is deeply rooted, and seems innate with them. They think the soul,
when separated from the body, goes to a country west, beyond the
sea: one part of this land is pleasant, and filled with everything
delightful--it is the abode of the good; the other part--desolate and
wretched--is the habitation of the wicked.
Missionaries are much respected, and well-treated among them, and
have full liberty of preaching their tenets; but yet, very few of the
natives have ever been converted to Christianity. Still, they would
seem to be the most likely of any of the Indian nations, to become,
by suitable instruction, rational and real Christians. Their mode of
worship, or manner of thinking respecting religious subjects, is more
pure and spiritual than that of any other heathen people; and if books,
in their own beautiful language, could be furnished them, and schools
could be established among them, and good men and women, teachers of
righteousness, in example as well as precept, would devote themselves
to the work of instruction, it seems as though this interesting nation
might be soon raised to the high rank of a civilized and Protestant
Christian republic.
The Araucanians divide time as we do, into years, seasons, months,
days, and hours; but in a different method. They commence their solar
year on the 22d of December, calling this solstice _Thaumathipantu_,
the head and tail of the year; and they denominate June,
_Udanthipantu_, the divider of the year, from its dividing it into two
parts.
They divide the year into twelve months, of thirty days each, and add
five intercalary days to make out the solar year. The months are named
from the most remarkable things produced at the time: thus--January is
called _Avuncujer_, the month of fruit; February, _Cogi-cujer_, the
month of harvest--and so on. The natural day is divided into twelve
parts, six being allotted to the day, and six to the night; so that the
Araucanian hour is as long as two of ours.
In astronomy, they have made wonderful progress, considering that they
have had no written signs, to perpetuate their observations. They
have divided the stars into constellations, and named these from the
number of remarkable stars that compose them. Thus, the Pleiades are
called _Cajupal_, the constellation of six; and the Antartic Cross,
_Meleritho_, the constellation of four; because the first has six stars
that are very apparent, and the last four.
They are well acquainted with the planets, and believe that these
globes are so many earths, inhabited in the same manner as ours; for
this reason they call the sky _Guenu-mapu_--the country of heaven; and
the moon, _Cuyen-mapu_--the country of the moon. They believe comets to
be exhalations or vapors from the earth, inflamed in the upper regions
of the air; and never exhibit any fear at the sight of these, or of
eclipses of the sun or moon. It is plain that they consider these as
natural phenomena, but whether they know the course of eclipses or
not, cannot be gathered from the imperfect knowledge we have of their
language.
The Araucanians hold oratory in high estimation. The eldest son cannot
succeed to the right of his birth, if he is deficient in this talent.
So parents accustom their young sons, from childhood, to speak in
public, and carry them to the national assemblies, where the best
orators of the country display their eloquence.
They are as careful as ever were the Greeks, to speak their language
correctly, and to preserve its purity. They are so particular about
introducing foreign words, that when a foreigner settles among them,
they oblige him to relinquish his name, and take another in the Chilian
language.
The speeches of their orators are in the Asiatic style, highly
figurative, allegorical, and elevated. They abound with parables and
apologues; and yet they are seldom deficient in all the essential parts
required by the rules of rhetoric; they have a suitable exordium, a
clear narrative, a well-founded argument, and a pathetic peroration.
Their poets are called _gempin_, signifying _lords of speech_. What a
beautiful and expressive name! Unrestrained enthusiasm is the prime
characteristic of their poetry. The principal subject of the songs is
the exploits of their heroes, somewhat in the manner of Ossian. Their
verses are composed mostly in stanzas of eight or eleven syllables--a
measure that appears most agreeable to the human ear. They are blank,
but occasionally a rhyme is introduced, according to the taste of the
poet.
The Araucanians have three kinds of physicians: the _ampines_, who
employ only simples. These doctors are skilful in their knowledge of
herbs, and understand pretty well the curing of most common diseases.
Then there are the _vileus_, a class of doctors who believe that all
contagious disorders proceed from insects: these are the regular
physicians, and despise the poor herb-doctor as much as our own
regular-bred M. D.’s do the quacks. The third class--_machis_--maintain
that all serious disorders proceed from witchcraft, and pretend to
cure by supernatural means; for which reason they are employed in
desperate cases, when the exertions of the other doctors have failed.
Sometimes the three kinds of physicians are called to hold a regular
consultation--but they seldom agree.
Besides these professors of medicine, there are surgeons--_gutorne_--
who remedy dislocations, and cure wounds and ulcers. And there is also
a class who dissect bodies, in order to learn from the entrails if
they are infected with poison; and in this way they obtain a tolerably
correct notion of the human anatomy.
Before the arrival of the Spaniards, the Araucanians made use of
bleeding, blistering, clysters, emetics, cathartics, and sudorifics--all
which remedies have their peculiar names in their language. They let
blood with the sharp point of a flint, fixed in a small stick; and they
still prefer this instrument to a lancet. Almost all their medicines
are obtained from vegetables.
The internal commerce--that is, the traffic among themselves--is
entirely carried on by barter, and regulated by a kind of conventional
tariff, according to which all commercial articles are appraised under
the name of _cullen_, or payment, as was the custom in the time of
Homer. Thus, a horse or bridle forms one payment; an ox, two--and so on.
Their external commerce is carried on, also, in the same way of barter;
the Araucanians receive wine and European merchandise in exchange for
_ponchos_, or Indian cloaks, horned cattle, horses, ostrich feathers,
curiously wrought baskets, and other trifles.
The Spaniard who engages in this trade, applies directly to the heads
of families. If they tell him he may trade, he proceeds to their
houses, and distributes, indiscriminately, his merchandise to all
those who may present themselves. When he has completed his sale,
he gives notice of his departure, and all the purchasers hasten to
deliver to him, in the first village he arrives at, the articles agreed
upon as payment; and never has there been known an instance of the
least failure of punctuality. Would that those who bear the name of
Christians, would always observe as good faith in their contracts as
these Indians!
The pride of this people has been before noted. They are as proud
of their valor and liberty as ever were the Romans. They believe
themselves the only people in the world that deserve the name of men!
