_A calm among the Lipari islands.--Manners of the
crew.--Stromboli.--A natural lighthouse.--A gale
of wind.--Fright of the crew and danger of the
vessel.--Loss of the topmasts, and narrow escape from
shipwreck.--Arrival at Lipari._
Next morning, as I went on deck, I found the wind had died away, and
left us becalmed among the Lipari islands. We were close to the island
of Stromboli, which looked like the top of a mountain rising out of
the water, with the smoke constantly pouring out at the top. All these
islands are volcanic, and send forth flame and smoke occasionally,
but Stromboli is constantly burning. Notwithstanding this, there are
several thousand inhabitants upon it, who live chiefly by fishing. They
pass a strange life, constantly pent up between fire and water. All day
we lay becalmed, and I amused myself with looking at these curious
islands through a spy-glass, and watching the odd behavior of the crew.
They were picturesque-looking mortals, as all the Mediterranean sailors
are: exceedingly ragged, noisy, and good-humored. When they were not
telling stories, or cutting capers, they were sure to be eating.
Indeed, there was very little time during the voyage that their jaws
were not in motion. The principal food was bread and vegetables. There
was a pile of greens on the deck nearly as big as a haycock: it was a
species of fennel, which the Italians eat raw. The sailors munched it
by handfuls as they went about their work. There was no meat in all the
ship’s stores, but now and then a mess of fish was served up to the
crew. They drank freely of red wine, but I never saw any one of them
intoxicated.
The calm continued through the day and the following night. After dark,
the summit of Stromboli began to grow red, and all night long it shot
up streams of fire, giving a light that might be seen a great way off.
This island is a natural lighthouse, loftier and more efficient than
any work ever constructed by man. Volcanoes, with all their danger, are
not without their uses.
A little after sunrise, a light breeze sprung up from the north, and
by ten o’clock it blew pretty fresh. This was a head wind again, but
we preferred it to a calm, as we were enabled to make some progress
northward, by tacking. In a few hours, the clouds rose thick in the
northwest, and the wind increased to a gale, with a violent chopping
sea. We took in sail as fast as possible, but nothing could surpass the
confusion and fright of the sailors. They ran fore and aft, as if out
of their wits, and instead of pulling the ropes, did little else but
cross themselves, fall on their knees, and pray to the Virgin Mary. I
began to feel alarmed, though I had seen worse weather than this--and
there was really no danger to the vessel with proper care--yet, with a
crew half frightened to death, any accident might be the destruction
of us all. The captain bawled to the sailors, who paid no attention to
him, but bawled to one another, and cried, “_Santissima Vergine! San
Gennaro! Santa Rosolio!_” and the names of forty other saints, male
and female. My apprehensions became serious when I saw matters growing
worse, instead of better. The crew did nothing which they should have
done, and the vessel pitched, rolled, and floundered about, at the
mercy of the winds and waves. The gale came on in harder gusts than
ever; the sea dashed over the bows; and amid the roaring of the storm
and the cries of the frightened wretches around me, I began to think
it was all over with us. There was, however, one savage-looking fellow
among the crew, whose looks gave me some hope: he was a real caitiff in
appearance, and was evidently born to be hanged; therefore I concluded
he could never be drowned.
Meantime, the masts were bending like twigs under the gale; the
rigging was slack and crazy--worse than ever was seen on the clumsiest
wood-thumper in Penobscot Bay. I saw it was impossible the spars
could hold on much longer, unless the wind went down. Presently the
foretopmast snapped short, just above the cap, and went over the side
with an awful crash! The main-topmast followed almost immediately, and
left us little better than a mere hulk. It is impossible to describe
the scene of confusion and terror that followed. The miserable crew
lost all courage and self-possession. They threw themselves upon their
knees, and called upon the saints to save them. Had they behaved with
the least coolness and discretion in the beginning of the gale, they
might have guarded against this disaster. For my part, I almost gave
myself over for lost; and as to my gallows-looking friend, I am quite
certain that he lost for a time all hopes of dying by a rope. In fact,
there was not a man in the whole crew but would have given his whole
ragged wardrobe for the chance of a dry death. The vessel was now
entirely unmanageable, and fell off with her broadside to the wind.
A heavy sea came rolling on, and how we escaped being thrown on our
beam-ends, I hardly know; but the vessel continued to roll and labor,
with the sea dashing over the deck, to such a degree that I expected
every moment would be our last. By good fortune at length she fell off
still further, and brought her stern to the wind. The crew recovered
from their fright sufficiently to attempt doing something to save their
lives. With great exertions they got the wrecked spars clear, and set
a little sail on the lower masts. By this help we began to scud before
the wind. Having once more the vessel under some control, we gathered
courage; but the gale was as furious as ever, and the sea increased in
violence. We continued to scud for an hour and a half, when the cry of
“_terra! terra!_” raised by the whole crew, announced the discovery
of land, ahead. Such had been the hurly-burly, confusion, and terror
on board, from the beginning of the gale, that not a man of the crew
could guess where we were, or what land was in sight. Some thought it
was Stromboli, and others imagined it to be the coast of Sicily. I
now began to have more fear of the land than of the water, and wished
for sea-room. Had there been any shoals in this quarter, we should
infallibly have been shipwrecked; but fortunately there were none, as
all the coasts have bold shores.
The land was high and mountainous, and we presently made it out to be
the island of Lipari, about thirty miles from Stromboli. We steered
as close to the island as we dared, and ran under the lee, where the
height of the land broke the force of the gale. In this shelter we
cast anchor, and found ourselves tolerably safe, with the probability
that the gale would blow over in a few hours. I thanked Heaven for
our escape; but formed a resolution never to trust myself at sea with
Italian sailors again, as long as I had any other means of pursuing my
rambles. In the midst of all these dangers, I would have given more for
a couple of Yankee cabin boys than for the whole twenty lubbers of our
valiant crew.
(_To be continued._)
THE PILOT.
The curling waves with awful roar
A little boat assailed,
And pallid fear’s distracting power
O’er all on board prevailed,--
Save one, the captain’s darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm,
And, fearless, with composure smiled
At danger’s threatening form.
“And fear’st thou not?” a seaman cried,
“While terrors overwhelm?”
“Why should I fear?” the child replied,
“My father’s at the helm.”
Thus when our earthly hopes are reft,
Our earthly comforts gone,
We still have one sure anchor left--
God helps, and He alone.
He to our cries will lend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief,
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.
Turn, turn to Him, ’mid sorrows wild,
When terrors overwhelm,
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father’s at the helm.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XIII.
