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BERTHA’S
VISIT TO HER UNCLE
IN
ENGLAND.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
MDCCCXXX.
LONDON:
Printed by W. CLOWES,
Stamford-street.
_ERRATA._
Vol. Page Line
I. 22, 6, _for_ Corcorada _read_ Corcovada.
II. 38, 18, _for_ it all _read_ it at all.
II. 201, 21, _for_ Banksiæ _read_ Grevilliæ.
II. 291, 12, _for_ Moravina _read_ Moravian.
ADVERTISEMENT.
These little volumes consist of extracts from the Journal of a young
person, who, having passed her childhood at Rio Janeiro, was sent, at
the close of that period, on a visit to her English friends.
Her father, Colonel Montague, had been ordered to Brazil upon
confidential business; and, foreseeing that it would occupy him for an
indefinite time, he carried his family along with him. They had remained
in that country several years, when their domestic happiness was
suddenly destroyed by his death; and the effect of the shock on his
unfortunate widow was such, that she was wholly unable to undertake a
voyage to England. She was, therefore, obliged to continue her residence
at Rio; but her brother, who had always been tenderly attached to her,
requested that she would permit her daughter Bertha to visit him; and,
though a most painful separation, she consented, knowing how much it
would be for her child’s advantage.
Bertha promised to keep a constant Journal, and to send it whenever an
opportunity offered; and such parts of that Journal have been selected
by the Editor, as it is hoped may be found useful or interesting.
BERTHA’S VISIT.
_H.M.S. Phaeton, June 17th._
MY DEAR MAMMA,
Though I wrote to you yesterday by the Blossom, which “we spoke,” I am
tempted by the delightful smoothness of the sea to begin another letter,
in order to tell you a little of what I have seen and thought;--but how
different from being with you every day--from being your companion as
well as your child! I will not, however, say another word about my
sorrow at leaving you; I will try to show that I remember your last
words: “affection is best preserved by not yielding to violent
feelings.” Indeed, I believe I said too much in yesterday’s letter of
the misery I felt. I now try to console myself with the hope that as
your health has been so much better for the last two years, you will
soon, perhaps, be able to follow your poor little daughter to England;
and I repeat to myself all the good reasons that you were so kind as to
give for the propriety of sending me to my native country.
I am determined to follow your advice in keeping my mind constantly
occupied; and as you have often said that there is no place in which
something interesting may not be observed, I shall at once begin the
journal you desired me to keep. It shall be ready to fold up whenever an
opportunity may occur; so that I shall have the pleasure of making you
and my sister, dear Marianne, frequently share with me in all that I
see, and all that I enjoy.
_20th._--For a day or two after our last faint view of the woody heights
of Cabo Frio, I was diverted by the number of pretty land-birds, and
even butterflies, that came about the ship, and fluttered in the
rigging; and as they gradually disappeared I amused myself, as long as I
was able, in gazing on the sea, and in watching the little waves as they
dashed against the ship’s side. That pleasure soon ceased, for they
became so rough that I suffered very much from sickness: but this
evening there has been scarcely any wind; the dark blue sea is almost as
smooth as a mirror, and I can walk, and read, and write, as if I was on
shore. The captain took me on deck to see the sun setting behind the
western horizon; it was indeed a beautiful sight, and the broad red line
of light reflected from the water added greatly to the grandeur of the
scene.
_22d._--Mrs. P---- is very kind, and tries to rouse my mind, and to make
me see whatever is worth observing. Just like you, Mamma, she thinks
active occupation is the best remedy for grief, and she has suggested
several employments in which she will be my companion. Among other
things, we are to learn together the names and uses of the principal
parts of the vessel.
_24th._--We were much delighted yesterday evening with the luminous
appearance of the sea, and the captain has promised to show us some of
the insects from which the light proceeds. Many of them are common in
all seas, he says; but there are some which are seldom found outside the
tropics.
Just as I had written so far, Captain M. invited us to go on deck to
look at some birds that were hovering about the vessel. One of them was
a _phaeton_, or tropic-bird, of which there are many varieties;--that
which I have seen to-day had a red bill, and very long white wings,
tipped with black; the legs and feet bright red: the tail consists of
only two straight feathers, almost two feet long, which they drop every
year. These are worn in the caps of the Sandwich islanders, and in the
mourning dress of the Otaheitans.
_25th._--Last night we had the good fortune to procure one of the
luminous creatures that make the sea so brilliant. After many fruitless
attempts, a bucket of water brought up a fine specimen, about two inches
long, and as thick as my finger; somewhat cylindrical and transparent.
On its surface are numerous little tubercles; and as there seems to be a
cavity all through the body, it might at first be thought one
individual, but the captain showed me that it is an assemblage of
animals united together. He examined the specimen very minutely, and
then put it into a phial of spirits of wine to preserve it. He seems to
be very fond of natural history, and told us that the sparkling
appearance of the sea, which may be observed in all parts of the world,
is produced by animalculæ, or little creatures that can only be
discerned by a microscope.