This high opinion of themselves makes them hold every other nation in
great contempt. They call the Spaniards by names which signify _vile
soldiers_ and _assassins_. The other Europeans they call _moruche_,
or strangers. But to each other they are all benevolence; and their
language seems formed to express their kindness. They have six or
seven very expressive words in their language for the term _friend_.
For their relations of the most distant degree, they have terms which
express particular regard and good will. In consequence of this mutual
affection, they are always ready to assist each other. Not a beggar
or an indigent person is to be found throughout all the Araucanian
territory; even the most infirm and incapable of assisting themselves,
are decently clothed. What a lesson should this furnish to Christian
nations!
Nor is the benevolence of the Araucanian confined to his own
countrymen: he is hospitable towards all strangers, of whatever nation;
and a traveller may live in any part of the country, without the least
expense.
They are very eloquent in expressing their good will, and sometimes
rather tiresome in their compliments. They are naturally fond of
honorable distinction, and they will not endure to be treated with
the least contempt or neglect. If a Spaniard begins to speak to one
of them with his hat on, the Indian immediately says--“_Entugo tarmi
curtesia_”--take off your hat!
By attention and courtesy, anything may be obtained from them; and
the favors they receive are always remembered; but ill-treatment
exasperates them to such a degree, that nothing but revenge can appease
them.
The Araucanians allow polygamy; a man may marry as many wives as
he can purchase and maintain. This is the worst feature in their
social policy, and seems almost the only obstacle which retards their
civilization, or prevents them from becoming Christians. But even in
these marriages, they show a higher sense of the natural laws of man,
than the profligate Caribs did. The Araucanians, in their marriages,
scrupulously avoid the more immediate degrees of relationship.
Their marriage ceremonies have very little formality, and consist in
nothing more than carrying off the bride by pretended violence; and the
bridegroom is obliged to give a variety of presents to the parents of
the bride, and provide a grand entertainment for all the relations.
The first wife is always respected as the real and legitimate one; the
others are called _iardimo_, or secondary wives. The first wife has
also the authority of the mistress of the house; but the other wives
are not always obedient, and the husband who has a number of these
help-meets, has a deal of trouble to maintain harmony among them,
though they generally treat him with great respect.
Celibacy is considered as ignominious. Old bachelors and old maids are
called by names that signify old, idle, good for nothing.
Besides the usual female occupations of taking care of the house and
children, spinning, weaving, and so on--that females in all countries
perform--the women are not obliged to do much of the labor of living.
But they pay the greatest attention to the cleanliness of their houses,
sweeping them and the courts several times in the course of the day.
Whenever they make use of any utensil, they immediately wash it.
The same attention to cleanliness is paid to their persons; they comb
their hair twice a day, and once a week wash it with the soap made from
the bark of the _quillai_; which keeps the hair very clean. There is
seldom to be seen on their clothes the least spot of dirt.
The men are likewise equally fond of being neat and clean. In warm
weather they bathe themselves several times a day, and it is rare, even
in winter, that they do not bathe at least once a day.
Children are very kindly treated, and rarely, if ever, punished--the
Araucanians holding it as an established truth, that chastisement only
renders men base and cowardly.
The usual diet of this people is very simple. They are fond of Indian
corn, and potatoes: of the last they have cultivated more than thirty
different kinds, from time immemorial. Although they have both large
and small animals, and birds in plenty, yet they eat but little flesh,
and that is simply boiled or roasted. They rarely eat pork, though they
know how to prepare black puddings and sausages; nor do they make much
use of fish. They prefer bread and vegetables, especially potatoes,
roasted, with a little salt.
Their usual drinks consist of various kinds of beer, and of cider, made
from Indian corn, apples, and other fruits. They are extremely fond of
wine, which they purchase from the Spaniards; but they have never taken
any pains to cultivate the vine, which might be easily raised in the
country.
The master of the house eats at the same table with his wives and
children. The plates are earthen; the spoons and cups are made of horn
and wood. The ulmenes, or nobles, have, in general, wrought plate for
the service of their tables; but they only make use of it when they
entertain some stranger of rank--then they make all the show possible,
as they like to be considered rich. In summer, they are fond of dining
in the shade of trees, which for this purpose are always planted round
the house. Besides dinner, supper, and breakfast, they have, every
day, their luncheon, which consists of a little flour of parched corn,
steeped in hot water in the morning, and in cold in the evening.
Such is their common mode of living; but, on the occasions of
funerals, marriages, or any other important event, they make great
entertainments. Sometimes, three hundred persons are present, and the
feasting continues two or three days. These are called _cahuin_, or
circles, because the company seat themselves in a circle around a large
branch of cinnamon wood.
They have also a custom, somewhat similar to our New England raisings,
huskings, and quiltings. When there is any work which requires the
combined aid of several persons--such as threshing their grain,
building a house, &c.--the Araucanians, or all who wish to partake of
the feast, assemble, and work until the labor is completed. But they
generally come in sufficient numbers to finish the job in a few hours,
and then devote the remainder of the day to amusement.
Music, dancing and play, form their customary diversions. Their musical
instruments are very rude, their voices rather harsh, and the manner
of singing not very agreeable to a stranger. But their dances, of
which they have several, are lively and pleasing. The men and women
sometimes dance together, but oftener apart.
Their games are very numerous, and, for the most part, very ingenious;
they are divided into sedentary and gymnastic. It is a curious fact,
and worthy of note, that they have the game of chess, which they call
_comican_, and which has been known to them from time immemorial. They
have also a game, _quechu_, which is almost similar to our backgammon.
The youth exercise themselves frequently in wrestling and running,
and playing ball, which they like exceedingly. But the _penco_ is
a favorite game, because it has some resemblance to the siege of a
fortress--and they delight in war.
The _penco_ is thus played. Twelve or more persons join hands, and
form a circle, in the centre of which stands a little boy. Their
adversaries, who are equal in number, and sometimes superior, endeavor
by force or stratagem to break the circle, and obtain the boy, in which
the victory consists. But this is no easy matter. The defenders make
almost incredible efforts to keep themselves closely united, and the
besiegers are often compelled, by weariness, to relinquish the attempt;
and then the defenders shout for their victory.