_Sick-room incidents and reflections._
In my last chapter I concluded the story which Raymond told me, and
which I entitled the “School of Misfortune.” At the time, I supposed he
only related it for my amusement, but I have since believed that he had
a farther design; which was, to show me that wealth, used to puff up
the heart with pride, is a source of positive evil; and that poverty,
sickness, misfortune, humiliation--provided they make the heart tender
toward mankind, and open new springs of sympathy in the soul--are like
kind and gentle schoolmasters, teaching us the true art of happiness.
I believe now, that Raymond intended to impress this great lesson on
my heart, as well because it is useful to all, as because he probably
foresaw approaching events, in relation to my own circumstances, which
might make it specially needful to me.
There is nothing which more shows the advantages of civilization, than
the care and kindness bestowed upon the sick, among Christian nations.
With savages, the sick person is usually left to himself, where, like
a wild beast, he must await, in solitude, the result of his disease.
There is little sympathy offered to him--there is no kind hand to
wipe the cold sweat from his brow; no watchful friend at his bedside
to supply every want, and alleviate, as far as may be, every pain.
Sickness with the savage is solitary and desolate; with Christians,
though it has its pains, it has its alleviations. I suffered much
during the period of my confinement, as well from my broken limb as the
fever that raged in my veins. After this was past, I also suffered from
excessive languor.
But still, in the midst of all this, and though my mind was pained
with shame and mortification, for the folly which had brought these
evils upon me, I had a sense of peace and happiness shining through
it all. This was wholly derived from the kindness of my friends. When
Raymond sat by my bed, his benignant eye resting upon me, I felt an
indescribable degree of delightful emotion, composed, I believe, partly
of gratitude, and partly of a confidence that all that could be done,
would be done, in my behalf. Often, as I awoke from my sleep, and saw
him patiently watching by me, the tears would gush to my eyes; but they
were not tears of unhappiness. I think he perceived my emotion, and I
believe he understood my feelings. One thing is certain--that sick-bed
was the best schoolmaster of my life; it brought me Raymond’s wise
counsel; it brought me wholesome shame for my folly; it taught me my
dependence on others. It also taught me one other lesson--and that is,
never to distrust the kindness and virtue of my fellow-men. It seemed
to open a window into the human heart, letting light and sunshine in,
where people are too apt to see nothing but selfishness and darkness.
This latter lesson was enforced by many circumstances. Not only was
my bosom touched by the kindness of Raymond, but also by that of my
uncle. Twice each day did he come to see me, and he always treated me
with more tenderness than seemed to belong to his nature. He was a hale
man himself, and it was his boast that he had never had a sick day in
his life. Indeed, he had little sympathy for sickness, and usually
expressed himself in terms of contempt toward everybody that chanced to
be less robust than himself. When I was at the height of my fever, he
insisted that all I wanted, in order to make me well again, was some
roast beef and raw brandy! Still, he did not interfere with the course
prescribed by the physician, and took pains to see that every thing
was done for me that was deemed useful or necessary.
My companions of the village often sent to inquire after me, and Bill
Keeler frequently stole in just to look at me, and say, “God bless you,
Bob!” All these things went to my heart; but nothing affected me more
than an event which I must notice with some detail.
The schoolmaster of the village was one of those men who seek to
accomplish every object by some indirect means. He was what is called
a cunning man, and was, withal, exceedingly fond of power, in the
exercise of which he was capricious, tyrannical and unjust. At first he
treated me with the greatest attention, and in fact picked me out as
one of his favorites, upon whom he lavished his smiles and his praises.
He had great faith in flattery, and believed that any person, young or
old, might be caught by it; and while it seemed to be his object to
propitiate me, he laid it on pretty thick. I was well enough pleased
with this for a time, though I had a sort of distrust of the man who
could condescend to such means, and enter into such schemes of policy;
and even though I yielded to his views, in many things, I had still no
respect for, or confidence in, him.
There was in the school a boy by the name of William Bury, son of a
poor Irishman, that lived in the village. He was remarkably small of
his age, but exceedingly active, and withal lively and intelligent. At
the same time he was shrewd and witty, and, perceiving the weak points
of the schoolmaster’s character, occasionally made them the target of
his wit. As the master rendered each boy in the school a spy upon his
fellows, he knew everything that was said and done; and poor Bill Bury
was often punished for the freedom with which he indulged his tongue.
In process of time, Will and myself became the antipodes of the school:
I was the favorite, and he the reprobate. Whatever he did was wrong:
whatever I did was right. Under such circumstances, it was natural that
we should be rivals, and it was, no doubt, a part of the plan of the
politic schoolmaster, to keep us thus divided, that he might rule the
more effectually.
During this state of things, several of the school boys were one
day skating upon a river that ran along the western border of the
town--Will and myself being of the number. It had been filled with
heavy rains, and was now of considerable width and depth. In the
deepest part there was a breathing-hole in the ice, which, of course,
we all sought to avoid. As I was swiftly skating toward this place,
with the intention of turning aside as I approached it, one of my
skates struck a small stick, which brought me down, and--carried
forward by the impetus of my course--I was instantly plunged into
the opening of the ice. I sunk beneath the surface of the water for
a moment, but then rose, and caught hold of the ice, which, however,
broke in my hands as I grasped it.
It was but a few seconds before I was completely chilled; but, by this
time, the boys around had raised a shout of terror, and several of
them had gathered at a little distance, and were soon either silent
with dismay, or raising idle screams for help. Among the number I
noticed Bill Bury, and though I had been accustomed to speak lightly
of him, I confess that at that fearful moment my only hope rested in
him. Looking at me intently for a moment, and then casting a searching
glance around, he sped away like an arrow. in the space of a minute,
he returned, bringing a rail which he had plucked from a neighboring
fence. Calling aloud for all around to give place, he laid the rail
down upon the ice, and dexterously slid it across the opening,
pushing it so close as to bring it within my reach. I was, however, so
benumbed, that, in attempting to take hold of it, I lost my grasp of
the ice, and sunk senseless beneath the wave.
Will hesitated not an instant, but plunged into the water, and, as I
rose, he caught me in his arms. Grasping me tight by the right arm,
while he held on to the rail by the left, he supported himself and
me; at the same time he commanded the boys to get two more rails.
These were brought and laid across the opening, and thus support was
furnished for two of them to come and lift us out.
In this way my life was saved: I owed it to the courage, skill, and
devotedness of Will Bury--my rival, and, as I had esteemed him, my
enemy. I was not so base as to overlook his generous conduct, or to
permit the relation in which we stood to abate my praises of his noble
action. But the schoolmaster, being one of those people who have
always a selfish object in everything they say and do, fearing that
his entire system of tactics would be broken up if Will and I should
become friends, took a different course. He indeed praised Will for
an act that no one, it would seem, could fail to admire; but, at the
same time, he sought every occasion, from that day, to ruin him in my
estimation. At the same time he tried, in many cunning and sly ways, to
poison Will’s mind with jealousy of me.