_26th._--We have seen more birds to-day. Some of them were _petrels_;
they remained a long time skimming about the ship, and though they
greedily devoured any fat substance thrown into the sea, all our
endeavours to procure one failed. One species was the stormy petrel,
which they say is seen all over the Atlantic Ocean. Some chopped straw
being thrown overboard, we saw them stand on it with expanded wings;
but these birds never settle or swim in the water. They skim along with
incredible rapidity in the hollows of the waves. It is to the stormy
petrel that these two lines allude--
She swept the seas; and as she skimm’d along,
Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung.
_28th._--The captain was so good as to explain to us this morning the
manner in which the rigging supports the masts, and how the yards are
raised, and lowered, and braced in different positions, in order to
adapt them to the force and direction of the wind. He also walked round
the gun-deck with us, and showed us the cannon and all their implements,
which are kept in such a constant state of readiness, that in five
minutes, night or day, the whole battery would be ready for fighting.
But nothing pleased me so much as the lower-deck, where he took us while
the crew were all at dinner on nice pea-soup and salt pork, and all
sitting comfortably on their chests placed round the tables; of which
there is a complete row along the foremost half of the deck. The other
end of this deck contains the officers’ cabins, which, although not
above six or seven feet either in length, or breadth, or height, are
very nicely fitted up with a chest of drawers, a little book-case, a
chair, and even a sofa; besides a cot, or bed, which is only hung up at
night.
_30th._--We have seen the _man-of-war_ bird to-day. It has a
membranaceous bag like that of a pelican, bright red--the plumage is
brown. It is always on the wing, very seldom having been observed to
settle on the masts of ships. Other sea-birds, when tired of flying,
generally rest themselves on the surface of the water; but the very
great length of the wing makes it impossible for this bird to do so, as
it could not easily rise again.
When we were becalmed this morning, we had an opportunity of seeing a
number of birds of various kinds, the _albatross_, among others;--and
one of the dark-coloured variety was caught with a small fishing-line;
it measured seven feet between the tips of the wings. Its face is very
remarkable, for its flat head and crooked bill give it some resemblance
to the owl, which is increased by its large prominent eyes. As we
advance to the north this species will become scarce, Captain M. says,
but we shall have the great albatross, which is by far the largest of
all aquatic birds.
_July 2d._--I have been delighted with the flying fish, of which we have
seen numbers for some days. They ascend sparkling out of the waves,
sometimes singly, sometimes in great numbers, when pursued; but in
avoiding one danger they are exposed to another, for it is said that the
man-of-war bird has been seen to pounce upon them while in the air.
Their flight is generally in a direction contrary to the wind, and
seldom exceeds a hundred yards; nor do they rise high, though Captain M.
says he has seen them fall on his deck. He showed me their enemies too,
the _bonito_ and the _albacore_, which, he says, are both of the
mackarel tribe. They swim with great rapidity, and are so strong, that
they sometimes, in the midst of the most rapid course, leap five or six
feet perpendicularly above the surface, and plunge again head foremost
into the waves.
_4th._--I have been looking at Mother Carey’s chickens, the least of all
the petrels, I believe; and the _fulmar_, which is certainly the most
beautiful, for its plumage is of a snowy whiteness, and, as Mrs.
P---- observed, seems unsoiled by the water, though constantly diving.
_7th._--It seems a very long time since we have seen land, but I am not
yet tired of a sea life. Much as I love all the works of nature, I never
felt such admiration for any thing as I do for the sea. Its extent, its
depth, and the grand and almost terrific sound of its waves--it fills
one’s mind with awe; and it is wonderful to think that, powerful and
uncontrollable as it appears, man should be able to pass over it to the
most distant regions, and to guide his ships through its stormy and
turbulent waves.
In speaking of the sea, Captain M. remarked how admirably the
consistence of water, or as he calls it the _viscidity_, is adapted to
its various purposes, and to the support of floating bodies. “How
little,” said he, “do we observe the objects which are always before our
eyes: we see without surprise masses of dust raised by the wind, and
carried to a great distance; and we see also that water, though much
lighter than dust, is not carried off by the winds in the same manner.
If it were, every strong breeze from the ocean towards the land would
bring an inundation; navigation would be impossible, and the banks of
rivers and seas would be uninhabitable. The adhesion of the particles of
water to each other is the cause of its preservation in masses; it would
otherwise evaporate like æther, or be dispersed like dust. Such is the
simplicity employed by Nature in all her works.”
_8th._--We have twice seen the stormy petrel, but as yet it has not been
the forerunner of storms;--it is black, with a very little white near
the tail. One of the officers told me it is called petrel, after St.
Peter, from his having walked on the sea.
_9th._--We have been looking at a _grampus_, or a small kind of whale,
and at a shoal of _porpoises_, that passed close alongside of the ship.
The grampus was blowing water up in the air, in the most amusing manner,
making beautiful jets d’eau that sparkled in the sun. The captain told
me that in sucking in their food the whale tribe draw in a great deal of
water, which they have the power of spouting out through a hole in the
head.
