_Almagro attempts to conquer Chili.--His misfortunes.--Cruelty
to the natives.--Battle with the Promancians.--Almagro
retires to Peru.--His death._
The conquest of Peru by Francis Pizarro, has been already recorded.
Among the officers who assisted in the conquest, was Diego Almagro--a
chosen friend and fit companion for the ruthless Pizarro. But the
friendships of the wicked are easily set aside whenever self-interest
operates. Pizarro wanted all the gold of Peru; and he persuaded Almagro
to attempt the conquest of Chili.
The Spaniards had heard that Chili was a country rich in gold and
silver; and Almagro, flattered with having such a field of wealth
entirely to himself, was induced to undertake the conquest.
Filled with these sanguine expectations of great booty, he began his
march for Chili near the end of the year 1535. He had an army composed
of five hundred and seventy Spaniards and fifteen thousand Peruvians.
Two roads lead from Peru to Chili; one is by the sea-coast, and
destitute of water or provisions; the other, for the distance of one
hundred and twenty miles, passes over the Andes. This last Almagro
took, for no other reason but because it was shortest, and he was
impatient to reach his golden harvest.
But he paid dearly for his folly; his army, having been exposed to
infinite fatigue and many conflicts with the adjoining savages, reached
the Cordilleras just at the commencement of winter, destitute of
food, and almost of clothing. In this season the snow falls almost
continually, and completely covers the few paths that are passable in
summer.
The soldiers, encouraged by their general, who had no idea of the
dangers of the passage, arrived at the tops of the mountains, but could
go no farther. One hundred and fifty Spaniards, and _ten thousand_
Peruvians, there died by cold and hunger.
The whole army would have perished, had not Almagro resolutely pushed
forward with a few horsemen and reached the plains of Copiapo, and then
sent back provisions to the exhausted and dying soldiers. Those of the
more robust constitutions were, by this means, saved.
The inhabitants of Copiapo, which is the first province in Chili,
received these worn and hungry strangers with all the rites of friendly
hospitality. The Peruvians had been long held in respect by the
Chilians of that province; and the Spaniards, as incorporated with the
soldiers of Peru, were welcomed by the _Ulmen_ or governor of Copiapo.
He was probably a vain man, and wished to impress the Spaniards with a
high idea of his wealth and power: we cannot otherwise account for the
infatuation of his conduct. Had he been a wise man, he would have known
that avarice is never satisfied--that to feed is only to increase it.
Be that as it may, he had, it seems, learned the prevailing passion of
the Spaniards for gold, and he collected from his people a sum equal to
500,000 ducats, and presented them to Almagro. One would think such a
rich present deserved to be gratefully remembered.
But those who worship mammon allow no feelings of friendship or
gratitude to interfere with their selfish propensities. Under the
pretext that the Ulmen had usurped the government which belonged to his
nephew, Almagro arrested the chief of Copiapo, and kept him a prisoner.
About the same time two Spanish soldiers, having separated from the
rest of the army, proceeded to Guasco, where they were at first well
received, but were afterwards put to death by the inhabitants, in
consequence, no doubt, of some acts of violence, which soldiers, freed
from the control of their officers, are very apt to commit.
This was the first European blood spilt in Chili,--a country afterwards
so copiously sprinkled with it.
Had Almagro wished to preserve peace, and impartially examined the
whole transaction, he would, undoubtedly, have found the Chilians
justified by the laws of nations and of nature, in the act they had
committed. True, it was rash, and it afforded him a pretext, which was
all he wanted, to begin his cruel oppressions.
Almagro seized the Ulmen of the district in which his soldiers were
put to death, his brother and twenty of the principal inhabitants, and
without even accusing them of being concerned in the murder, indeed
without assigning any reason at all for his conduct, he ordered them to
be burnt. At the same time he also consigned the Ulmen of Copiapo to
the flames.
Who will say that the savage crime, even allowing the two soldiers were
murdered without provocation, was to be compared in iniquity to that
retaliation in which the civilized Christian indulged? But the savage
never made gold his god.
The cruelty of the Spanish general, and the intentions he now
manifested of enslaving the Chilians, instead of terrifying, at once
roused that brave people to resistance.
It is a melancholy task to record the murders and cruelties of war, but
we cannot blame a people for resisting the progress of an invading
army, especially when they come, as the Spaniards did, to plunder the
country, and make the inhabitants slaves.