It was not long, therefore, before we were again in antagonist
positions, and at last an open breach took place between us. In process
of time, Will went to learn a trade of a carpenter, at the distance of
a mile or two, and then I seldom saw him. Whenever we met we did not
speak to each other. This was the state of things, when the accident
happened which laid me on a bed of sickness. While I was recovering,
I often thought of Will Bury, and my heart reproached me keenly for
permitting my better feelings to be turned against him. In short, I
yearned to see him, and it was while I was one day thinking about him,
that I saw him come softly to the door and ask Raymond how I was. I
instantly called him to my bedside, and I never felt a warmer emotion
than when he came, and I threw my arms around his neck. He, too, was
much affected, and tears--the first I ever saw the gay-hearted fellow
shed--fell upon my cheek. From that day we were friends; and I thus
learned to put a just value upon a generous heart--though it may belong
to a poor boy.
(_To be continued._)
A Little Child’s Joy.
What joy it is, from day to day,
To skip and sing, and dance and play--
To breathe the air, to feel the sun,
And o’er the spangled meadows run.
What joy to move my limbs about,
To hoop and halloo, call and shout,
Among the woods, and feel as free
As any bird upon a tree.
What joy, when hungry, ’tis to eat,
What pleasure in our daily meat;
How sweet, when sleep the eyelids close,
To sink in calm and soft repose.
What joy, as morn begins to break,
Refreshed and vigorous to wake--
To feel, amid the dews and flowers,
New life bestowed on all my powers.
But who bestows this constant joy
On every little girl or boy?
’Tis God, our Father, bright and wise,
Whose goodness every joy supplies.
Then let me love and praise the Lord,
And strive to know his holy Word;
To do no wrong, and think no ill,
And evermore perform his will.
[Illustration: Mammoth skeleton]
The Mammoth.
In several of the United States persons have frequently found the bones
of a huge animal, called the Mammoth, or Mastodon. One skeleton, nearly
complete, has been found, and set up in Peale’s Museum, in Philadelphia.
There is no such creature to be found now, on the earth, as a
Mastodon--nor has there been, since the memory of man. It seems that it
must have resembled an Elephant, but was twice as large.
In Siberia, a few years ago, a fisherman discovered the body of a
Mastodon, imbedded in the ice: the skin was nearly entire, and it was
covered with woolly hair. After about two years, this body thawed out,
and fell to the ground from the elevated place in which it was first
discovered. The flesh, as well as skin, gradually disappeared, but the
bones were secured, and being taken to St. Petersburgh, in Russia, were
set up in a museum, where they are still to be seen.
The remains of many other animals, now extinct, are found in different
countries, as well as traces of vegetables, such as are not met with
now on the face of the earth. This is a very interesting subject, and I
propose hereafter to say more about it.
Geordie and the Sick Dog.
AN ENGLISH STORY.
It was Saturday afternoon, and had been longed for all the week by
little Geordie, as he was called, for he was a very little fellow.
Geordie had built himself a boat, and had promised to give it a fine
sail in a pond, not a great way from the house in which he lived,
called the fen ditch.
So away he went, before he had quite eaten his dinner, with his boat in
one hand, and the remains of a slice of bread and butter in the other;
for his mother was a poor woman, and Geordie did not get meat every
day, and never on a Saturday.
But his cheeks were rosy, and his eye was bright, and his ringlets
laughed in the wind as he ran along, looking at his boat with eyes of
delight all the way, and every now and then taking a huge mouthful,
and then stopping for breath, for fear the dry crumbs should be blown
down his chest.
There was a beautiful breeze, as he called it,--for he called
everything beautiful that pleased him. He had a beautiful piece of
bread and butter; and a beautiful knife; and a beautiful pair of
shoes,--only his toes peeped through them.
He had a kind, cheerful, and tender heart, and so everything appeared
beautiful to him, and few things had the power to make him discontented
or peevish; but, just as Geordie got over the Warren hills, which led
to the place of his destination, he saw Harry Dyke, the groom at the
great house of Lady Clover, coming over the swale, as it was called,
with several of the boys of the village dancing about him, apparently
in great delight.
When he came nearer, he found that Harry was carrying, wrapped up in a
piece of an old sack, a little dog, which Geordie recognised as being
one which he had before seen, with its two fore paws leaning over
the ledge of the sash-pane in Lady Clover’s carriage, when she drove
through the village.
One of the boys had got a couple of brick-bats, and a long piece of
cord, and seemed very officious. He called out to Harry, “Harry, let me
throw him in, will you?--there’s a good fellow. But wo’n’t you give him
a knock on the head,--just one knock to dozzle him?”
“Why, they are going to drown that little pet-dog, that us children
used to say, lived a great deal better than we did; and, when I have
been very hungry, I have often wished I was Lady Clover’s lap-dog,
for I heard say that she sometimes gave it rump-steak for its dinner,
with oyster-sauce.” So thought little Geordie to himself; he did not,
however, say anything.
“O! here is little Geordie,” said one of the boys. “Geordie, Geordie,
come and have some sport!--we are going to drown a dog in the ditch.”
“What are you going to drown it for?” said Geordie.
“O! to have some fun, I suppose. No, it is not that; it is because
my lady can’t bear the nasty thing--it has got the mange, or some
disorder. There;--do not touch it. Don’t you smell it?”
The poor little dog looked at Geordie, and struggled to get out of the
sacking, and gave a whine, as if it would be glad to get away from its
enemies.
“Lay down, you beast,” said Harry, and gave it a severe blow on the
head; “lay down; I’ll soon settle your business.”
By this time they had come to the fen brook, and the dog was placed
on the ground, and taken from the sack-cloth in which it was wrapped.
It was a deplorable looking creature, and its hair was off in several
places; it yelped wofully as it looked around, while the boys began to
prepare the noose and the brick-bats.
“O! do not drown him,” said Geordie; “pray, do not drown him. What are
you going to drown him for?”
“Why, because he is sick, and ill, and dirty. He is no good to any
one,” said Harry. “My lady used to be very fond of him; but now, he
looks such an object, she says he is to be destroyed.”
“Give him to me,” said Geordie; “I’ll have him, and keep him till he
gets well--he shall have half my dinner every day. Here, little dog,
have this piece of bread and butter.”
“Go away, and leave the dog alone,” said the boy who had the cord; “you
are not going to spoil our sport. Get out of the way with you.” And so
he drew near, and fastened the cord to the dog’s neck.
“O! do give him to me! Pray don’t drown him,” said Geordie; “pray do
not. O! do give him to me; I will make him well--indeed I will. Do
let me have him?--there’s a good Harry Dyke,” and the tears came into
Geordie’s eyes.