_13th._--Yesterday we crossed the tropic of Cancer. There is already a
great change in the sea, which was so beautifully smooth while we were
in the torrid zone, that we danced almost every evening; but now it is
rough and disturbed, and at times the waves break so violently that I
see nothing but foam. I like very much to look at them in that state.
_15th._--Mrs. P---- and I have seen several _dolphins_; one of them was
struck with the harpoon, and, while hanging upon deck, it was
continually changing into an endless variety of colours. The back was
blue, then green; its breast a brilliant orange or yellow, spotted with
blue and lilac; and its fins were just like a peacock’s neck. Indeed,
the captain called it the “peacock of fishes.”
The sea is now quite rough; the tranquil water we had while near the
_line_ is gone; and I sometimes find my head too unsteady to be able to
write.
_16th._--We have seen a great deal of sea-weed for some days; they
suppose it to be drifted here by the Gulf-stream. I asked the captain to
explain to me what the Gulf-stream is; and he told me that the
_trade-wind_, which constantly blows across the Atlantic ocean from the
eastward, forces the sea into the Gulf of Mexico, and makes it rise
there above its natural level. From the Gulf it escapes by the narrow
channel between the West India islands and Florida, and takes a
north-easterly direction along the coast of North America, as far as the
island of Newfoundland. It is there turned off to the south-east, and
runs to the Azores, or perhaps to the coasts of Europe and Africa,
before it spreads out and entirely loses itself in the surrounding
ocean. The first accurate account of this great current was published by
Dr. Franklin, who had discovered that, after being heated in the torrid
zone, it cools so gradually that its temperature continues always higher
than that of the ocean through which it flows--so much so, that ships
can tell when they enter it or leave it, by dipping a thermometer into
the sea. Its velocity is very great, as it is said to run at the rate of
four or five miles an hour, when it first leaves the Gulf.
A good deal of the sea-weed was hauled up for Mrs. P---- to examine. It
seems to be all of one species--the floating _fucus_, she calls it; it
is curious what quantities of it are matted together, like a tangle of
ropes, and what a number of very small crabs take up their abode in it.
_18th._--More sea-weed, but of different kinds. This day the captain
shewed us some of the vine-leaved fucus, which is one of the most
curious species. He says it is sometimes brought up, by the sounding
lead, from the bottom of the ocean, where, even at the depth of one
hundred and ninety-two feet, its leaves are as green as grass. He says
this is considered as one of the few instances of plants vegetating in
obscurity, without becoming white; for, though light is transmitted
through the sea, yet it is much weakened by passing through such a
depth. We have also seen the giant _fucus_, and one of the officers said
he had once measured a piece that was eight hundred feet long.
The captain says, that the reason why we find such an extraordinary
quantity of sea-weed in this part of the ocean, is, that the Gulf-stream
finally expends its force about here; and therefore the weed which it
conveys must accumulate, and remain till it perishes, or till it sinks;
and he shewed us several specimens in different states of decay. “Yes,”
said Mrs. P----, “its decay is very evident; but what can make it sink?”
He replied, by shewing us several little shell-fish adhering to the
under side of a bit of weed. “These,” said he, “must have been deposited
there before it was torn from its native rocks by the current; in the
course of their long voyage they grow; and their increased size and
weight gradually sink the weed. My attention was first turned to this
curious circumstance from having observed some of the weed lying
edgewise in the water; I had it taken up, and found some heavy limpets
attached to the lower edge.”
Mrs. P---- acknowledged this was quite a new fact to her.
_20th._--The captain amused us to-day by shewing a very simple method of
ascertaining the saltness of the sea, which any person can try. He dried
a towel in the sun, weighed it carefully, and I noted its weight. It was
then dipped in sea-water, and being wrung sufficiently to prevent it
from dripping, it was again weighed, the increase of weight being that
of the water imbibed by the cloth. It was now thoroughly dried, and once
more weighed, and the excess of this weight, above the original weight
of the cloth, shows the quantity of the salt retained by it; then, by
comparing the weight of this salt with that of the sea-water imbibed by
the cloth, we found what proportion of salt was contained in the water.
_22d._--This morning a little land bird flew on board; I begged to have
it, and I keep it in the cabin, and feed it. I asked how they knew it
was from the land, and a sailor answered, “No sea birds, Miss, except
_boobies_[1], ever rest upon the ships they follow; this poor fellow has
been blown off shore by some long north-easter.”
Our captain was laughing to-day at the mistakes that authors, who have
never been at sea, make in some of their fine poetical descriptions. He
mentioned the albatross, as an instance, which some one has described as
rising off the deck. He says it never alights on the deck, and if it
were there, it could not rise again. It finds great difficulty in rising
even from the sea, and scrambles along the waves to a great distance
before it can fairly use its wings. They have five joints to spread out,
and appear to have no motion except at the moment the bird first raises
itself into the air; when, at the same time, it makes several strokes
against the water with its webbed feet. This impulse once given it seems
to have no longer occasion to flap its wings; it holds them widely
expanded while it glides along, balancing its body from right to left,
and sweeping majestically over the surface of the sea.
_24th._--We have passed two of the Azores or Western islands,--Flores
looked very green; but the other, Corvo, seems little better than a
lofty, naked rock.