Almagro, however, was so elated with his success, and felt so secure
of conquering all Chili as easily as he had obtained the command of
Copiapo, that he would not hearken at all to his Peruvian allies,
who represented to him that the Chilians in the other provinces were
numerous and warlike. He advanced into the province of the Promancians.
At the first sight of the Spaniards, their horses, and the thundering
arms of Europe, these valiant people were almost petrified with
astonishment. But they soon recovered from their surprise, and prepared
to defend themselves. They met the Spaniards on the shore of the Rio
Claro. Almagro despised their force; he knew that the red men had
never been a match for Spanish valor, and so he placed his Peruvian
auxiliaries in front, intending, with his Spaniards, to appear merely
as spectators of the fight.
The Chilians soon routed these allies, or rather slaves of the
Spaniards, and then, nothing daunted by the horses, guns and swords
of the white men, they rushed on with a courage which the superior
discipline of the Spaniards could not resist. The battle was furious,
and continued till night separated the combatants.
The Promancians had lost many warriors, but they had also destroyed
many of their foes; and they encamped in sight of the enemy, determined
to renew the fight on the following morning. The Spaniards, however,
though they had kept the field, had no inclination to dispute another
such day. They had been accustomed to subdue immense provinces with
little or no resistance; but now they had met with a bold and
independent nation, who did not believe them to be invincible or
immortal.
Almagro, finding that his soldiers refused to fight again, abandoned
the enterprize, and immediately began his march for Peru. He returned
by the sea-coast; his dread of the perils of the mountain road being
fresh in his mind. On his return to Peru he attempted to secure that
government for himself, and for this purpose fought a battle with
Pizarro, by whom he was taken, tried and beheaded as a disturber of the
public peace.
Thus perished the first invader of Chili. The thirst of riches was the
moving spring of his expedition. He was disappointed; he then sought to
dispossess _his friend_ Pizarro of the share he had obtained in the New
World, and by him was put to death; thus showing that there can be no
sincere friendships among the wicked.
[Illustration: THE RHINOCEROS.]
The Rhinoceros.
I know not how it may be with others, but I could never see a
rhinoceros without laughing. There was one in Boston a few years ago,
and he looked to me like an enormous pig with a very muddy coat on.
His shape, his aspect, his ways, were all swinish, and his skin seemed
entirely too large for him; it was therefore gathered up in folds
across his back and sides. He eat hay, though he seemed to prefer sweet
apples, corn and potatoes. He was a curiosity indeed.
I believe the rhinoceros to be the only creature that has a horn upon
his nose; and I do not see why that is not a good place for one,
if the creature wants a horn. This animal finds his convenient for
tearing away the trees in his passage through the woods, and perhaps
in digging up roots for food; and in his battles with the elephant, he
often gives his enemy a terrible scratch with it under the ribs. So
his horn answers at one time as a pickaxe, and at another it is like
a warrior’s spear: thus it serves the purposes of peace and war; it
brings sustenance, and it affords defence. Who then shall find fault
with nature for giving the rhinoceros a horn upon the nose?
If one horn upon the nose is a good thing, two must be better; so there
are some of these creatures that have two. The African species, which
is very powerful and numerous in some parts, has two horns; the Asiatic
species, found in India, has but one. This latter kind is seldom more
than six or seven feet long, but those of Africa are sometimes twelve
feet. They are, therefore, excepting the elephant, the largest of
quadrupeds.
In India the hunting of the rhinoceros is famous sport. The people
go out mounted upon elephants, and usually find five or six of these
animals in a drove. Their hides are so thick that it is difficult to
kill them. One will often receive twenty bullets before he falls.
The rhinoceros attacks an elephant fearlessly, and endeavors to get
his horn under him so as to rip him open. But the elephant, finding
what he would be at, turns his tail to the assailant, who gives him a
hunch behind, and tumbles his huge enemy upon his knees. Then the men
upon the elephant fire their guns and pepper the thick hide of the
rhinoceros with their bullets.
Thus goes the fight, and after many adventures, and much danger, and
plenty of accidents and hair breadth ’scapes, and a vast waste of
gunpowder and lead, the game usually runs away, or perhaps it is left
as a trophy of the sportsman’s skill and prowess upon the field.
The rhinoceros feeds entirely upon vegetables, always living near
water, and taking a frequent wallow in the mud, or a bath in the wave.
