CHAPTER VIII.

[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?