“Go along, Mr. Dog Doctor,” said Harry; “go along, Mr. Cry Baby.”
“Here, Harry, I’ll give you my boat for the little dog--it is a
beautiful boat; here, put it into the water instead of the dog--do, do,
do;” and so Geordie thrust the boat into Harry’s hand, and, without
waiting to settle the bargain, laid hold of the dog.
“Leave go of him,” said the boy with the cord and the brick-bats,
“leave go, I tell you; if you do not, it shall be the worse for you.
Leave go, or”----
“Ay, you may rap my knuckles,” said Geordie, “I do not mind
that.--Harry Dyke, Harry Dyke, am I not to have the dog, and you have
the boat?” said he, struggling.
“O! I do not care about it,” said Harry; “take him, if you will have
him; the boat will do for my brother Tom, and I wish you joy of the
bargain.”
The other boys hearing this, were much disconcerted; and would, no
doubt, have molested Geordie still further, but the little fellow no
sooner heard Harry’s tacit consent, than he immediately set off at full
speed, with the dog under his arm, in the direction of home.
When he reached his home he was quite out of breath, and his mother was
fearful something had happened to him. “Why, Geordie, Geordie, what is
the matter with you; and what have you got under your arm?”
Geordie laid down the dog, and the sight of the poor creature, whose
looks told the state of disease in which it was, made the good woman
quite afraid to have it in the house; and, without hearing anything of
the circumstances connected with the poor animal, or giving Geordie
time to explain, she declared it should not set foot in the house,
and drove Geordie and his purchase out of it together; telling the
latter to take it from whence it came, and that the house was not to be
converted into a hospital for sick dogs.
Geordie was more disconsolate than ever; he went into the fields, with
the dog under his arm: now be laid it down, and patted it; then he
talked to it, and, in his childish manner, tried to comfort it. The
poor creature looked up to Geordie, and wagged its tail, and seemed
quite glad to find somebody could feel for it.
“Ay, that is the way of these ladyfolks,” thought Geordie to himself;
“they like their pets, and fondle them enough while they look pretty
and frisk about, and play about; but, when they get sick, and ill, or
old, then they hang and drown them. I wonder what makes them do it.”
What to do with the dog Geordie knew not. At last, however, he
bethought himself that he would take him up into a little loft, over a
small stable which his father had, and there make him a bed with some
nice hay, and try and make him better.
So he mounted the ladder, and got into the loft. He soon made the poor
thing a bed, and then he thought he would get him something to eat; but
Geordie had no money. He had, however, a good many marbles, for Geordie
was a capital hand at ring-taw; and so he took his marble-bag, and went
into the green, where several boys were playing, and very soon sold his
marbles. They produced four-pence, for there were more than fifty, at
sixteen a penny.
He then bought some dog’s-meat at the butcher’s, and a halfpenny worth
of milk, and a halfpenny worth of sulphur, to mix with the milk; for
somebody once said, in his hearing, that sulphur and milk were good
physic for dogs.
He then washed the animal, and fed him; and what with washing, and
physicing, and comforting, in a few days the poor dog regained his
strength; in a few days more he regained his coat; and it was not many
days more before he was as well as ever.
Geordie then ventured to bring him in to his father and mother; who,
seeing the animal quite changed in appearance, and a lively, handsome,
little dog, and not very old, were quite pleased with him; and no less
pleased with their son’s conduct, when it was all explained to them.
Some weeks after this, Lady Clover came through the village, in her
carriage, as usual, and was astonished to behold her little dog
sitting, with his fore paws out of Geordie’s mother’s parlor window,
just as he used to sit out in her ladyship’s carriage.
Lady Clover alighted, and went towards the house. The dog immediately
began to bark, nor would the soft tones of the lady’s voice by any
means pacify him. In a few minutes she learned the whole of her former
pet’s history, and wished to have him again. “She would give Geordie a
crown for him,” she said; but Geordie would not sell his dog.
“No, I thank you, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow,” said the little dog. “He
might be sick again, my lady, and then he would be drowned, my lady.”
“Bow-wow, wow--bow-wow, wow.”
“Keep the plaguesome creature quiet,” said her ladyship, “and hear
me.”--“Bow-wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow,” said the little dog.
Her ladyship could not obtain a hearing, and left the cottage in high
displeasure. “I would not sell him for his weight in gold,” said
Geordie,--“not to Lady Clover.”
It was some years after this that Geordie grew almost a man, and Chloe,
for that was the dog’s name, grew old; Geordie’s father had prospered
in life; and, from being a poor cottager, had become a respectable
farmer.
One night he returned from market with a considerable sum of money,
arising from the sale of his crops, the principal part of which he had
to pay away to his landlord in a few days.
Some evil-disposed fellows had obtained a knowledge of this money being
in the house, and determined to break into and rob it--perhaps also to
murder those who might oppose them.
It was a very dark night, and all were sound asleep, when Black Bill,
and two companions, approached on tip-toe, to make an entrance in the
back premises.
By means of a centre-bit they had soon cut a panel out of the
wash-house door; they then entered the kitchen without making the least
noise. Black Bill had a large carving-knife in one hand, and a dark
lantern in the other, and, supposing the money to be in the bed-room,
was mounting the stairs, to take it at any hazard.
The stairs creaked with the weight of the robber, and in a moment Chloe
aroused the whole house with her barking--her shrill voice was heard in
every room. In a moment Geordie was up, and his father’s blunderbuss at
his shoulder.
“Speak, or I will fire!” said he. No answer,--but a scampering through
the passage. Geordie followed--he heard the robbers making their
escape; he fired--the robber fell.
Lights were procured. It was found that the fellow was only slightly
wounded in the leg, which prevented his running away. In the morning
it was discovered who the robber was--it was the very boy, now grown a
man, who _had the cord and the brick-bats_!
Chloe did not live long after this, but died of sheer old age; not,
however, you see, till she had amply repaid the kindness which had been
bestowed upon her by Geordie.--Learn from this, my little readers, a
lesson of _humanity_!
[Illustration: Sable hunter]
The Sable-Hunter.
CHAPTER V.
_A dissertation upon going on foot.--A fearful adventure
with wolves._
Having taken leave of their Tungusian friends, the travellers proceeded
on their journey, hoping, before many days, to reach Yakootsk--a large
town on the Lena, and the great fur market of eastern Siberia. Here
they intended to stay a few days, and then proceed down the Lena, in
pursuit of game. Alexis expected also to find a letter there, from his
sister, which was to be sent by the mail, and which would, of course,
travel faster than the pedestrian party.