The aboriginal inhabitants of Chili, from the ocean to the Andes,
from Peru to Magellan, all speak the same language. It is a regular,
harmonious, and rich language, and so elegant, expressive, and copious,
that Europeans who have studied it, think the Chilians must, in former
times, have possessed a much greater degree of civilization than at
present; because mere savages could never have formed a dialect so
perfect.
It differs from every other American language, not less in its words
than in its construction. It is so copious, that a complete dictionary
of it would require more than one large volume; and in sweetness and
variety it greatly excels the other Indian dialects.
The Araucanians are very particular to teach their children to speak
with propriety and elegance; and it is probably this care which has
preserved the language so pure. They will not converse in Spanish,
though they easily learn that language, or, indeed, any other; but they
scrupulously adhere to their own tongue,--and it is through this medium
that, if ever they embrace Christianity, they must be taught. It seems,
from many circumstances, as though this people were peculiarly prepared
to become Protestant Christians, whenever they can be instructed in the
arts of reading and writing, and furnished with the Word of God.
Such are the character and manners of the Araucanians of the present
day: most of the customs we have described are original, though a few
of them have been derived from the Spaniards.
A Long Nap.
Did you ever see a bear? A bear is a creature as large as a small
cow.--Some bears are black, some white, and some brown.
Bears live far away in the woods and mountains. They do not get
together, as people do, and build houses: not they!
Every bear looks out for some hole in a tree, or cave in a rock, and
there he makes his bed. If he can get enough to eat, he cares for
nobody else.
When winter comes, bears of some kinds grow sleepy, and, crawling into
a hole, or lying down beneath the shelter of thick trees, they shut
their eyes and go to sleep. Like the little striped squirrel, and
wood-chucks, and toads and lizards, they thus sleep till spring.
[Illustration: Lord Bacon]
Lord Bacon.
The word _bacon_ is usually applied to a piece of smoked pork, and
sometimes means nothing more than _ham_. But, in the present case,
it is applied to one of the greatest and most useful men that ever
lived,--and this may show that the same word may signify very different
things.
Now, this Lord Bacon--whose Christian name was Francis--as I have said,
was a great and useful man; but what did he do? He was no warrior, and
never fought a battle; he was no king, and never wore a crown; he was
no giant, and never performed any great feat of bodily strength: but he
did more for the good of mankind than any giant, king, or warrior. He
taught the world how to think, how to reason, how to find out truth!
He was born in London, in the year 1561. He was bred a lawyer, and held
office under Elizabeth, then queen of England. But, after a time, he
offended the queen, and his hopes of high preferment were disappointed.
After queen Elizabeth died, and James I. came to the throne, he was
made a judge, and held several important stations, and at last was
honored with the title of Viscount St. Albans--which meant that he was
one of the nobles of the land; or, in other words, that he was to be
called a lord.
But the offices and honors he enjoyed, were not the foundation of
Bacon’s claims to the respect and gratitude of mankind. You must
remember that he lived almost three hundred years ago; and then the
people, even those who were learned, held many absurd opinions,
and, what was the worst of all, they had false and foolish modes
of reasoning. Thus it often happened, that even the learning and
philosophy of those days rather led to error than to truth.
Now, Bacon applied himself to the teaching of better modes of thinking
and reasoning. Instead of bewildering the mind with theories and
fancies, he taught the world to study into facts; to gather stores
of knowledge; and to make this knowledge the starting-point--the
foundation of their philosophy. He taught this great and simple truth,
and the result of it has been, that mankind, since his time, have
discarded many absurd errors, and gone on making new and wonderful
discoveries. Many of the great inventions, and much of the science and
knowledge now current among mankind, are the result of Bacon’s wise
and useful lessons.
This great man died in 1626; and though he did so much for the world,
he can hardly be said to have led a happy life. He was once imprisoned
in the Tower of London--a dreary old castle--fined 200,000 dollars,
turned out of parliament, and declared unworthy of serving his country!
Perhaps he did something wrong, though the general opinion is, that he
suffered this on account of unjust accusations. He was liberated from
the tower, and the fine was remitted by the king; but from this period,
he lived in privacy, devoting himself to the writing of books. They are
now held in great estimation, for their stores of wisdom.
Habits which concern Others.
Not only for our own sakes, but on account of all with whom we
associate, it is our duty to take great care of our habits. The general
principle which should lead us to do this is, that we cannot live for
ourselves alone. We must think of others; we must speak and act with
them in our minds. And we are bound to form such habits as shall tend
to their good--to make us useful in the world. We must, in a word, deny
ourselves. If, while we are children, we take pleasure in giving a part
of what we enjoy, be it only a bunch of flowers, or an apple, to one of
our school-mates, we shall thus prepare ourselves to make others good
and happy, when we come to manhood. But a selfish habit will be very
hard to change hereafter.
We should form the habit of associating with good persons. A lad may
have many pleasant things about him; he may be witty, or bold, or
smart; but, if he is coarse in his manners--if he is vulgar, profane,
or addicted to falsehood, we should shun his company. We are apt to
become like those with whom we freely associate; and although we do
not mean to imitate their faults, and do not think there is any danger
of it, yet we may soon fall into the same bad habits. To be safe,
therefore, we should never trust ourselves unnecessarily with any but
good people.
You may think it will be easy to break away from the company and
acquaintance of a boy, when you find him to be very bad; but it will
not be so. Many have been ruined for life by the friendships they have
formed with vicious children, while at school with them. They continued
to associate with them, and caught their vices in youth, and even up to
manhood. If we wish to do good in the world, we must be good; and we
cannot be good, if we are very intimate with bad persons.
It is our duty habitually to speak well of others. We are accustomed to
do the opposite of this--to say all the bad things of others which we
think the truth will allow. This is wrong. A little boy once said to
his mother--“When will these ladies be gone, so that we can talk about
them?” And what was to be said about those ladies? Probably the family
were in the habit of speaking of the faults of their visiters. If there
was anything that could be ridiculed in their dress or their remarks,
then was the time to discuss it.
Now, we all know the power of habit; and if we could only learn to
think what _good_ things we could say of others, and keep all that was
bad to ourselves, what an immense improvement there would be among
school-children, and in the whole world! It is our duty to love all
men; let us, therefore, try to speak well of every one, and we shall
soon love them. If we talk much against them, we cannot love them.