_25th._--We have had a very hot south-easterly wind this morning, which
the captain says comes from Africa. He showed us that the sails and
ropes were tinged with the reddish sand that these winds generally carry
with them. It was quite impalpable to the touch; and he was for a long
time trying to obtain some of it, by washing and roasting, for his
microscope.
_26th._--I am growing a little tired, dear Mamma, of this long voyage,
though Mrs. P---- finds continual objects of amusement for me. Sometimes,
when there is a heavy swell of the sea, and that the wind blows freshly,
we divert ourselves watching the waves: it is curious to see the head of
a large wave, just as it rises and meets the wind, dashed off, and
changed into foam; and showing, when we can place ourselves between it
and the sun, innumerable little rainbows.
I happened to say at dinner that I wondered how this constantly moving
ocean should ever become frozen into one field of ice; but the captain
told me that the deep ocean never freezes permanently. Any ice that may
have been formed on it in winter is broken up by gales of wind, and is
drifted about till it becomes fixed to the shores.
The great icebergs that are sometimes seen floating on the sea are
formed by the accumulation of ages on high precipitous shores, and are
afterwards broken off by their increasing weight.
How extraordinary every thing relating to the freezing of the sea is;
and how strange that plants should grow on ice islands. How do they get
there, or the earth in which they vegetate?
_28th._--There was a sudden change of wind to-day; it drove the sea
furiously before it, and the meeting of the new wind with the old waves
made them break as high as the ship, and like the surf on a reef of
rocks: it was most beautiful, but very terrific indeed.
_29th._--I suppose that such a sudden change of wind is the forerunner
of a storm, for last night there was a dreadful one for some hours. Mrs.
P---- and I were a little frightened; but the vessel was not in any
danger, Captain M---- says. Towards morning the wind subsided, the raging
sea became less boisterous, and she and I read together the service for
thanksgiving after a storm. Our hearts, indeed, felt what is expressed
there. How beautiful are the psalms selected for it--particularly “O
come! let us give thanks unto the Lord, for he is gracious.”
_30th._--I hear the cry of “land!” They see the land--the cliffs of
Cornwall. I must go on deck to see them;--how happy I am to be well and
able to look at the first appearance of England.
I have run down to the cabin to tell you that we are entering a great
harbour--Falmouth. There are two castles that protect the entrance: on
the right is St. Mawes, and on the left Pendennis.
_31st._--At Falmouth!--Yes; in England at last! We anchored last night
in the country which you love so dearly. How glad I shall be to go on
shore.
We are going; Mrs. P---- calls me.
_Fernhurst, August 4._
MY DEAR MAMMA,
As I wrote to you on the day after we landed, and told you of the safe
arrival of your child in her native country, and of all that I had seen
at Falmouth, I will say no more on that subject.
My uncle was so good as to come for me, and Mrs. P----, who had been
unceasingly kind and tender to me throughout the whole voyage, gave me
into his care. I felt much regret at parting from her, and as I was
going amongst relations whom I had never seen, I was the more sorry to
lose this good friend; but my uncle made Mrs. P---- promise to visit him
at some future time.
We set out very early in the morning from Falmouth, slept one night on
the road, and arrived here yesterday evening to tea. My aunt and cousins
received me in the most affectionate manner.
I cannot tell you how odd many things in this country seem. In coming
here we passed along great wide roads, which are indeed very different
from those in Brazil; they are so smooth that the carriage rolled on
without impediment, and I was not half as much tired by the journey here
as I have been going only from Rio to the Prince’s farm. The whole
appearance of the country--the trees, the fields, the roads, the
people, the houses, are so different from what I have been accustomed
to, that I still feel in a state of constant surprise; but nothing that
I see appears so remarkable, as that there are no slaves here--no poor
negroes!
Though my aunt and cousins are very good-natured to me, I cannot help
feeling a little afraid of them. Indeed, I must confess, though you, who
love my uncle so much, will be surprised, that I felt quite a dread of
meeting him; but I soon perceived that I was a fool, and that he was as
kind and indulgent as you had told me he would be.
On our journey he talked to me of you, dear Mamma, and told me many
delightful anecdotes of your youth, when you and he were so happy
together. How I do wish your health may soon permit you to return to
England, that you may be again with this dear brother.
I am determined to continue my journal regularly; for it will be my
greatest pleasure to write every thing that interests me to you and my
dear Marianne. I shall sometimes imagine I am speaking to you.
_August 6th._--It still seems like a dream to think that I actually am
here, where I have so often wished to be.
This place is altered in many respects, I am told, since you saw it
last. Some of the old windows are enlarged; new walks are made; and
there is a new flower-garden and conservatory, of which my aunt is very
fond. Your favourite walk has been preserved quite unchanged. My uncle
loves it so much, that he shewed it to me himself, and we sat under your
favourite tree, where you and he used to play and read together in those
happy times when you were companions.
I sleep in your room, which has the same dear old projecting window,
which you described to me,--a half hexagon, with stone divisions, and
pretty casement work between.