Incited, therefore, by several motives, the adventurers pressed
cheerily forward upon their journey. But it was now October, and the
ground was covered with snow. Every day, indeed, more or less snow
fell, and the hunters found their progress much impeded by it. But in
travelling, as in almost everything else, practice makes perfect. A
man who is well trained to walking, can travel farther in a month than
a horse; and as the power of going from place to place, without being
dependent on horses, railroads, or even money, is a great thing, I
advise all young persons--particularly young men--to learn to perform
journeys on foot. The best way to travel over a country, is to go as
a pedestrian. You can then stop and see the people along the road,
and thus get acquainted with their manners and customs; their ways of
living, acting and thinking.
Some of the pleasantest passages in my own life, occurred when I
was journeying on foot; and they are perhaps more delightful in my
recollection, that I had then a good, sound pair of legs--and now,
alas! one of them is replaced by a “timber toe!” If I had time, I could
relate many little incidents, to show that a traveller on foot is ever
welcomed to the hut, the log-cabin, or the farm-house, along the road;
and that his stories, his news, or even his company, are esteemed good
pay for his lodging and his fare.
But I must proceed with my story of the sable-hunter--or I shall never
get through with it. When I began, I expected to despatch it in two or
three chapters; but the journey, as well as old Linsk’s tongue, is much
longer than I expected.
For some time after the party started, Alexis found his feet sore and
his limbs weary, at night--and more than once, he felt homesick and
discouraged. But he was a youth of much energy of character, and he
felt the importance of making a great effort in behalf of his father
and sister, upon whose happiness the whole power of his soul was now
concentrated. Beside these motives to effort, Linsk took pains to
enliven the spirits of his party, by putting a cheerful face upon
things, and by telling his tales, of which he seemed as full as a
hive is of bees. And there was this difference between Linsk’s tongue
and the little honey-makers--that while they grow torpid as the cold
weather comes on, his organ of speech seemed to wag all the faster
for it. A flurry of snow was usually a prelude to a story, and a real
storm seldom failed to bring out something interesting. Alexis remarked
that the tale was always lively in proportion as the day was dark,
or the journey tedious; and Linsk seemed, indeed, as ready to attack
blue-devils with a joke, as he was to send a bullet after a bear. I
note these things with some particularity, because I conceive that
cheerfulness is a great virtue, and that it is of infinite importance
in those passages of life which seem to demand of us patient endurance
and protracted effort. Cheerfulness is the best of all stimulants, and
I advise my young friends to lay in a good stock of it. It produces two
excellent effects--it makes a person agreeable to himself and to others!
As I have said, the weather was now stormy, and the country through
which the hunters were passing, was to the last degree dreary and
desolate. It was generally level, or slightly undulating, and nearly
destitute of vegetation. Occasionally they came to extensive forests,
consisting of low pines and cedars, and sometimes there was a deep
ravine, where the fir trees grew to a considerable height, and so
matted together as hardly to admit the light between them.
One gloomy afternoon, as the party were winding their way through a
forest, which covered a range of broken hills and ridges, the younger
portion had gone before, leaving Linsk a little in the rear. Turning
an angle in the road, they lost sight of him, and went on for several
minutes, forgetting that he was not with them. By and by, they heard a
sharp whistle, and then a rifle-shot, and then a call, that made the
sullen woods echo, as if filled with twenty voices. They instantly
looked around, and seeing that Linsk was not with them, turned back,
and ran with all their might, knowing that something must have
happened, to cause so loud and urgent a summons.
Turning the angle in the road, and pushing on for about a dozen rods,
they came upon a scene which amazed and alarmed them. There stood old
Linsk, battling for life, in the midst of a pack of wolves. One of the
beasts lay dead at his feet; but another had hold of his leg, and a
huge fellow, nearly as tall as the old hunter himself, was laying his
paws upon him, and threatening to seize him by the throat.
The coolness of Linsk was admirable. He waited his opportunity, and
then stretching himself to the full height, he brought down his
powerful arm, and striking his dagger in the side of the wolf, laid him
prostrate in an instant. He then bestowed a kick upon the rude fellow
that had hold of his leg, and hitting him by the side of the head,
made him roll over and over in the snow. Linsk fell upon him, but the
creature, being only stunned, got up, and was about to run away, when
the old hunter, now more furious than the wolves themselves, seized him
by the tail, and whirling him round and round, sought to dash out his
brains upon the frozen earth. The animal seemed amazed and frightened,
and set up such a hideous howl, that all the rest of the pack took
to flight; and even the beast upon which Linsk had fastened, slipped
through his fingers and fled for life. Happening to take the direction
of the young men, now coming up and near at hand, he came pretty near
Alexis, who levelled his rifle and shot him through the head.
“Well done!” cried Linsk, clapping his hands; “well done,
Alexis!--you’re a true hunter, after all! Whew! I am all out of breath.
Bravo, boys! It’s the first bit of fun I have had since we set out! St.
Nicholas! that fellow has stuck his forks into my calf, as if I was a
piece of pork--the beast! and I suppose he expected to make a supper of
me. I guess he’d found me the toughest bit of meat he ever undertook
to carve. The knave!--to think of attacking an old fellow, all alone,
while his companions had deserted him. The fool! to expect that an
old hunter wouldn’t give, as well as take. However, he’s got his last
supper; a bullet in the stomach is hard of digestion, and so he’s
finished. Poor fellow--I can’t help liking a wolf, after all!”
While Linsk was uttering this last observation, Alexis came up, and
although he was curious to know why his old friend could have an
affection for an animal that had just threatened his life, and actually
thrust his fangs into his flesh, he did not attempt now to inquire into
the subject. The hunter was, indeed, in too great a state of excitement
for any deliberate conversation. He went on, with one exclamation after
another, describing, by snatches, the attack of the wolves, and his own
feats in the fray.
After spending some time on the spot, and taking a view of the several
animals that had been slain, they proceeded on their way. Linsk was
greatly excited by the adventure, and, having talked about it for some
time, began to tell of other scenes of the kind, in which, at various
times, he had been engaged. Some of these tales were worth repeating,
and if I can remember them long enough, they shall appear in the next
chapter.
(_To be continued._)
The Tongue.
Every child has in his mouth a thing to talk with, called the tongue.
This is made to tell the truth with. When the tongue tells a lie, it
does that which is very wrong.
The tongue is made to say kind and pleasant things to our friends. When
it says a saucy thing to anybody, it is a naughty tongue.
When the tongue says a disobedient word to a father or mother, it is a
wicked tongue. When it says an unkind word to a brother or sister, it
is a very bad tongue indeed.
When the tongue swears, it does that which God has expressly forbidden.
When the tongue speaks dirty words, it is a vile tongue. What little
boy or girl would like to carry about such a tongue in his mouth?