We should practise punctuality, for the sake of others, as well as
ourselves. He who is punctual, will accomplish far more in a day, than
he who is not so. Washington was remarkable for this virtue. He once
rode into Boston without any escort, because the soldiers were not
punctual to meet him on the line, at the time they promised. His mother
taught him, when a boy, to have certain hours for every employment, and
to do everything at the appointed time. This habit helped, in his after
life, to make him a good man. He was able to do what, without it, he
never could have done.
We injure others by a neglect of punctuality. A girl says to
herself--“It is a little too cold, or a little too warm, to go to
school to-day;” or--“I feel a slight headache;” and so she remains at
home. Now, she thus not only loses all she might that day have learned,
but gives her teacher trouble. He must note her absence; and when the
time comes for a recitation the next day, she is behind her class, and
gives him and them farther trouble. We ought never to say--“It is only
once--I will not do so again;” and think thus to excuse ourselves; for,
from the force of habit, the oftener we are tardy, or otherwise fail in
our duty, the more frequently shall we be likely to do so, and the more
injury shall we do others, of course, by this fault. So that, on every
account, we should be punctual.
Among the habits essential to a good character, is moral independence.
We hear much said about being independent in regard to property. Some
persons think that condition all-important. But it is only so, if it
can be proved indispensable to a higher and nobler independence--that
of character. Let us inherit a patrimony, or earn a fortune by industry
and economy, or by the power of superior talents; we shall still be
miserably dependent on others, if we do not form our own opinions,
as respects our duty, and practise what we feel to be right, and not
merely what others tell us is right.
We should first understand in what true independence consists. It is
not eccentricity, or oddity, or affectation; nor is it an unreasonable
pride and confidence in ourselves. We sometimes see boys, at school,
who put on airs, and pretend to be very independent in all they say and
do. There is no virtue in this. Ann is called very smart, because she
is not afraid to _speak her mind_, as she terms it, about everybody and
everything. She does it, when she knows it will give others pain. This
is not true independence.
Sarah is always saying queer, strange, and, what some call, independent
things. But she does this merely for display. She is very dependent,
for she lives on the opinion of others. She is always imagining what
people will say of her. Another girl is trying to be eccentric. If she
can find out what her companions expect her to think, or do, or say,
she will strive to think, act, or speak, in exactly the opposite way.
True independence is a habit of forming our own opinions on all
subjects, without regard to those of our neighbors. It leads us, under
all circumstances, to think, speak, and act according to what we
believe to be our duty. We should never wait for others to act, through
fear of doing differently from them. It is our duty to be considerate
of the feelings of others, and to be prudent and accommodating where
their happiness is concerned. But if we feel any course to be right,
we should always pursue it, let us suffer as we may from the unjust
censure of others.--_English Magazine._
[Illustration: Black skimmer]
The Black Skimmer of the Seas.
This bird, which is sometimes called _sheerwater_, is a lover of the
ocean, and spends nearly his whole life in skimming along its surface,
or in sitting upon its shores.
A person, on looking at the creature’s bill, might think it a very
clumsy contrivance; for the lower mandible, or jaw, is a great deal
longer than the upper one. People used to think that there was
some mistake of nature, in giving this bird what seemed to them so
inconvenient a tool for getting a living with. But this was only
one of those instances in which ignorance led to presumption, and
presumption to folly. A better knowledge of the sheerwater’s ways of
life has served to show, that in this case, as in all others, the
Author of nature has shown wonderful skill in adapting means to ends;
in supplying His creatures with the best possible contrivances for the
trade or profession they are to follow.
Now, the black skimmer is made for a fisherman; he is made to feast
upon shrimps, and small fishes of various kinds, that live near the
surface of the water. Accordingly, he is provided with a bill, the
lower part of which is the longest, and which he can dip in the water
while he is skimming close over its face. In order to prevent this from
impeding his progress, it is shaped like the blade of a knife, and thus
it cuts the water with ease. As he speeds along, his bill scoops up the
little fishes, and by the impetus of his flight, they are carried along
in his bill, and swallowed as he goes.
No better proof of the success of the ingenious contrivance furnished
by nature to the sheerwater can be needed, than that he is a lucky
fisherman, and seems to enjoy an almost perpetual banquet. His wings
are made of vast length, on purpose to assist him in sustaining his
continued flight; and thus he seems to sail as if the wind were made on
purpose for him; and he feasts as if the wide ocean were his larder.
This singular and interesting bird comes to us along the northern
shores of the Atlantic, in May, and retires to the south in autumn,
where he spends the winter. His favorite haunts are low sand-bars,
raised above the reach of the tides. He builds his nest on dry flats,
near the ocean. His body is nineteen inches long, and his wings, when
expanded, are forty-four inches from tip to tip. Thus the sheerwater,
instead of being shabbily treated, is a striking instance of the
adaptation of nature’s work, to the purposes of its great Author.
The Squirrel.
The more we examine the works of nature, the more we shall be made to
feel that there is infinite variety in them--that almost every part
of the universe is filled with inhabitants appropriate to it; and
that each individual thing is fitted to the place it occupies. Among
plants, for instance, there are nearly a hundred thousand kinds already
recorded in the books of the botanists; among animated beings, there
are, perhaps, even a greater number of species. And what a countless
number of each individual kind, whether in the vegetable or animal
world! Every part of the earth is occupied. The earth, the air, the
sea--each and all are inhabited by myriads of living things. And how
wonderfully are they all adapted to their several designs! How well is
the fish fitted to his element; how admirably is the bird adapted to
the life he is to lead!
Among quadrupeds, the lively little fellow, whose name we have placed
at the head of this article, is a pleasing illustration of the success
with which nature accomplishes her designs. The squirrel is made to
enliven the forest, to live among woods, to gather his food and make
his nest, and spend a great part of his life amid the branches of the
trees. And how perfectly is he at home in his domain! He springs from
limb to limb--from tree to tree; he ascends or descends the trunks at
pleasure, and seems to be as safe, in his airy evolutions, as the ox,
or the horse, upon the solid ground--or the bird in the air, or the
fishes in the river.