He is fearful of man, and though dull of sight, has an acute scent and
a sharp ear, which enable him usually to keep out of reach of the being
he dreads so much. It is only when hunted and closely pursued, that he
turns to fight, and then he is fierce and formidable. In confinement
he becomes quiet and stupid, though he sometimes gets into a fury, and
then he rends his cage in pieces with ease. It is almost impossible to
confine him when his rage is excited.
Briers and Berries.
’Twas on a gloomy, smoky day,
(If rightly I the date remember,
For certainly I cannot say,)
About the middle of September,
When I, astride my pacing grey,
Was plodding on my weary way,
To spend the night and preach the word
To people who had never heard
The gospel; or, to say the least,
Had never viewed it as a feast
Of fat things full of marrow.
In sadness as I rode along
And crossed the silver Unadilla,
The robin sung his plaintive song,
And faintly drooped the fading lily:
The smoky sky, no longer blue,
Assumed a dim and dusky grey;
And Autumn, o’er my feelings threw
The coloring of its own decay,
And filled my heart with sorrow.
I, in my mind, was pondering o’er
The miseries that beset the preacher:
The persecutions which he bore--
(The scoff and scorn of every creature--)
His heated brain--his frame worn down,
Emaciated and dyspeptic--
The hardened bigot’s iron frown--
The jeers and satire of the skeptic--
One mocking revelation’s page--
The other ridiculing reason--
And then the storms we must engage,
And all th’ inclemencies of season.
In this desponding, gloomy mood,
I rode perhaps a mile or two--
When lo! beside the way there stood
A little girl, with eyes of blue,
Light hair, and cheeks as red as cherries;
And through the briers, with much ado,
She wrought her way to pick the berries.
Quoth I, “My little girl, it seems
To me, you buy your berries dear;
For down your hand the red blood streams,
And down your cheek there rolls a tear.”
“O, yes,” said she, “but then, you know,
_There will be briers where berries grow_.”
These words came home with keen rebuke
To me, who mourned life’s little jostles,
And called to mind the things that Luke
Has written of the first apostles,
Who faced the foe without a fear,
And counted even life not dear.
And since, from that good hour to this,
Come pleasant or come stormy weather,
I still reflect that human bliss
And human wo are mixed together:
Come smiling friend or frowning foe--
‘_There will be briers where berries grow_.’
BROWNE.
The Crows’ Court of Law.
There is a kind of crow which is seen in the south of England in flocks
about the middle of autumn; it is called the hooded crow. These crows
go away towards the north in spring; they are very tame, and will go
into the yards of houses to pick up food.
They are not very like the common crows, for their backs are
ash-colored, and their heads, throat, wings and tail, are black, and
they have two cries; one of them being like the voice of the common
crow, and the other something like the crowing of a cock.
It is said that in some places where these birds are found, one or two
hundred of them will now and then meet together, as if upon some fixed
plan, and at these times a few of them sit with drooping heads, and
others look very grave, as if they were judges, and others are very
bustling and noisy.
In about an hour the meeting breaks up, when one or two are generally
found dead, and it has been supposed that this meeting is a sort of
trial of some crows who have behaved ill, and who are punished in this
severe way for their bad behavior.
The Story of the Supposed Miser.
A great many miles to the east is a country called France, in the
southern part of which is a large city called Marseilles. In this place
there once lived a man by the name of Guizot. He was always busy, and
seemed very anxious to get money, either by his industry, or in some
other way.
He was poorly clad, and his food was of the simplest and cheapest kind.
He lived alone, and denied himself all the luxuries and many of the
comforts of life.
He was honest and faithful, never taking that which was not his own,
and always performing his promises; yet the people of Marseilles
thought he was a miser, and they held him in great contempt. As he
passed along the streets, the rich men looked on him with scorn, and
the poor hissed and hooted at him. Even the boys would cry out, “There
goes old Skinflint; there goes old Greedy Gizzard.”
But the old man bore all this insult with gentleness and patience. Day
by day, he went to his labor, and day by day, as he passed through the
crowd, he was saluted with taunts, and sneers, and reproaches.
Thus, time passed on, and poor Guizot was now more than eighty years of
age. But he still continued the same persevering industry, still lived
in the same saving, simple manner as before.
Though he was now bent almost double, and though his hair was thin and
white as snow; though his knees tottered as he went along the streets;
still the rude jokes and hisses of the throng pursued him wherever he
went.