Now, my young reader, let me ask you a few questions. What sort of a
tongue have you? Does it always speak the truth? Does that tongue of
yours ever say saucy words?
Does your tongue ever say any disobedient words to your parents? Does
it ever say any unkind words to a brother or a sister? Does it ever
swear? Does it ever utter any bad words?
O, my little friend, if your tongue ever does anything wrong, what
shall be done? Can you tell me how to correct an evil tongue? I can
tell you. Let every child take good care of his tongue, and see that it
never behaves ill.
What is Selfishness?
There was once a dog and a cat sitting by a kitchen door, when the cook
came out and threw several pieces of meat to them.
They both sprung to get it, but the dog was the strongest, and so he
drove the cat away, and ate all the meat himself. This was selfishness;
by which I mean, that the dog cared only for himself. The cat wanted
the meat as much as he did; but he was the strongest, and so he took it
all.
But was this wrong? No,--because the dog knew no better. The dog has
no idea of God, or of that beautiful golden rule of conduct, which
requires us to do to others as we would have them do to us.
Dr. Watts says,--
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature too.”
But children have a different nature, and a different rule of conduct.
Instead of biting and fighting, they are required to be kind and
gentle to one another, and to all mankind.
Instead of being selfish, like the dog, they are commanded to be just
and charitable, by which I mean, that they should always give to others
what is their due, and also give to others, if they can, what they
stand in need of.
If a child snatches from another what is not his, he is selfish,
and very wicked. If a child tries in any way to get what belongs
to another, he is selfish, and is as bad as a thief or a robber.
Selfishness is caring only for one’s self. It is a very bad thing, and
every child should avoid it. A selfish person is never good, or happy,
or beloved.
How miserable should we all be, if every person was to care only for
himself! Suppose children and grown-up people, were all to be as
selfish as cats and dogs. What constant fighting there would be among
them!
How dreadful would it be to see brothers and sisters snarling at each
other, and pulling each other’s hair, and quarrelling about their food
and their playthings! We ought to be thankful that God has given us a
higher nature than that of beasts, and enabled us to see and feel the
duty of being kind and affectionate to one another.
And as we can see and feel this duty, we ought to be very careful
always to observe it.
* * * * *
A THOUGHT.--There are one thousand million people in the world. Each
individual has a heart, and that heart beats about seventy times a
minute. By means of this beating of the heart, the blood is sent over
the body, and life is sustained. How great must that Being be, who
can keep one thousand millions of hearts beating seventy times every
minute--thus sending the blood through the veins and arteries of one
thousand millions of people!
WINTER.
MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY G. J. WEBB.
[Illustration: Music]
’Tis winter; ’tis winter; the morning is gray:
A cold looking sky is above us to-day;
And see, where the hilltops are naked and brown,
The pretty white snowflakes come quietly down.
They come in their beauty, like spirits of light,
And wrap the chilled earth with a mantle of white:
Beneath it the daisies are sheltered and warm,
And safe from the blasts of the pitiless storm.
And soon, when the sunbeams of summer shall come,
They’ll start up anew from their snow-covered home:
They’ll spread their green leaves over valley and plain,
And catch the bright dews in their blossoms again.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
VOLUME II.--No. 6.
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.
CHAPTER X.
_Second attempt against Chili.--Valdivia reaches
Mapocho.--Founds the city of St. Jago.--Temper
of the natives.--Terrible battle.--Sends to Peru
for help.--Officers taken.--Their treacherous
escape.--Valdivia Perseveres.--Final success and
arrangements._
The next who attempted the conquest of Chili, was Pedro de Valdivia,
a Spanish adventurer, and, like all the others, eager to distinguish
himself, and to gain a fortune. However, he was not so cruel and
avaricious as many of the adventurers. He determined to establish a
permanent settlement in Chili. He began his march in the year 1540,
with 200 Spaniards, and a numerous body of Peruvian auxiliaries; he
had also some monks, several women, and a great number of European
quadrupeds, with everything requisite for a colony.
He pursued the same route as Almagro, but, as it was in the summer, he
passed the Andes without trouble, and entered Copiapo. But he found
a cool reception, though it was warm weather. The people had learned
the fate of Peru, and were determined not to allow their country to be
plundered by the Spaniards, if they could help it.
They, of course, began to attack Valdivia, on all sides; but still the
Spaniards made good their way, and reached the province of Mapocho, now
called St. Jago. This lies about 600 miles distant from the confines of
Peru. It was a beautiful country, pleasant and fertile, and had such a
large population, that its name was interpreted to signify “the land of
many people.” It lies upon the mountains of the Andes, and is 140 miles
in circumference. The mountains in the north part abounded with gold,
and in the east were rich mines of silver.
Valdivia admired the country, and determined to possess it. He
accordingly began his settlement, by founding a city, which he named
St. Jago, in honor of that apostle. At that time, Christians really
believed that God was well pleased with having his followers conquer
the heathen; and the most cruel and wicked of the Spanish adventurers
always made a parade of their religion, or rather, their superstitions.
Valdivia went on, for a time, very successfully with building his city;
but the natives were forming plans to destroy him. These he suspected,
and seized and confined a number of their chiefs. Still, he was not at
ease, and, wishing to watch their movements, he took sixty horse, and
went out to scour the country. The Mapochians in the vicinity, who
were watching for such an opportunity, immediately fell upon the colony
with terrible fury, burned the half-built houses, and assailed the
citadel, where the inhabitants had take a refuge, on all sides.
The battle began at day-break, and was continued till night; fresh
troops of Indians constantly pouring in to fill the places of those
shot down by the Spaniards. The commander of the fort sent, during
the night, a messenger to Valdivia, who immediately returned. The
Indians were thus attacked on both sides; the musketry and horse
made a terrible slaughter among them; they had no arms but bows and
slings, yet they fought most furiously, till nearly all their army was
destroyed.
Valdivia thus relieved the siege, and rebuilt the city; but, for six
years, the natives were constant in their attacks; they cut off the
Spaniards at every opportunity, destroyed the crops, and, finally,
rendered all the fertile plains around St. Jago uncultivated and
desert; and then retired to the mountains.
The Spanish soldiers had become heartily tired of this fighting life.
A few battles did very well, but to spend year after year in warfare
was not at all comfortable. So they finally determined to kill their
general, and then return to Peru. Valdivia discovered the conspiracy,
and finally succeeded in quelling it.
About the same time, he obtained possession of a rich gold mine, in
the valley of Quillota; and, by distributing the gold freely among his
men, he found that they soon grew contented. But he discovered that he
needed more soldiers, as the natives were far from being subdued; and
he had constantly to keep a detachment of troops to guard the miners.