_8th._--I begin to feel more at ease with all my new friends; indeed, I
do not know why I am afraid of them. Generally, before we leave the
breakfast table, one of my cousins reads aloud for about half an hour.
This morning, before we separated, my uncle said, “My dear children, I
hope you will consider my little Bertha as another sister;--we must make
her feel at home. Let us go on just as usual with all our employments,
and she will gradually cease to be a stranger.”
“I hope,” said my aunt, “that Bertha does not feel herself a
stranger--she will soon become accustomed to our mode of life; but we
must give her a little time--we must become acquainted by degrees.”
“But, Mamma,” said Caroline, “will not my cousin feel a little
neglected, if we continue our own pursuits, without any attention to
hers?”
“Certainly, were that the case--but I think, my love, that as Bertha
will have her own employments, she may not, perhaps, at first like to
make one of our happy family school; but though occupied ourselves, I am
sure we shall never be inattentive to her feelings.”
“I dare say Bertha knows that to be always employed is the chief secret
of happiness,” said my uncle; “and I am convinced that both you and she
will perceive that we never enjoy the society of our friends so much, as
when we have earned it by useful labour or moderate restraint.”
Just then the letters were brought in; one of them from cousin Hertford,
who is now visiting the Western Isles, seemed to give great delight to
the whole party.
_10th._--After breakfast is over, Mary and Caroline retire to my aunt’s
dressing-room, where they go on with their studies. I long to be
admitted to sit there in the mornings, and share in their employments.
Mary is not so pretty as Caroline, but she has a most expressive
countenance; her health has been delicate, and she is timid and reserved
in company, but very lively when we are quietly together. They are both
very charming, but different in many respects.
I generally sit part of the morning in the library, where my uncle
invited me, and am very happy, except that when Wentworth and Frederick
are engaged with him I feel afraid of being an intruder. But my uncle
likes to have me there, and his conversation is always pleasant and
instructive.
Yesterday evening my cousins sung, and then we all danced for an
hour--even my uncle danced, while my aunt played for us.
_11th._--After I had written yesterday, I went out to walk with my aunt
and uncle--my cousins did not come. In the hot-house I saw many plants,
nursed with great care, which I had been accustomed to see growing wild
and unheeded, such as our beautiful pink and blue passion-flower, the
coffee-plant, jessamines, the many-flowered _gloxinia_, which ornaments
our rocks with its beautiful blue flowers, and several others.
In this sheltered place many plants grow wild in the open ground, which
do not live in more exposed places in England. The _tigridia_, a native
of Mexico, grows here in great profusion; having heard that the Mexicans
eat its roots, or bulbs, my uncle tried them, and found them almost as
good as chestnuts.
The little lawn into which the library opens is well defended from all
winds, and there the most delicate plants are placed. A miniature grove
of orange trees in tubs stands there during the summer--they have fruit
and flowers on them, and smell delightfully; but, though healthy, they
look stunted to my eyes, accustomed to those of our favourite valley at
the foot of the Corcorada--I mean the Laranjeros, where the orange trees
are so numerous at each side of the little stream along which we used to
have such delightful walks. When shall I walk there again with you, or
wander about the pretty green plain, at the entrance of the valley? How
often Marianne and I have made you loiter there, while we looked at the
rivulet dashing over its stony bed, or at the grotesque war-horsemen, in
all their various dresses!
In my aunt’s flower-garden are hedges of Chinese rose and sweet-brier,
with _pyrus japonica_ intermixed. They are very pretty, but not equal to
ours of _acacia_ and _mimosa_, with the passion-flower twining through
them, and the _bignonia_ and _maranta_ forming such beautiful garlands,
particularly on our favourite green plain. How unequal, too, in strength
to those fences that we saw at Pernambuco, made of woven palm leaves,
and covered with our brilliant creeping plants; or to those of _yucca_
and prickly pear, through which neither dog nor sheep can penetrate. Her
garden is on a bank, which slopes from the conservatory to a little
stream that runs through the grounds--the flower-beds are intermixed
with smooth grass-plats--and a walk extends a little way from the
conservatory, covered by a sort of trellice-work made of thin oak-laths
bent and crossed, with roses and climbing plants twisted into it. The
bramble-flowered rose is particularly suited to this purpose, and covers
it with wreaths of pretty little pink flowers. It is curious to observe
the effect of even the small degree of shade caused by the trellice on
the young autumn shoots, which hang within from the rose-trees. They are
pale and tender, appearing as if in a house, and not in the open air.
We spend the finest part of the evenings out of doors--walking,
sauntering, or sitting--then comes tea; and once or twice we have been
tempted to go out again afterwards. Some evenings we read to ourselves,
but now and then my uncle is so good as to read aloud, and that is very
delightful, he reads so well.
He likes to see us employed while he reads, for he says it is a useful
exercise of the attention to listen, and at the same time to employ the
fingers. Last night he read, at Mary’s request, “The Midsummer Night’s
Dream,” while his audience employed themselves in needle-work or
drawing. As I had not any work in the room, my aunt said she would
supply me. I find that she has always a little store of things to be
made for the poor, in readiness to employ those who wish for work--caps,
aprons, bedgowns, and baby-linen. By these means she has always some
useful article of clothing ready to give the distressed people who apply
to her; and, besides, she likes that young people should acquire the
habit of employing some of their time for the benefit of others.
