CHAPTER IX.

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM.

EDITED BY

S. G. GOODRICH,

AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME VIII.

BOSTON:

BRADBURY, SODEN & CO.,

NO. 12, SCHOOL STREET.

1844.

Stereotyped by George A. Curtis, New England Type and Stereotype Foundry.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VIII.

JULY TO DECEMBER, 1844.

July, 1

Military Chivalry, 2

The Life of Martin Luther, 3, 48

The Two Red Cents, 9

Charlotte Corday, 10

Conjugal Affection, 13, 42

The Forget-me-not, 15

Pigs, ”

Frederick II., 16

Dick Boldhero, 21, 77, 100, 137, 163

The Law of Honor, 24

Cairo, or Kahira, 25

Pictures of Various Nations, 26

Small Matters, 28

The Bat Family, 29

Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to

stand still, 30

Correspondence, 31, 63, 95, 127

Happiness. _A Song_, 32

August, 33

Bill and the Boys, 34, 69, 132

Natural Curiosity, 37

The River Nile, 38

The Old Man in the Corner, 39

The Hunting Leopard, 41

A Pointed Blow, 44

Inhabitants of an Oyster, ”

Church of St. Peter’s at Rome, 45

Fortune Telling, 46

Travelling, 47

English Farmers, 55

London Menageries, 56

A Story of the Revolution, 57

Lady Jane Grey, 58, 85

The Bamboo, 61

Practical Advantage of Science, ”

Grandmother’s Scholar, 62

The Snowdrop. _A Song_, 64

September, 65

All Hallows-e’en, 66

Bonaparte’s Wit, 68

Tusculan Villa, ”

John Howard, 73

Lovewell’s War, 74, 113

Echoes, 76

Inquisitive Jack, 81

Bonaparte, 84

Ana, 90

Sir Isaac Newton, ”

Lord Mayor’s Show, 91

Joan of Arc, 92, 105

Trombone, 95

The Lark. _A Song_, 96

October, 97

The Chinchilla, 98

A Branch of Elder, 99

A Blacksmith’s Shop, 110

The American Panther, 111

The Lion Fight, 118

Bear and Child, 119

The Last Flower of the Season, 120

The Cunning Bear, 121

The Tiger’s Cave, 122

The Ingenious Cricket, 126

The Power of Bees, ”

Hymn, 127

November in London, 128

The Moon. _A Song_, ”

November, 129

Experience a Teacher, 131

Litigation, ”

Scott, ”

New Zealand, 135

The Bear and Panther, 144

The Cotton Plant, 147

The Election of President, 148

Benjamin Constant, 149

Irish Wit, ”

Dr. Watts, ”

Texas, 150

A Physician’s Dog, 153

Generous Revenge, ”

Prognostics of the Weather, 154

Job Printing, 159

The Bird of Paradise. _A Song_, 160

December, 161

Flowers, 162

The Squirrel and Rattlesnake, 177

There is Time Enough, 179

The Folly of War, 180

Wager Lost, ”

Anecdote of a Cat, 181

Examination of a School-boy, ”

A Sly Couple, 182

The Philosopher Puzzled, ”

Rising Genius, ”

The French Officer and his Mastiff, 183

Laconic, ”

A Wise Parrot, ”

Mount Vernon, 184

Anecdotes, 185

Farewell to the Old Year, 187

Pleasant Things. _A Song_, 188

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844,

by S. G. GOODRICH, in the Clerk’s

Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. JULY, 1844. No. 1.

[Illustration: July]

“Now comes JULY, and with his fervid noon

Unsinews labor. The swinkt mower sleeps;

The weary maid walks feebly; the warm swain

Pitches his load reluctant; the faint steer,

Lashing his sides, draws sulkily along

The slow, encumbered wain in midday heat.”

Such is the picture of this month, drawn by an old English poet.

With us the heat is still greater than in England; yet the farmers

keep busily at work in the fields; and, to say truth, it is about as

comfortable to be at work, as to be idle.