At length, Valdivia resolved to send, by land, two of his captains,
Monroy and Miranda, with six companions, whose spurs, bits, and
stirrups he directed to be made of gold, hoping thus to entice the
Spaniards in Peru to come to his assistance.
These messengers were escorted by thirty horsemen, who were to
accompany them to the borders of Chili. They reached Copiapo: here they
were attacked by one hundred archers, commanded by Corteo, an officer
of the Ulmen. The Spaniards were all slain, except the two captains,
who, dreadfully wounded, were taken prisoners, and brought before the
Ulmen.
That prince resolved to put them to death; but, at the solicitation of
his wife, the Ulmena, he finally consented to spare them. She unbound
them with her own hands, dressed their wounds, and treated them like
brothers. When they were fully recovered, she desired them to teach her
son the art of riding, as several of the horses had been taken alive in
the defeat.
The two Spaniards readily consented to her request, hoping that they
should find means to escape. This was natural; nor would it, perhaps,
have been wrong, had they not committed a most horribly ungrateful
crime to effect it. They were not strictly guarded, and frequently
rode out with the young prince. One day, as this youth, the son of
their benefactress, was riding between them, escorted by his archers,
and preceded by his lance-bearer, Monroy suddenly attacked him with a
poiniard he had concealed, and gave him several mortal wounds; while
Miranda wrested the lance from the officer; and, in the confusion
caused to the escort by seeing their young prince bleeding on the
ground, these two treacherous Spaniards easily escaped.
But this breach of faith was ultimately of great disadvantage to the
Spaniards. That one unprovoked murder probably caused the death of
hundreds; because the natives never, after the occurrence, seemed to
have put any faith in the professions of the white men.
The succeeding year or two were spent by Valdivia in fighting, and
founding cities. The natives were gradually losing strength and
hope; many were slain in the wars, and some yielded to what seemed
inevitable, and became the allies of the Spaniards.
Still, there was much for these invaders to endure. At one time, the
Copiapians, to revenge the murder of their prince by Monroy, killed
forty Spaniards; and, not satisfied with that vengeance, they persuaded
the Coquimbanes to massacre all the inhabitants of a colony which had
been founded in their territory, and to raze the city of Serena, which
Valdivia had caused to be built, to its foundations.
In 1549, the city was rebuilt in a more advantageous situation: but
every advantage had to be purchased at the point of the sword, and paid
for by human blood.
After a contest of nine years, and almost incredible hardships, the
Spanish power seemed established in that part of Chili which had,
formerly, been under the dominion--or, rather, superintendence--of the
Peruvian empire. Valdivia then proceeded to distribute the conquered
lands among his officers, as had been done in the West Indies and Peru.
Then he was ready to undertake the conquest of the remaining provinces
of Chili.
He accordingly began his march, with a pretty large army of Spaniards
and Indians, and proceeded 240 miles, to the bay of Penco, where, on
the 5th of October, 1550, he founded a third city, called Conception.
He had now arrived in the vicinity of the Araucanians; and, before we
proceed with the story of the war, I will give you some account of
the character and manners of this brave, free, and, in many respects,
wonderful people.
CHAPTER XI.
_Chili continued.--Customs, manners, arts, character, religion,
language, &c., of that nation of Chili called Araucanians._
The word _auca_ signifies _free_; and the Araucanians pride themselves
on their liberty and independence. They possess great strength of
constitution, and enjoy their health and faculties till they are very
old. They rarely begin to be gray before they are sixty or seventy, and
are not bald or wrinkled till eighty.
Their complexion is of a reddish brown, but much clearer than that
of any other Indians. One tribe, the Boroanes, which live on the
mountains, have as fair complexions, red and white, as Europeans; but,
in general, the Araucanians are well distinguished as “red men.” They
have round faces, small, animated eyes, a rather flat nose, a handsome
mouth, even and white teeth, and small feet and hands.
The men pluck out their beards, but the hair on their heads they permit
to grow to a great length. It is coarse, and black, and they wind it
in tresses around their heads, and on no account allow it to be cut.
The women are delicately formed, and many of them, especially among the
Boroanes, are very handsome.
Their moral qualities are superior to those of any other of the native
nations of America. They are courteous, hospitable, faithful to their
engagements, grateful for services rendered them, and, generally,
generous and humane towards the vanquished. They are exceedingly brave
and patriotic, and enthusiastic lovers of liberty.
These noble qualities are obscured by the vices inseparable from
the half-savage state of life they lead, unrefined by literature,
and unenlightened by the Christian religion. They are often guilty
of drunkenness; they practise polygamy, and they are very proud of
themselves, and entertain a haughty contempt for all other nations.
The men dress in the following manner: they wear a shirt, vest, and a
pair of short, close breeches; and a cloak, called a _poncho_. It is
an oblong piece of cloth, about three yards long and two wide, with an
opening in the middle for the head--and is a very commodious and useful
garment.
Their clothes are made of wool, which they manufacture into cloth; and
all the dress, except the poncho, is colored a greenish blue. This is
the favorite color of the nation; but the poncho may be either white,
red, or blue, with stripes a span broad, on which are wrought the
figures of flowers and animals, in all manner of colors, and the border
is ornamented with a handsome fringe.
The Araucanians wear on their heads a bandage of embroidered wool,
in the form of the ancient diadem. They raise this, as a mark of
courtesy, when saluting any one; when going to war, they ornament it
with beautiful plumes. They also wear, around the body, a long woollen
girdle, handsomely wrought. Persons of rank wear woollen boots, of
various colors, and leather sandals; but the common people always go
barefooted.
The dress of the women is very modest and simple. It consists of a
tunic, a girdle, and a short cloak: the tunic descends to the feet; it
has no sleeves, and is fastened on the shoulders by silver brooches.
The color of the dress is always blue, and the fashion is never varied.
But women seldom “forget their ornaments;” and these Araucanian ladies
decorate their hair, which, divided into tresses, is allowed to float
gracefully over their shoulders, with a profusion of false emeralds,
and they wear necklaces of glass, and rings of silver on every finger,
if they can obtain them.
They build their houses of a quadrangular form; the walls are made
of wood, plastered with clay, and sometimes of brick; and the roof
is covered with rushes. The size of the dwelling corresponds with
the number of women a man can maintain, as each wife has her own
fire-place. The interior of these houses is very simple, as they have
no more furniture than is absolutely necessary. They live in scattered
villages, each family on lands inherited from its ancestors--the right
of private property being sacredly established. They will not live in
walled cities, because they think the walls are a mark of slavery.
They manufacture their cloth from the wool of the Chilihueque, or
Araucanian camel. They make use of the spindle and distaff, and have
two kinds of looms; the first is somewhat like our common loom. The
women perform all the domestic manufacture, and are likewise expert
at sewing. They had needles and looms when first discovered by the
Spaniards; in short, all the arts I shall describe, existed among them
then, in as great perfection as they do at the present day.
