzerland. Although not so powerful as the
great vulture, which also inhabits the lofty mountains, they are bolder
and more enduring. For hours the golden eagle will soar in the air high
above the mountain-tops, and move in wide-sweeping circles with a
scarcely perceptible motion of its mighty wings. When on the hunt for
prey, it is very cunning and sharp-sighted. Its shrill scream rings
through the air, filling all the smaller birds with terror. When it
approaches its victim its scream changes to a quick kik-kak-kak,
resembling the barking of a dog, and gradually sinking until
sufficiently near, it darts in a straight line with the rapidity of
lightning upon its prey. None of the smaller birds and beasts are safe
from its clutches. Fawns, rabbits, and hares, young sheep and goats,
wild birds of all kinds, fall helpless victims, for neither the swiftest
running nor the most rapid flight can avail against this king of the
air.
The strength of the eagle is such that it will bear heavy burdens in its
talons for miles until it reaches its nest, where the hungry little ones
are eagerly waiting the parent's return. Here, standing on the ledge of
rock, the eagle tears the food into morsels, which the eaglets eagerly
devour. It is a curious fact that near an eagle's nest there is usually
a storehouse or larder--some convenient ledge of rock--where the parent
birds lay up hoards of provisions. Hunters have found remains of lambs,
young pigs, rabbits, partridges, and other game heaped up ready for the
morning meal.
[Illustration: EAGLES FIGHTING OVER A CHAMOIS.]
Over its hunting ground the eagle is king. It fears neither bird nor
beast, its only enemy being man. In Switzerland, during the winter
season, when the mountains are snow-bound, the eagle will descend to the
plain in search of food. When driven by hunger, it will seize on
carrion, and even fight desperately with its own kind for the possession
of the desired food. Swiss hunters tell many stories of furious battles
between eagles over the dead body of some poor chamois or other mountain
game.
Eagles are very affectionate and faithful to their little ones as long
as they need care; but once the young eaglets are able to take care of
themselves, the parent birds drive them from the nest, and even from the
hunting ground. The young birds are often taken from the nest by
hunters, who with skill and daring scale the rocky heights during the
absence of the parents, which return to find a desolate and empty nest.
But it goes hard with the hunter if the keen eyes of the old birds
discover him before he has made his safe descent with his booty. Darting
at him with terrible fury, they try their utmost to throw him from the
cliff; and unless he be well armed, and use his weapons with skill and
rapidity, his position is one of the utmost peril.
The young birds are easily tamed; and the experiment has already been
tried with some success of using them as the falcon, to assist in
hunting game.
The golden eagle is an inhabitant of the Rocky Mountains, but is very
seldom seen farther eastward. Audubon reports having noticed single
pairs in the Alleghanies, in Maine, and even in the valley of the
Hudson; but such examples are very rare, for this royal bird is truly a
creature of the mountains. It fears neither cold nor tempestuous winds
nor icy solitudes.
The eagle's plume is an old and famous decoration of warriors and
chieftains, and is constantly alluded to, especially in Scottish legend
and song. The Northwestern Indians ornament their headdresses and their
weapons with the tail feathers of the eagle, and institute hunts for the
bird with the sole purpose of obtaining them. Indians prize these
feathers so highly that they will barter a valuable horse for the tail
of a single bird.
Royal and noble in its bearing, the eagle has naturally been chosen as
the symbol of majesty and power. It served as one of the imperial
emblems of ancient Rome, and is employed at the present time for the
regal insignia of different countries. The bald eagle, the national bird
of the United States, belongs to the same great family as its golden
cousin, and is a sharer of its lordly characteristics.
[Illustration: Top Border (Snowflakes)]
THE HIDDEN BEAUTIES OF THE SNOW
[Illustration: Left Side Border]
[Illustration: Right Side Border]
In the falling of the snow we have snow _showers_ and snow _storms_. In
the snow _shower_ the air is filled with light, fleecy flakes, which
descend gently and noiselessly through it, and either melt away and
disappear as fast as they alight, or else, when the temperature is below
the point of freezing, slowly accumulate upon every surface where they
can gain a lodgment, until the fields are everywhere covered with a
downy fleece of spotless purity, and every salient point--the tops of
the fences and posts, the branches of the trees, and the interminable
lines of telegraph wire--are adorned with a white and dazzling trimming.
In such a fall of snow as this the delicate process of crystallization
is not disturbed by any agitations in the air. The feathery needles from
each little nucleus extend themselves in every direction as far as they
will, and combining by gentle contacts with others floating near them,
form large and fleecy flakes, involving the nicest complications of
structure, and filling the air with a kind of beauty in which the
expression of softness and gracefulness is combined with that of
mathematical symmetry and precision.
In a snow _storm_ the force of the wind and the intensity of the cold
usually change all this. The progress of the crystallization, which to
be perfect must take place slowly, and under the condition of perfect
repose, is at once hastened by the low temperature, and disturbed by the
commotion in the air. Across the broad expanse of open plains, along
mountain-sides, through groves of trees, and over the smooth surface of
frozen lakes and rivers, millions of misshapen and broken crystals are
driven by the wind, piled up in heaps, or accumulated in confused masses
under the lee of every obstruction, having been subjected on the way to
such violence of agitation and collision that the characteristic beauty
and symmetry of the material is entirely destroyed.
If we examine attentively the falling flakes, whether of snow _showers_
or of snow _storms_, at different times, under the varying circumstances
in which snow forms and descends, we shall be surprised at the number
and variety of the forms which they assume. They may be received and
examined upon any black surface--the crown of a hat, or a piece of black
cloth, for example--previously cooled below the freezing-point. At any
one time the crystallizations are usually alike, but different
snow-falls seem to have each its own special conformation. Sometimes,
however, a change takes place from one style of flake to another in the
course of the same storm or shower, and during the period of transition
both varieties fall together from the air. Persons interested in such
observations may easily make drawings with a pen of the different forms
that present themselves from time to time, and thus in the course of a
winter make a very curious and interesting collection.
The number and variety of the forms which the snowy crystallizations
assume seem greatest in the polar regions, and the celebrated scientific
navigator Scoresby studied them there with great attention during his
various arctic voyages. He made drawings of ninety-six different forms,
and the number has been increased since, by more recent observers, to
several hundred.