My aunt truly practises what she advises--to be useful is her great
object; but she mixes usefulness and domestic pleasures so well, as my
uncle says, that one is scarcely aware of all she effects.
_12th._--When I was in the library to-day, looking at some books of
prints, and Wentworth and Frederick engaged in their algebra, my uncle
coming to the window said, “Bertha, my dear, are you a good
arithmetician?”
“No, uncle, I am not; Mamma has always found it difficult to get
arithmetic into my head--I do not know why, but I _cannot_ learn it.”
“Perhaps you mean, _will not attend to it_.”
“No, indeed, uncle; but there was always some little thing that was not
quite clear, and which prevented me from advancing as fast and as far as
I ought.”
“Yes,” said my uncle, “that is the secret--some little step, which
appears to the instructor so simple as to require no explanation,
becomes a stumbling-block to the understanding, and then we imagine we
cannot learn; but _cannot learn_ I never allow my pupils to say.”
Dear Mamma, my uncle reminds me so much of you sometimes: oh! if I had
attended better to your instructions, I should not blush as I do now at
my own ignorance; but one comfort is--my uncle knows you so well that he
cannot attribute my faults to your neglect.
But I must tell you all that happened about this same arithmetic. I was
so vexed at my own stupidity, and at appearing as if you had taught me
nothing, that a few tears forced their way into my eyes, though I tried
to struggle against them:--my uncle good-naturedly went back to the
table where Wentworth and Frederick were employed, and I soon recovered.
When they had finished their algebra, to which they seemed to give their
whole attention, my uncle said, “Bertha, if you like to try arithmetic
again, my daughter Mary will readily assist you: she has one of the
clearest heads I ever knew; and will make every step plain. But I must
remark that, if we were to force ourselves to repeat every day the
substance of what we learn to some third person, we should instantly
discover what part is not clear to us.”
I went then with him to Mary, who undertook the task in the kindest
manner--to-morrow we are to begin.
After this was all arranged, Mary and Caroline invited me to play at
shuttlecock, as the day was rainy. Shuttlecock I had never seen, and
knew only from your description; my first attempts, therefore, produced
a great deal of laughter.
_14th.--Sunday._ I am sure you would like the way that Sunday is spent
in this house, my dear Mamma. There is no day that brings you so
particularly to my mind, because several things that occur here make me
remember what you have often said in regard to it, and the good habits
you tried to give me.
My uncle generally selects some passage, in Scripture, for the purpose
of conversing upon it, and leading us to think; or else some expression
which he sees requires explanation, and on which some light can be
thrown, either from parallel passages, or from profane authors. These
little conversations are, generally, between breakfast and the time of
setting out for church.
This day he read the 11th chapter of 2d of Corinthians, and told us,
that St. Paul’s expression “to triumph in Christ,” v. 14, alludes to the
Roman triumph, or the celebration of a victory; and as the conqueror
went in procession through the streets of Rome to the Capitol, with the
attendant captives following the triumphal car, so the apostle describes
himself as led from city to city, and from province to province,
triumphing over the powers of darkness, while the name of Christ, “as a
sweet savour,” was diffused wherever he came.
My uncle said that this expression, “sweet savour,” alludes to the
custom in the Roman procession, of strewing the streets with flowers,
and causing the altars to smoke with incense; while, immediately before
the victorious general, a long train of attendants marched, carrying
perfumes, which exhaled a sweet and powerful fragrance;--and thus was
the knowledge of Christ, like a reviving odour, diffused around, to
improve and strengthen all who received it. Indeed, it is still the
custom of all eastern nations, he says, to introduce sweet waters and
other perfumes, on solemn occasions, which makes the propriety of the
allusion still more strong.
_15th._--As we walked through the flower-garden to-day, I ventured to
suggest that the _yucca_ and the prickly pear would make more
impenetrable hedges than the sweet-brier and china rose.
“I cannot help smiling,” said my aunt, “at your partiality to the plants
to which you have been accustomed, when you would prefer hedges of the
frightful prickly pear to these. If, indeed, we could have such hedges
of the Chinese _hibiscus_ as they have in India, they might be
desirable.”
I assured my aunt that I did not prefer those plants for beauty, but as
useful from their strength, and, therefore, worth introducing into
England.
“I am afraid,” said she, “their succulent nature might make them liable
to be injured by frost.” “Besides,” said my uncle, “these plants have
not yet been well naturalised to our climate, though they do grow in the
open ground in some few gardens; and then we have our beautiful
whitethorn and our furze, both of which, if kept in order, and well
clipped, make a secure fence against all depredators; the holly, too,
with its bright and beautiful dark green foliage, makes an admirable
hedge.”
As we walked along, my uncle shewed me all these and other plants for
hedges, saying, “You may observe, Bertha, that one of the numerous marks
of a gracious Providence is the variety of means which he puts at our
command in the different parts of the world. In every region we find
plants suited to the soil and climate, and adapted for the use and
advantage of its inhabitants; and we may generally discover some
circumstance attending them, which renders those native productions of
peculiar value to the people who possess them.”