How perfect an instance of adaptation is this! How nice must be a piece
of machinery, that could be made to operate with such celerity, in such
a variety of ways, and with such certain success! And how pleasing, as
an object of mere beauty, is the squirrel! How graceful his form--how
cheerful his aspect--how seemingly happy his existence!
[Illustration: Gothic arches]
Gothic Architecture.
The modes of building in different countries, and in different ages of
the world, have resulted in several distinct styles of architecture.
Among the ancient Egyptians, it would seem, from the low and massy
forms of their edifices, that they were fashioned in imitation of
caves--the first habitations of savage man. The temples, of which many
ruins remain along the borders of the Nile, seem almost like structures
hewn out of the rock; so heavy are the columns, and so low the arches.
Among the Greeks, the style of architecture seemed to be suggested by
the wooden cabin, supported upon the trunks of trees. Thus the lighter
and loftier columns supporting their edifices, seem to be a leading
feature of their buildings.
In China, the houses appear to be fashioned after the tent, as if the
idea had been borrowed from the pastoral age, when the inhabitants
subsisted upon flocks, and dwelt in tents.
The Gothic architecture appears to be an imitation of the grove; the
roof being supported by pillars, branching upward. The engraving will
give some idea of this style of building. It flourished from the year
1000 to 1500, A. D., and was particularly used in the construction
of churches, monasteries, and other religious buildings, during that
period. In France and Germany there are still to be seen many churches
in this style; and though they have an ancient and gloomy appearance,
they are very beautiful, and the sombre light within, seems well fitted
to a place of worship. In England, also, there are many Gothic edifices
of the olden time, among which Westminster Abbey, in London, is a fine
specimen. In Boston, Trinity Church is somewhat in the Gothic taste;
and at Hartford there is a fine specimen, in the Episcopal Church.
There are also several other edifices in this country, of recent
structure, which are imitations, in part, of ancient Gothic buildings;
but a pure example of this style is hardly to be found, except in
Europe, and among the edifices of past centuries.
Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Recovery from sickness.--Change of character.--Story of a quack._
In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and
was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and
yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature
bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and
excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I
was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a
full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape,
the walk--each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and,
having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former
state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.
But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits--nor, indeed, from
that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions.
My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no
small degree abated my self-appreciation. I was humbled, if not before
the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had
served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had
never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness
of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.
I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but
others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or,
rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody
else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change
should have come over me: he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its
effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He
insisted upon it that I was “_in the dumps_” about something; and, half
in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.
In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage
than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man
of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for
physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had
faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He
believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift,
than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens
in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more
gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made
up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, “in a bad way,” he was
casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person,
notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town,
chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and,
if I may use the expression, he was a _regular_ quack.
I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large,
stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small,
fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deep-set beneath a shaggy
eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a
frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object,
seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we
sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor’s dress
was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes--the
fashion of the time--and top-boots, the upper portion being not a
little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded
crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous
width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown.
His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called
butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same
hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for
the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the
“_but’nut doctor_.”
Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said “good day” to the loungers
around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sliding
his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called
for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid
of tobacco out of his mouth--which he held in his hand, to be restored
to its place after the liquor was discussed--he applied himself to
the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, a
lickerish smile came over his face, and turning round to the company,
he said, in an insinuating tone--“Does any on ye know of any body
that’s sick in these parts?”
There was a momentary pause--and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag
of the village, replied: “Nobody, I guess, unless it’s Deacon Kellig’s
cow.”
“Well,” said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which
followed--“well, _I_ can cure a cow; it’s not as if I was one of your
college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to
a brute. But, the scriptur’ says, a marciful man is marciful to a
beast--and I prefer follerin’ scriptur’ to follerin’ the fashion. If
Providence has given me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any
of God’s critters that stand in need on ’t.”
“Well,” said Matthew, “do you cure a cow with the same physic that you
cure a man?”
“Why not?” said Farnum; “it’s better to be cured by chance, than killed
by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it’s a
beast, or a man. Nater’s the great physician, and I foller that.”
“What is nater?” said Olmstead.
“Nater? Ah, that’s the question! Nater’s----nater!”--
“Indeed?--but can’t you tell us what it is?”
“I guess I could, if I tried: it’s the most mysteriousest thing in the
univarsal world. I’ve looked into ’t, and I know. Now, when a cow has
lost the cud, so that it won’t work up or down, I go to a place where
there’s some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark _up_; and I cut
some on ’t _down_; and I cut some on ’t _round and round_. I then make
a wad on ’t, and put it down the cow’s throat. That part of the bark
that’s cut up, brings the cud up; that part that’s cut down, carries it
down; and that part that’s cut round and round, makes it work round
and round: and so, you see, there’s a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it
sets everything agoin’, and all comes right, and the critter’s cured as
clean as mud. That’s what I call nater!”
This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to
derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the
speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in
the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew
was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had
hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by
his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight
of knowledge.
“Why,” says Farnum, “there ’tis agin, squire; it’s nater--it’s clear
nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into
things from my childhood. Now, here’s my but’nut physic--it’s true, an
Indian give me the fust notion on’t; but I brought it to perfection,
from my own study into nater. Now, all them doctors’ stuffs that you
git at the pottekary’s, is nothin’ but pizen; thur’s no nater in’t.
My physic is all yarbs--every mite on’t. I can cure a man, woman, or
child, jest as sure as a cat’ll lick butter! There’s no mistake.”
“Well, how did you find it out, doctor?” said my uncle, seeming anxious
to give him an opportunity to unfold his wisdom.
“Can you tell why a duck takes to water?” said Farnum, with a look of
conscious importance. “It’s because it’s in him. ’Twas jest so with
me. I had a nateral instinct that telled me that there was something
very mysterious in the number seven. I expect I got some on’t from
the scriptur’, for there’s a great deal there about it. Well, one
dark, rainy night, as I was goin’ along thro’ some woods, thinkin’
about somethin’ or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind
was blowin’ desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel
through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down
into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it’s all exactly
like human nater. Well, now, if you’ll believe me, jest as that are
thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted
jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times
more, and so kept goin’ on, till he’d hooted jest forty-nine times.
Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin’, but I couldn’t tell
what. I went home, but I didn’t sleep any. The next day I couldn’t eat
anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I
was thinkin’ of the bridge, and the wind whistlin’, and the river, and
the dark rollin’ water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times
seven times.
“Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin’
all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and
tell’d him I was sick. He ax’d me what was the matter, and I related
the story of the owl. ‘You are the man I have been seeking for,’ said
he. ‘The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and
he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In
seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at
midnight.’
“True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night
agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge--agin the owl was there,
and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I
saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret.
‘Man,’ said he, ‘is subject to seven times seven diseases; and there
are seven times seven plants made for their cure. Go, seek, and you
shall find!’ Saying this, the dark figure leaped over the bridge, and
disappeared in the waters. I stood and heerd a gurgling and choking
sound, and saw somethin’ strugglin’ in the stream; but the Indian
disappeared, and I have never seen him sence. I went from the place,
and I soon found the forty-nine yarbs, and of these I make my pills.
Each pill has seven times seven ingredients in it; though but’nut’s the
chief, and that’s why it’s called but’nut physic. You may give it in
any disease, and the cure for ’tis there. I’ve tried it in nine hundred
and thirty-seven cases, and it haint failed but six times, and that,
I reckon, was for want of faith. Here’s some of the pills; there’s
forty-nine in a box, and the price is a dollar.”
Such was the doctor’s marvellous tale, and every word of it was no
doubt a fiction.
It may seem strange that such an impostor as this should succeed;
but, for some reason or other, mankind love to be cheated by quacks.
This is the only reason I can assign for the fact, that Dr. Farnum
sold six boxes of his pills before he left the tavern, and one of
them to my uncle. The next day he insisted upon my taking seven of
them, and, at his urgent request, I complied. The result was, that
I was taken violently ill, and was again confined to my room for a
fortnight. At length I recovered, and my uncle insisted that if I
had not taken the pills, I should have had a much worse turn; and,
therefore, it was regarded as a remarkable proof of the efficacy of
Farnum’s pills. Some two or three years after, I saw my own name in the
doctor’s advertisement, among a list of persons who had been cured in a
wonderful manner, by the physic of the butter-nut doctor.
I have thought it worth while to note these incidents, because
they amused me much at the time, and proved a lesson to me through
life--which I commend to all my readers--and that is, never to place
the slightest confidence in a quack.
The Apple; a German Fable.
There lived a rich man at the court of King Herod. He was lord
chamberlain, and clothed himself in purple and costly linen, and lived
every day in magnificence and joy. Then there came to him, from a
distant country, a friend of his youth, whom he had not seen for many
years.
And to honor him, the chamberlain made a great feast, and invited all
his friends. There stood on the table a great variety of excellent
viands, in gold and silver dishes, and costly vessels with ointment,
together with wine of every kind.
And the rich man sat at the head of the table, and was hospitable to
all; and his friend who had come from a distant country, was at his
right hand. And they ate and drank, and were satisfied.
Then the stranger addressed the chamberlain of the king: Such splendor
and magnificence as your house contains, is not to be found in my
country, far and wide! And he spoke highly of his magnificence, and
pronounced him the happiest of men.
But the rich man, the king’s chamberlain, selected an apple from a
golden dish. The apple was large and beautiful, and its colour was red,
approaching purple. And he took the apple and said, This apple has
rested on gold, and its form is very beautiful! And he reached it to
the stranger and friend of his youth.
And the friend cut the apple, and behold! in its middle was a worm!
Then the stranger cast his eyes on the chamberlain. But the lord
chamberlain looked upon the ground and sighed.
[Illustration: Pretender and sister]
The Pretender and his Sister.
“The _Pretender_! What a curious title!--and pray who can he be, Mr.
Merry? And who is the girl at his side, that you call his sister?”
I will answer these questions, my gentle reader,--and let me tell you
now, that there is nothing I like better than to answer the inquiries
of my young friends, when I am able.
Well, as to this Pretender--he was a personage that figured in the
history of England, some hundred years ago. His name was Charles
Edward. He was a grandson of Charles II., a king of England, who was
driven from the throne about the year 1690; and, thinking that his
father, James III., ought to be king of England, he determined to make
an effort to set him upon the throne. He was born 1720, and when he was
twenty-two years old, he entered upon this great project.
Being at Rome, he induced the Pope to espouse his cause; he then went
to Paris, and king Louis XV., having promised to assist him, fitted out
a fleet, with 15,000 men; but they were defeated by the English, as
they were on the point of sailing. After this, the French king would do
no more for Prince Charles Edward, and the daring young man set out, in
1745, in a little vessel of eighteen guns, and arms for 1500 men.
He landed on the northwest coast of Scotland, and the people there
seemed delighted to see him. He was a descendant of the former kings
of Scotland, of the Stuart line, and it was natural enough for them to
have a feeling of favor for one who thus claimed kindred with them.
Accordingly, the Scottish nobles flocked to the standard of Edward,
bringing with them hundreds of their brave soldiers.
He was soon at the head of a large and powerful army. With this he
marched forward, defeated the English troops that advanced to meet him,
and, in three months after his arrival, he took Edinburgh, the capital
of Scotland.--France now sent him aid, and, with a force of 7000 men,
he marched southward into England, and took the town of Carlisle. At
Preston Pans, he defeated an English army of 4000 strong; and such
was his success, that the English government, under King William, of
Orange, trembled for their safety.
They therefore made great efforts, and in April, 1746, they sent a
large army against him, under the Duke of Cumberland. At Culloden,
the two armies met, and a terrible battle followed; Prince Edward
was defeated, and his army entirely dispersed. He was scarce able to
save his life by flight; and, indeed, he wandered about, from place to
place, among the wilds of Scotland, being every day in danger of being
seized and given up to the English government, who offered $150,000 to
anybody who would bring him to them. It seems strange that so large
a bribe could be resisted; but, such was the love that the Scottish
people bore him, and such their fidelity, that no one was found to
betray him, though many people were entrusted with the secret of his
being among them. Even the poor mountaineers refused to give him up,
though offered a sum of money that would have made them very rich.