From the excellent clay of their country the men manufactured pots,
plates, cups, and large jars to hold their fermented liquors. They
baked their pottery in ovens, made in the declivity of hills; and they
had the art of varnishing their ware. They also extracted gold, silver,
copper, tin, and lead from the earth, purified it, and made a variety
of curious and useful articles.
They had discovered the art of making salt upon the sea-shore; and,
from the juice of plants and from mineral earths, they procured dyes
of all colors for their clothes, and also knew how to fix the color,
by means of a certain luminous stone. They used the bark of the tree
_guallai_, as a substitute for soap, and obtained oil from the seeds of
the _madi_.
They also manufactured baskets, mats, fishing-nets, ropes, and all
their implements of labor and weapons of war. Their agricultural labors
were considerable. They cultivated Indian corn, pulse of various
kinds, potatoes, pumpkins, pepper, and large strawberries. They made
use of spades, and a light plough, in tilling their grounds. They had
domesticated the _Chilihueque_, an animal shaped like a camel, but
having long hair, or rather, wool, which served for all purposes of
making cloth. They had also hogs and domestic fowls in plenty.
Their government is like that of Venice--an aristocratic republic. They
have three orders of nobility, the dignities of each hereditary in the
male line; but these nobles, though they administer the laws, have no
power to make laws, but are obliged to govern according to the customs
and traditions of the people. The highest rank is the Toquis; next,
Apo-Ulmenes; third, Ulmenes. But these chiefs have no power of exacting
contributions, or taxes, from the people; nor can they call upon them
for their service, except in time of war.
The offences which are deemed deserving capital punishment, are,
treachery, murder, adultery, the robbery of any valuable article,
and witchcraft. Husbands and fathers are not subjected to any
punishment for killing their wives and children, as they are declared
to be the natural masters of their lives. In this particular, the
odious wickedness of barbarous life is most strikingly displayed. No
influence, save that of the _Christian religion_, can protect women
and children from oppression; and yet there are women in _Christian
countries_, who appear indifferent to, or wholly insensible of, the
precious privileges which the Gospel of Peace has bestowed on them!
The ulmenes are judges in all cases between the people; in questions of
national importance, the whole body of nobles meet together in grand
council.
Whenever the grand council determines to go to war, they elect a
commander-in-chief; and he is chosen for his fitness, without regard to
rank. Sometimes they elect one from the common class, if there is no
one among the nobles more distinguished for bravery.
The new general assumes the title of toqui, and a stone hatchet; and
all nobles and people take an oath of obedience to his orders. He is,
in fact, dictator; but yet his power is not quite supreme, for he
cannot put any one to death without the consent of his officers.
Every Araucanian is born a soldier and a patriot--all are ready to
fight for their country; so that there is no difficulty in raising an
army, which usually consists of five or six thousand men. The toqui
appoints his lieutenants; these appoint subordinates; and so on, till
the army is organized.
The army is at present composed of infantry and horse. They formerly
had only foot-soldiers; but, perceiving the great advantage which
the Spaniards derived from their cavalry, the shrewd Araucanians set
themselves to providing horses, and, in 1568--only seventeen years
after their first opposing the Spanish arms--they were able to furnish
several squadrons; and, in 1585, they had their cavalry regularly
organized.
The infantry is divided into regiments and companies; each regiment
has 1000 men, and contains ten companies. The cavalry is divided in a
like manner. They have all their particular standards, but each bears a
_star_, the national device. The soldiers are not clothed in uniform,
but all wear, beneath their usual dress, cuirasses of leather,
hardened by a peculiar mode of dressing; and their shields and helmets
are made of the same material.
The cavalry is armed with swords and lances; the infantry with pikes
and clubs, pointed with iron. They formerly used bows and slings; but,
when fighting with the Spaniards, they found these would not do; so,
to avoid the effect of the musketry, they adopted pikes and clubs, and
immediately closed in and fought hand to hand with the enemy.
They used fire-arms with great skill, whenever they took powder and
muskets from the Spaniards; but, as soon as the powder was expended,
they returned to their own way of fighting. They were, however, very
anxious to learn the secret of making powder, and, it is reported,
tried one very extraordinary experiment.
There happened to be a few _negroes_ with the Spanish troops; these,
the Araucanians thought, were the powder magazines; or, at least, that
the Spaniards used them in making powder. So, happening to take a poor
black man prisoner, the Araucanians first covered him with stripes from
head to foot, and then burned him to a coal, in order, by reducing
it to powder, to obtain the so much wished for secret. But the cruel
experiment failed!
The troops of this warlike nation are very vigilant, and always choose
excellent positions. They are, moreover, acquainted with the art of
constructing military works, and of protecting themselves with deep
ditches, which they guard with branches of thorn.
When action becomes necessary, they separate the cavalry into two
wings, and place the infantry in the centre; the files being arranged
in such a manner that a pikeman and one who carries a club always fight
side by side. They are brave, indeed utterly fearless, in battle.
Though they know full well that the first ranks will be exposed to
almost certain destruction, they eagerly contend with each other for
these posts of honor. As soon as the first line is cut down, or swept
away by the cannon, the second occupies its place, and then the third,
pressing on, until they succeed in breaking the front ranks of the
enemy. In the midst of their fury, they preserve the strictest order,
and perform all the evolutions directed by their officers. The most
terrible of these are their club-bearers, who, Hercules-like, destroy
or beat down all before them.
The prisoners they take are usually made slaves, until they are
exchanged or ransomed. They seldom put a prisoner to death.
The religious system of the Araucanians differs, in some respects,
from that of other Indian nations. They acknowledge a Supreme Being,
the author of all things, whom they call _Pillan_--a word derived from
_pulli_, the soul, and signifies the supreme essence. This Supreme
Being is the great Toqui of the invisible world, and has a number
of subordinate spirits, to whom is entrusted the administration of
affairs of less import. There is a god of war, a benevolent deity, and
the _guembu_, a malignant being, the author of all evil. If a horse
tires, the guembu has rode him; if the earth trembles, this evil spirit
has given it a shock; and he suffocates all who die,--so think the
Araucanians.
Then the people believe in genii, who have charge of all created
things, and who, united with the benevolent meulor, are constantly
at war with the power of the wicked guembu. These genii are of both
sexes--the females are lares, or familiar spirits, and always watch
over mankind. Every Araucanian thinks he has one in his service. They
sometimes invoke these deities, and implore their aid on urgent
occasions; but they have no temples of worship, nor idols of any
description; nor do they offer any sacrifices, except in case of some
great calamity, or on concluding a peace. At such times they sacrifice
animals and burn tobacco.