“But, uncle,” said I, “can that be the case in such countries as Lapland
and Norway, which give one an idea of the utmost misery and want?”
“You have named a part of the world,” he replied, “which is an excellent
proof of what I have just said. There, you know, the rein-deer, that
most useful animal, contributes in every way to the comfort and the
sustenance of the inhabitants. They drink the milk--they eat the
flesh--they make clothing of the skin--and, besides, with its
assistance, they can move from place to place with delightful swiftness,
when otherwise they must be confined by the snow, during three-fourths
of the year. But what would become of the rein-deer, was there not an
abundant supply of the vegetable on which its vast herds are
supported--the rein-deer moss. No vegetable grows throughout Lapland in
such abundance; for many miles together the surface of the sterile soil
is covered with it, like snow: and on the destruction of forests by
fire, when no other plant can find nutriment, this moss, or lichen,
springs up and flourishes. Here the rein-deer are pastured, and whatever
may be the depth of snow during the long winter of that climate, they
have the power of penetrating through it, and obtaining the necessary
food.”
“But still, uncle,” said I, “useful as that same moss is, you cannot
consider it among the vegetable productions on which man can live. It
supports the rein-deer, and the rein-deer sustains man--but man could
not live on moss or lichen.”
“There is a common saying, my little Bertha,” replied he, “that one-half
of the world knows not how the other half live. Now, there is a certain
lichen called Iceland-moss which is brought to England as a medicine,
and which no one would suppose could be used as food; yet it is a fact
that, in those northern regions of which we are speaking, immense
quantities of it are gathered for home consumption as an article of
common food. When the bitter quality has been extracted by steeping in
water, the lichen is dried and reduced to a powder, and then made into a
cake, with the addition of a little meal; or else boiled and eaten with
milk--and it is eaten with thankfulness too, my dear Bertha, by the poor
natives, in years of scarcity, who say that a bountiful Providence sends
them bread out of the very stones.
“I might also mention the _tripe de roche_, on which Captain Franklin
and his unfortunate companions were reduced to live; but my object was,
I believe, to shew, not how many mosses or lichens might be eaten, but
that every country contains within itself some vegetable productions
which are, at times, an invaluable resource to the poor inhabitants. For
instance, in that part of the Russian empire near the Caspian Sea,
called the _Steppes_, their principal food, in some years, consists of
mushrooms, dried and powdered, and made into bread, which is neither
unwholesome nor unpleasant.”
_16th._--My aunt’s flower-garden is certainly very pretty, and with
those of my cousins, which join it, make a delightful spot; and they all
seem to be so fond of their flowers, and to find so much pleasure in
gardening, that I begin to think I should like to assist them; but at
present I am contented with watching what they do.
My aunt said to me, when we were walking there, “After all, Bertha, I
must confess, that the objection I made yesterday against the prickly
pear, of its not being adapted to this climate, was not very wise; for
had our gardeners been prevented by such fears, we should not now have
the variety of foreign plants that we possess, and many of which are not
only pretty, but highly useful.”
I asked her whether it was true, that many of the vegetables, now common
in kitchen-gardens, have been brought from other countries.
“Yes,” said she, “several of the most useful species have been brought
from Asia into Europe, and in the course of two thousand years have
been gradually spread over it--in former times by the Greeks and Romans,
then by the Crusaders, and more recently by the direct means of
navigation; and these again have passed on to America, to which we have
given all our vegetable treasures.”
I asked if America, which abounds in delightful plants, has given any
thing useful in return to Europe.
“Yes,” said my aunt, “one plant in particular, which is so useful that
its cultivation is almost universal. In this country it makes so
important a part of the food of millions, that I think it better
deserves the name of ‘the hundred ounces of gold’ than the famous Peony
tree, called in China ‘_Pe-hang-king_,’ which has that meaning on
account of the enormous price given for it.”
I could not help interrupting her to say, I was sure that was what Mrs.
Barbauld alluded to in the line,
And China’s groves of vegetable gold.
She smiled and went on:--“The American plant, I speak of, is no longer
curious, nor high in price, though it is in value. Can you guess what it
is, Bertha?--it is a native of Peru, where, however, it does not seem to
grow with half the luxuriance that it does in Europe.”
“I believe, aunt, you mean the potatoe.”
“Yes,” said my aunt, “the potatoe. It was first brought to England by a
traveller, more as a specimen of the vegetable productions of other
countries, than with any view of bestowing an extensive benefit on
society. And thus it is, my dear, that all things really useful are
diffused over those parts of the globe to which they are at all suited.
While man is occupied in gratifying his love of conquest, his curiosity,
or his avarice--while he is searching after the hidden treasures of the
earth, or trafficking for the sake of gain, Providence employs those
worldly passions and pursuits to dispense blessings and comforts to all
nations.”
“I suppose, aunt,” said I, “that when people settle in new countries,
all that is useful amongst us is gradually introduced there.”