At last, a faithful Scottish nobleman, by the name of O’Neil, took him
in charge, and after wandering along the sea-shore in a skiff, flying
from island to island, and experiencing the greatest sufferings and
dangers, he was put on board a French frigate, that had been sent for
his rescue. He was now taken to France, and soon after, giving up all
hopes of seeing his family restored to the throne, he settled in Italy,
where he died in 1788, in the 68th year of his age. He was the last
of the Stuart line, and was called the _Pretender_, on account of his
_pretending_ to set up claims to the throne of England.
Winter.
December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but
they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.
Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled
and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that
the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the
vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must
remain till spring again returns.
Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead,
to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever
from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the
gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of
leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to
the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.
Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the
field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of
happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by
the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern
retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole
generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung
their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long
home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and
that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold
and fearful slumber.
Winter means all these melancholy things; but it also means something
more. It means that the granary of the farmer is full; that his barn
is supplied; that there is good and ample store for the beasts that
look to man for support, and for man himself. It means, too, that
the comfortable fire will be kindled, around which the family will
assemble, and where, secure from the bitter blast without, there will
still be peace, comfort, and content. It means, too, that there is such
a thing as poverty, shivering, without fire, without food--perhaps,
without sufficient shelter; and it means that charity should seek and
save those who are suffering in such a condition.
And winter means something more than all this: it means, by its
examples of decay and death, to teach us that we, too, must pass away;
and that it is well for us to make preparation for the great event.
Winter also brings us to the end of the year, and suggests a serious
self-inquiry, and self-examination. It would ask us if the last year
has been one of profit or loss? Are we better, and wiser, than when it
began? Are we more kind, more just, more patient, more faithful, more
fond of truth?--Summer is the season for the harvest of the field;
winter is the season for the moral harvest of the heart. Let it not
pass with any of us as a barren and unproductive season, in which we
neither sow nor reap the fruits of wisdom and peace.
The Hand.
Every limb and member of the body is made for some good purpose.
The eye is made to see with; the ear is made to hear with; the nose is
made to smell with; the mouth is made to eat and speak with.
The feet are made to run and walk with; the hands are made to work
with, to write with, and to do many other things.
But do you think children’s hands were ever made to strike their
brothers, or sisters, or playmates? Were your little hands ever made to
snatch away things from each other?
Who gave you hands? God gave them. Did he give you hands to steal with?
Did God give you hands that you might throw stones at geese, or dogs,
or hens, or cows, or any other innocent animals?
Did God give you hands to injure or wound any of the creatures he has
made?
Take care of your little hands, then, my children! Take care that the
hands God has given, do nothing that God disapproves.
Nuts to Crack.
THE WORD “FAST.”--This is as great a contradiction as we have in the
language. The river is _fast_, because the ice is immoveable; and then
the ice disappears _fast_ for the contrary reason--it is loose. A clock
is called _fast_ when it goes quicker than time; but a man is told to
stand _fast_, when he is desired to remain stationary. People _fast_
when they have nothing to eat, and eat _fast_ when opportunity offers.
* * * * *
MILITARY COURTESY.--Gen. Meadows, equally renowned for his wit and
bravery, being on a reconnoitring party, in the Mysore country, a
twenty-four pound shot struck the ground at some distance from the
General, and was passing in such a direction as would have exposed him
to danger had he continued on his route; quick as lightning he stopped
his horse, and, pulling off his hat very gracefully, as the shot rolled
on, good-humoredly said: “I beg you to proceed, sir; I never dispute
precedence with any gentleman of your family.”
* * * * *
A DOCTOR, in Scotland, was employed by a poor man to attend his wife,
who was dangerously ill. The doctor gave a hint, amounting to the
suspicion that he would not be paid. “I have,” says the man, “five
pounds; and if you kill, or cure her, you shall have it.” The woman
died, under the hands of the doctor, and, after a reasonable time,
he called for his five pounds. The man then said: “Did you kill my
wife?--did you cure her?” “No.” “Then,” said the poor man, “you have no
legal demand,” and turned upon his heel.
* * * * *
HOW TO SHAKE OFF TROUBLE.--Set about doing good to somebody: put on
your hat, and go and visit the sick and poor--inquire into their wants,
and minister to them; seek out the desolate and oppressed, and tell
them of the consolations of religion. I have often tried this method,
and have always found it the best medicine for a heavy heart.
* * * * *
A FATHER’S IMPULSE.--When Lord Erskine made his _debut_ at the bar, his
agitation almost overpowered him, and he was just going to sit down:
“At that moment,” said he, “I thought I felt my little children tugging
at my gown, and the idea roused me to an exertion, of which I did not
think myself capable.”
* * * * *
THE SUBLIME.--Over the stall of a public writer, in Rue de Bac, at
Paris, is the following inscription: “M. Renard, public writer and
compiler--translates the tongues, explains the language of flowers, and
sells fried potatoes.”
* * * * *
FEELING FOR ANOTHER.--A Quaker, once hearing a person tell how much he
felt for a friend who needed his assistance, dryly observed: “Friend,
hast thou ever felt in thy pocket for him?”
* * * * *
“What are you writing such a thundering big hand for, Patrick?” “Why,
do you see, my grandmother is deaf, and I am writing a loud lether to
her.”
* * * * *
A KNOTTY CASE.--Not many years ago, a man appeared in court, whether as
plaintiff, defendant, or witness, tradition does not inform us. Be this
as it may, the following dialogue ensued:--Court--“What is your name,
sir?” “My name is Knott Martin, your honor.” “Well, what is it?” “It
is Knott Martin.” “Not Martin, again! We do not ask you what your name
is _not_, but what it _is_. No contempt of court, sir.” “If your honor
will give me leave, I will spell my name.” “Well, spell it.” “K-n-o-tt,
Knott, M-a-r, Mar, t-i-n, tin--Knott Martin.” “O, well, Mr. Martin, we
see through it now; but it is one of the most _knotty_ cases we have
had before us for some time.”
* * * * *
GOOD.--It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most
pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend
what he intended to do with his daughters, he replied: “I intend to
apprentice them to their mother, that they may become like her--good
wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society.”