But, at length, the old man died, and it was ascertained that he
had heaped together, in gold and silver, a sum equal to two hundred
thousand dollars. On looking over his papers, his will was found, in
which were the following words:
“I was once poor, and I observed that the poor people of
Marseilles suffered very much for the want of pure, fresh
water. I have devoted my life to the saving of a sum of
money sufficient to build an aqueduct to supply the city
of Marseilles with pure water, so that the poor may have a
full supply.”
The Mouth.
The mouth was made to eat and speak with. It is therefore a pretty
convenient and useful thing, and we could not well do without it.
But the mouth, like almost everything else, needs to be taken care of.
Sometimes the mouth will pout, and make a child look very disagreeable.
Sometimes the mouth will eat very fast, and get too much in at a time.
Don’t let your mouth do any such things as these!
I forgot to tell you another very curious thing about the mouth, and
that is, that it laughs! I believe dogs, and cats, and pigs, and
hens, and geese, never laugh; but children laugh, and old people too,
sometimes.
It is well enough to laugh, at proper times. I love to see children
laugh in their play. I love to see them laugh when I tell a funny story.
But I never like to see any one laugh at the misfortune of another.
Tell me, little reader, did your mouth ever laugh at another child
because he was poor? or because he was poorly dressed? or because he
fell down and hurt himself? or because he happened to know less than
you do?
If your mouth has ever done any of these naughty things, I pray you,
little reader, teach your mouth better manners.
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 3.
One of my schoolmates, named Dick Dashall, was a wild rattle-headed
fellow, always sure to get into mischief, but slow enough to get out of
the quagmire. His parents and brothers were poor farming people, who
had hard work to make both ends meet, and could ill afford even the
very trifling cost attending Dick’s education. Dick had been intended
for the hard-working profession of a farmer, but that honest calling
did not at all jump with his restless humor. He never could see the
fun and philosophy of rising with the dawn, and “yoking up” to follow
the plough through the field, or the iron harrow over the furrows. He
did not like the tedious work of planting corn and potatoes, and still
less the more laborious employ of “covering up” or “hilling up,” or
getting in the crops; nor did he relish any of the various details
of hay-making and harvesting. He had no objection, however, to the
merry husking frolic, for then, in the general sport and confusion,
he managed to avoid work himself, while he listened with both his big
ears to the diverting tales that were often on such occasions related
by those present. He disliked as much the tedious employment of riding
the old cart-horse in the plough, as he delighted in scampering away on
his bare back all over the country side, when he could contrive to get
possession of the poor beast. And when he did accomplish that desired
object, never was the dull animal so worked by his owners; for away the
madcap would ride, without saddle, bridle, spur or stirrup, guiding
him only with an old rope, and urging him on with a big bludgeon of a
stick, with which he failed not well to belabor the ribs of his steed,
till they fairly bled and ached again. At length, one of his runaway
frolics terminated fatally to the poor brute, whom he attempted to swim
across a rapid and deep river near the village, in which essay the
horse was drowned, and Dick only escaped by skilful swimming, which was
almost the only valuable accomplishment that he possessed.
Dick seemed to be filled with the very evil spirit of all mischief.
The book and task were perfectly odious to him, and if left to follow
his own inclination, he never would have learned either to read or
write; indeed, as it was, his best attempts with the pen looked more
like pot-hooks and fish-hooks than good civilized letters. No mortal
could have deciphered them. And then his copybook was one blotch of
ink from beginning to end. His arithmetic and grammar books, though
showing, by their numerous thumb-marks and “dog’s-ears,” that they
had been pretty thoroughly handled by his seldom-washed fingers, were
about as intelligible to him as so many volumes of Greek or Arabic;
the deep lore contained in their pages was much too profound for
his understanding, and never did any ideas from them penetrate the
thickness and dulness of his brain; or, if they ever by any chance
found an entrance there, they must have laid in a torpid state, for no
one could ever discover that such scraps of knowledge existed in his
head, through the outlet of the tongue and voice.
But though Dick could not inscribe legible characters with his pen,
yet he had a sort of natural talent for drawing rude sketches with
pencil, pen, or even a bit of charcoal; and most ridiculous and
striking caricatures would he produce with them. The droll expression
and awkward figure of the old pedagogue himself furnished him with
a fertile subject for his wit, and various and laughable were the
burlesque representations he gave of him. Every scrap of paper that
he could lay hands on, every piece of broken slate, and even the very
walls of the school-house and the board fences in the neighborhood,
were covered with all sorts of strange figures, hit off, too, with
no little talent and humor. This love for sketching and caricaturing
seemed to be the peculiar bent of his genius, and it proved to him and
his mates a source of great amusement.