“Yes, my dear,” said she, “both the moral acquirements and the natural
productions of the parent countries are spread throughout the world by
colonies. Emigrants of different nations meet and blend those customs in
which some are superior to others; and thus proceeds the slow but sure
improvement of the great families of the earth.”
I said that it would be amusing to trace the gradual changes of those
great families, and the progress of nations from one country to another
by the similarity of customs.
“Nothing could be more useful or entertaining than such an inquiry,”
replied my aunt; “but in consulting the historian on those subjects you
must take the traveller to your assistance: they each throw light on the
other; and each becomes doubly interesting, when we read with the view
of comparing the past and the present, and of tracing the progress or
the failure of arts and civilization.”
And now, dear Mamma, I smile when I think of your reading this
philosophic page in my journal. So, adieu, for this day!
_17th._--In these fine evenings there is a soft calmness in the air that
is delightful; last night we enjoyed it till the sun’s last faint rays
had retired, and not even a streak of red appeared in the west. Before
we came home I had the pleasure of seeing the glow-worms light their
little lanterns--
Stars of the earth and diamonds of the night.
But, I must say, our fire-flies of Brazil are much superior to them in
brightness. Indeed, all the productions of nature here are less
brilliant; the birds, insects, and flowers of Brazil are quite dazzling,
compared with the dull things that I see in this country. But I am told
that this deficiency in beauty is more than made up by some greater
merits. For instance, the singing of the birds here in spring is said to
be so sweet and so various, that I feel a little childish impatience
for their singing time to return, that I may hear them. I am, however,
already acquainted with the robin redbreast. I have repeatedly heard its
plaintive autumn song.
I never rightly understood till now that the glow-worm is the female
fire-fly, though it looks just like a worm, and does not fly. My aunt
showed me to-day that this insect, though it possesses neither wings nor
_elytra_, and differs but little in appearance from a caterpillar, is,
notwithstanding, an insect in the last or perfect state: the head and
_corselet_ are formed exactly like those of the male, who is furnished
with both elytra and wings. My aunt also showed me that under the last
ring of the body there are two very small reservoirs of a thick oily
fluid of the nature of phosphorus, which, if the animal is killed,
continues to give light till it becomes dry. It is a slow-moving
creature I am told, and seems to drag itself on by starts or slight
efforts.
My uncle says that in the _Philosophical Transactions_ for 1684, there
is a paper by a Mr. Waller describing an English flying glow-worm, which
he observed at Northaw, in Hertfordshire, the light of which was so
vivid as to be plainly perceived even when a candle was in the room.
Mary put a common glow-worm into a box of transparent paper with some
grass and moss, two days ago, and when we went to examine it last night
we saw its beautiful light illuminating every object within a small
space around it.
When I saw the glow-worm shining on its mossy banks, I amused myself in
imagining how many other living creatures were perhaps lighted by its
soft beams. The various beetles, which seem at all hours running to and
fro; the slugs, which are for ever in one’s path; and the numerous
family of spiders, who are so industrious, that they must, I suppose,
work “by midnight lamps.” The moth tribe, also, who seem to love light
only at night, can please themselves at this little lamp, without
injuring their delicate wings; and I must not forget the little airy
beings, of whose histories I am so fond--the fairies--who say so
prettily--
And when the moon doth hide her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.
Frederick and I were devising various expedients for making the light of
the glow-worms and fire-flies useful; when Mary, who heard us, told me
that at Cape Comorin there are certain birds that build pendulous nests;
and that it is a fact that these nests are lighted, at night, by
fire-flies: the bird fastens a bit of clay to the top of the nest, and
sticks a fire-fly on the clay, as if to illuminate the dwelling, which
consists of two chambers; but the real object is, probably, to deter the
bats from approaching, as they kill the young of these birds. This is
mentioned in the life of Dr. Buchanan, who says that the blaze of light
dazzles the eyes of the bats. A friend of my uncle’s has written some
lines on the glow-worm, which I will copy here.
TO THE GLOW-WORM.
Thou little gem of purest hue,
That, from thy throne o’erspread with dew,
Shedd’st lustre o’er the brightest green
That ever clothed a woodland scene,
I hail thy pure and tranquil light
Thou lovely living lamp of night!
Thy haunt is in the deepest shade
By purple heath and bracken made:
By thee the sweetest minstrel sings,
That courts the shady grove;
O’er thee the woodlark spreads his wings,
And sounds his notes of love
Companion of the lights of heaven!
Thine is the softest breeze of even;
For thee the balmy woodbine lives,
The meadow-grass its fragrance gives.
And thou canst make thy tranquil bower
In Summer’s sweetest, fairest flower.
The hour of peace is all thy own;
Thy lamp is lit for one alone;
Shedding no transitory gleams,
No rays to kindle or destroy;
Constant, innocuous--still it beams
The light of life, of love, of joy.
My aunt has been so kind as to permit me to make an extract from my
cousin Hertford’s last letter to her. I enclose it with my journal,
which my uncle is going to dispatch to-morrow.
“At last I have overcome every obstacle; and have visited Staffa and its
curious caves.