* * * * *
A LEARNED CHARACTER.--“Give me ‘Venice Preserved,’” said a gentleman,
last week, on going to a celebrated bookseller’s at the West-end.
“We don’t sell preserves,” said an apprentice, newly-imported from
the country; “but you will get them next door, at Mr. Brown’s, the
confectioner.”
* * * * *
TEN TO ONE.--Strict attention to office hours is a duty incumbent upon
every public officer. We heard of a case of an American consul, in a
foreign country, who was not remarkable for his attention to duty. A
gentleman, calling one day, found his office shut, and a label sticking
upon the door, with these words: “In from ten to one.” Having called
again several times within those hours, without finding him, he wrote
at the bottom of the label--“Ten to one he’s not in.”
To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d
Friends of Robert Merry.
It is now about a twelvemonth since our acquaintance commenced; and I
hope the feeling is such between us, that there is a mutual desire to
continue it. I know that the young, the happy, and the gay-hearted,
are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad--disposed to
look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more ready to
preach than practise charity.
I will not pretend to deny that, now and then, a person gets cross
and crabbed as he grows old, and like cider too long kept, turns to
vinegar: but this is not my case, or, if it be, my ill-humor never
displays itself toward the young. They are to me the buds and blossoms
of life, and their presence ever brings the welcome feelings that
belong to sunshine and summer.
Old age has been often compared to winter--the close of the year;
the season of desolation; the period of storms and tempests; the
funeral-time of the vegetable world; the time when the leaves, the
fruits, and the flowers are laid in their tomb, and covered over with
a winding-sheet of snow. This is a sad picture at first view; and I
believe many a child is led to avoid old people from the habit of
regarding them in this light--from the idea that they are shrivelled,
frost-bitten, bitter, and disagreeable.
Now, I will not deny that there is some resemblance between winter and
old age: an old man has not the warm blood of youth; his pulses are,
perhaps, like the river, chilled and obstructed by ice; his temper
is sometimes capricious and gusty, like the winds of December; and
his head, bald, or covered with a few silvery hairs, is like the oak,
stripped of its covering, and having its boughs powdered with snow.
All this may be true enough; but it is not good reason why the old
should be deserted by the young. I remember very well, that, when I
was a boy, there was a fine old walnut-tree, upon a hillside, not far
from where I lived. Now, I never thought or cared about this tree, till
the time when winter approached. Then, when the leaves were scattered,
the nuts were all ripe, then it was that the tree became an object of
interest to me. Then it was that I loved to visit it; to climb its
limbs and give it a shake, and hear the fruit rattle down like hail.
Never, in all my boyhood days, did I meet with anything more delightful
than this!
And let me tell you, my black-ey’d and blue-ey’d friends, that this old
walnut-tree was like many an old person you may meet with. You will
remark that, in this case, it was when winter had come, or was near at
hand, that the fruit was ripe, and ready for those who would climb up
for it and gather it. And let me tell you, that old people, like this
tree, have many a good nut to crack, many a good story to tell, to
those who will climb up in the lap and ask for it.
This is my view of the matter; and I hope that young people, instead of
running away from me, as a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will
treat me as I did the old walnut-tree--give it a shake, and see if the
nuts don’t rattle down!
I am not fond of making great promises; but, as I am anxious to have
my readers, who have set out on a journey with me, still keep me
company--at least for one year more--I am ready to engage to do my best
to please them. I shall, if I live, tell the rest of my own story, and
bring the history of Brusque to a close. The tale of the Sable-Hunters,
the travels of Thomas Trotter, the stories of the Indians, will be
continued and completed; and a variety of other things are in store.
I can promise one thing more--and that is, some tales from the pen
of Peter Parley. That pleasant, kind-hearted old man is no more; but
I knew him better than anybody else, and all his papers are in my
hands. Among them are several tales, and I intend to publish them in my
magazine. My young readers, perhaps, do not know how shabbily poor old
Peter was treated. The fact was, that several people in this country,
as well as in others, wrote stories, and put his name to them; thus
pretending that they were actually his! Some of these were very silly,
and some were very improper. This cut Peter to the heart, and it served
greatly to shorten his days. I am sorry that, even now, people are
palming off trumpery works of their own as Peter Parley’s.
But the tales that I propose to give, are genuine; there is no mistake.
They are by the same hand that wrote the tales about Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America; and I hope they may be as acceptable as those were.
I return a thousand thanks to my many young friends, who have written
me letters, whether of criticism, advice, or commendation. I am glad
to know that so many of them like Bill Keeler: let them be assured his
whole story will come out in due time. I shall be very glad to get the
bear story, which L. S., of Vermont, offers to tell. The Indiana legend
of the Wolf and the Wild-cat, is received, and will appear soon. Jane
R---- will accept my thanks for--she knows what! If she were not so
many hundred miles off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is
a blue-eyed or black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly
received from Alice D----, and were very welcome. Ralph H---- will see
that I have done as he requested; I have given a portrait of the fine
gray squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as
ever.
ROBERT MERRY.
WINTER--A SONG.
THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.
[Illustration: Music]
“Tell me what does winter mean!”
’Tis a drea-ry change of scene--
When the meadow yields its bloom,
And the blo-soms seek their tomb.
Winter is the time of storms,
When the cloud in angry forms,
O’er the land in terror sweeps,
And the sighing forest weeps.
’Tis the funeral time of flowers,
Withered in their lovely bowers;
While the zephyr sings in grief,
O’er each shrivelled stem and leaf.
’Tis the dreary time of snow,
Falling chill on all below,
As a winding-sheet it weaves
O’er the graves of myriad leaves.
Winter is a time of tears,
For the poor, in youth or years,--
Where the storm drives keenly in,
And the blanket’s brief and thin.
Winter is the time of wreck,
When the billow cleaves the deck,
And the mariners go down
Where the battling surges frown.
Transcriber’s Note:
This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged unless indicated below. Obsolete and alternative
spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were not corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. One Footnote was moved to the end of the chapter. Obvious
printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed
letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end
of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line
endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to
common usage. Page numbers in the Table of Contents were corrected to
match book pages.