When the term of his instruction had well-nigh expired, and it became
necessary for him to decide to what species of employment he should
devote his talents and attention, it happened that an itinerant
portrait-painter strolled into the village, and, taking the best room
of the inn, announced, through a staring painted placard at the window,
that he was ready to paint, for a small consideration, the portraits
of the good people of the place, in a most artist-like and expeditious
manner. Nor was he long without his patrons. First the squire, and then
the parson and his lady, and the doctor with his lady, and a half-score
of children, and then many of the most substantial farmers and
tradesmen of the vicinity, were seen to enter at the inn-door, and in a
few days return to their several homes, each one bearing in his hands
a large highly-colored piece of canvass, in which one might perhaps
detect some remote likeness to the bearer or some of his family.
Finally, the worthy innkeeper himself, with his rosy-faced dame, and
some half-dozen overgrown daughters, figured in full-length beauty, in
one mingled group, upon the artist’s canvass; and presently a span-new
sign-board of “the white horse” was seen creaking and swinging in
all the freshness of new paint from the tall sign-post at the tavern
door. This flaming specimen of the fine arts proved a great object of
admiration and remark with all the grown gossips and little children
of the village, till at length, the “nine days” having elapsed, the
wonder ceased.
Dick very soon made the acquaintance, and gained the good will of the
artist, first by running on all his errands, in his communication with
his patrons, and afterwards by his unfeigned expressions of admiration
at the inspection of the “artist’s gallery,” which comprised a few
dauby copies of the old masters, and a number of unpaid and unclaimed
portraits from the artist’s own easel. Before the worthy artist took
leave of the village, Dick had so far ingratiated himself into his
favor, that he agreed to take him with him, and impart to him all the
knowledge of his art that he was able to give, receiving in return due
assistance from Dick, as a sort of artist-of-all-work, which phrase
might be understood to comprise any and all kinds of menial occupation.
But Dick was deeply smitten with the love of painting, and eagerly
caught at this golden opportunity of ridding himself from the irksome
drudgery of book and task, and learn to be a painter of faces himself,
while at the same time he should have some opportunity of seeing in his
rambles not a little of the men and manners of the world.
Poor little Dick! when he set forth “to fresh fields and pastures new,”
with an adventurous desire to try his fortunes in the world, he little
anticipated the troubles and perplexities that would beset his way. The
honest artist to whom he had attached himself was neither a Raphael nor
a Vandyke, and the share of patronage he met with in the humble places
where he set up his easel, was very limited in degree, and unprofitable
to the pocket. In some villages which they visited in their rounds,
they found that rival artists had reaped such scanty harvests as the
poverty of the villages afforded; and in other places they found, to
their sorrow, that the flinty inhabitants were no upholders of art, and
felt no ambition to hand down the “counterfeit presentment” of their
features to posterity. So, as there was only starvation to be had,
there was nothing to be done but to pack up their slender wardrobe,
with the paints and pencils, and migrate to a more enlightened region.
The poor artist was, however, both kind and liberal, so far as his
means went, to his little charge, and when he received his hard-earned
dollar, as the recompense of many a patient hour of toil, he freely
shared it with him; and so long as the treasure lasted, they did not
lack for the best of good fare, at village tavern or rural farmhouse.
Oftentimes it chanced that their treasury was entirely exhausted, and
neither paper or specie payments were forthcoming to defray the needful
expenses of the way. At such times, the cost of coach-ride, or even
wagon conveyance, being beyond their reach, their only resource was,
to convey their bodies from place to place upon those natural supports
which Nature has kindly supplied us with, but which often complain of
an undue proportion of fatigue after a long day’s progress in a hot
summer’s day. But poor Dick ever made the best of it, and shouldering
his little bundle, stumped on stoutly at the side of his master, often
beguiling the toil and length of the travel with a merry heart, and
a cheerful singing voice. The natural beauties of the scenes through
which they passed were not lost upon them, nor did the wild rose at the
road-side blush unseen of them, or the sweet lily of the valley waste
its fragrant breath in vain. They each had the artist’s eye and soul
to enjoy the loveliness of the bending and painted skies, the waving
woods, the verdant grass, and the flowing stream.
“Even the air they breathed, the light they saw,
Became religion; for the ethereal spirit
That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows everything to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there--for all was love.
The morning stars, that sweetly sang together,
The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky,
Day-spring and eventide, and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship.”
Every pretty flower that bloomed in the hedge, or at the wood-borders,
Dick would diligently gather, and carefully preserve in a little
book, which he carried with him for that purpose. Many a colored
butterfly with its wings of powdered gold, and many a nameless insect,
streaked or spotted with all the rich hues of the rainbow, would he
hunt down and add to his collection. His great delight at the close
of the ramble consisted in copying, with his paints, the rich colors
of these beautiful objects; and soon he had formed quite a portable
museum of pretty prints, flowers and insects; and in this recreation he
received no little aid from his kind-hearted teacher. He soon became a
proficient in the art of mingling colors, and by a zealous application
to the details of art, in a short time was able to sketch a scene or
strike off a likeness with considerable faithfulness and ability. So
great was his love of the art, that he really derived much pleasure
from his rambles, long and difficult as they often were. In the course
of a few months’ practice, he had learned all that his teacher had to
communicate; and it was often asserted by their rustic patrons that the
little painter was in no respect inferior to his principal with the
brush. Indeed, so conscious were they themselves of this fact, that an
equal partnership was formed between them, and whatever sums fell into
their exchequer, were shared equally between them.
But, alas! there is an end to all human enjoyment, and a severance
of all earthly ties. The poor artist, what with the fatigues of
journeying, often at inclement seasons, and with the wearing labors of
his long and tedious tasks, had gradually undermined a constitution
naturally infirm; and his poor little protegè, as he gazed sorrowfully
upon his wan face and wasted form, saw plainly that the one was getting
paler, and the other thinner and thinner, every day; and soon was
impressed with the certainty that they must soon part from each other,
and that that parting would be at the grave’s foot. And so indeed
it turned out, when a year or two had elapsed from the commencement
of their connection. The elder artist, after struggling on with all
his resolution, and unwilling to yield to the insidious advances of
disease, was at length completely exhausted and subdued. He sank down
on the way at the door of a little village public house, where he was
obliged to take to his bed, and receive the aids and doses of the
doctors, in the feeble hope of a restoration to health. But in vain;
his poor frame, already so much reduced, grew feebler and feebler day
by day, and his sunken cheek grew still more hollow, and the little
light that sickness had lent to his eye trembled and flickered, and
then expired altogether; and finally the poor fellow, after taking an
affectionate and mournful farewell of Dick, and bequeathing to him
all the little possessions that he called his own, resigned himself
patiently to his fate, and without pain or struggle “passed away.”
Dick, after following his remains to the humble church-yard, and
pouring out his soul in the truest sorrow over his dust, departed
sad and solitary on his way. He assumed his poor master’s easel and
other implements, and followed “the painter’s quiet trade” on his
own account. He met with but indifferent success, however; he painted
the rough faces of country squires, and the hard-favored features of
their spouses, without number, but the recompense he received therefor
scarcely served to find him in “meat and manger.” After struggling with
adversity for many a weary year, and encountering every species of
trial and disappointment with the firmness of a martyr, he at length,
in very despair, was obliged to relinquish his beloved profession,
and settle down quietly in a flourishing town, where the products of
his brush could be turned to better account. He was forced to abandon
entirely the higher walks of art, and stoop to a humbler, but more
profitable branch of trade; devoting himself, in short, to the daubing
of chairs, tables, and vehicles of every description, and embellishing
them with as many of the “scientific touches” of his former calling as
the time and pay would justify. In this way he contrived to eke out a
humble but respectable subsistence, and after gaining the good will of
his employer by his faithful and honest exertions, he scraped together
sufficient money to enable him to set up an establishment of his own,
where a flaming board proclaimed that Richard Dashall executed sign,
house and chaise painting, in all its varieties, “in the most neat and
expeditious manner possible;” assisted by two or three active young
apprentices in all his handicrafts. In due course of time he joined to
his fortunes a pretty little lady of a wife, and conjointly they reared
up and educated a numerous progeny. So ends the history of poor Dick
Dashall; and it is that of many an honest and industrious young fellow,
who is cast forth like a weed upon the ocean of life, to sink or to
swim as the chance may be.
[Illustration: _The Fata Morgana._]
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.