Leigh Hunt, speaking of this month in England, says, “The heat in

this month is greatest on account of its duration. There is a sense

of heat and quiet all over nature. The birds are silent. The little

brooks are dried up. The earth is parched. The shadows of the trees are

particularly grateful, heavy and still. The oaks, which are freshest,

because latest in leaf, form noble, clumpy canopies, looking, as you

lie under them, of a strong emulous green, against the blue sky. The

traveller delights to cut across the country, through the fields and

the leafy lanes, where nevertheless the flints sparkle with heat.

The cattle get into the shade, or stand in the water. The active

and air-cutting swallows, now beginning to assemble for migration,

seek their prey among the shady places, where the insects, though of

differently compounded natures, ‘fleshless and bloodless,’ seem to

get for coolness, as they do at other times for warmth. The sound of

insects is likewise the only audible sound now, increasing rather than

lessening the sense of quiet by its gentle contrast. The bee now and

then sweeps across the ear with his gravest tone. The gnats

‘Their murmuring mall trumpets sounden wide,’

and here and there, the little musician of the grass touches forth his

tricksy note.

‘The poetry of earth is never dead;

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new mown mead;

That is the grasshopper’s.’

“Besides some of the flowers of the last month, there are candy-tufts,

catch-fly, columbines, egg plant, French marigold, lavateras, marvel

of Peru, verducas, tube roses, which seem born of the white rose and

lily; and scarlet beans, which, though we are apt to think little of

them, because they furnish us with a good vegetable, are quick and

beautiful growing, and in a few weeks will hang a walk or trellis, with

an exuberant tapestry of scarlet and green.

“The fruits begin to abound, and are more noticed in proportion to the

necessity for them, occasioned by the summer heat. The strawberries are

in their greatest quantity and perfection; and currants, gooseberries

and raspberries, have a world of juice for us, prepared as it were, in

so many crowds of little bottles, in which the sunshine has turned the

dew of April into wine. The strawberry lurks about under a beautiful

leaf. Currants are also extremely beautiful. A handsome bunch looks

like pearls, or rubies, and an imitation of it would make a most

graceful earring.

“It is now the season for bathing; a refreshment too little taken in

this country, either in summer or winter. We say in winter, because

with very little care in placing it in a cistern, and having a leathern

pipe for it, a bath may be easily filled once or twice a week with warm

water; and it is a vulgar error that the warm bath relaxes.”

* * * * *

MILITARY CHIVALRY.--“I heard once,” said Father Phil, “a pretty little

bit of an anecdote about the way the French behaved to one of our Irish

regiments on a retreat in Spain. They were going through a river--they

were--and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition,

were peppering away at them hard and fast, until some women ran down,

poor creatures, to the shore, and the stream was so deep in the middle

that they could scarcely ford it; so some dragoons, who were galloping

as fast as they could out of the fire, pulled up on seeing the

condition of the womankind, and each horseman took up a woman behind

him, though it diminished his own power of flying from the danger. The

moment the French saw this act of manly courage, they ceased firing,

and gave a cheer for the dragoons; and as long as the women were within

gun-shot, not a trigger was pulled in the French line, but volleys of

cheers instead of ball cartridges, were sent after the brigade till all

the women were over.”

[Illustration: Sketch of Martin Luther]

The Life of Martin Luther.

This famous man was born at Eisleben, then in Saxony, but now within

the limits of Prussia. His father, Hans, or John Luther, was a native

of Mora, near Eisenach; he was originally a woodcutter, and in very

humble circumstances. His wife often carried the wood to market on

her back. On the occasion of a fair at the latter place, the parents

both went thither, and on the night of their arrival, November 10,

1483, the mother gave birth to a son. This occurred on the eve of St.

Martin’s day, and hence the infant was called Martin. Six months after

this event, the parents went to live at Mansfeld, and ten miles from

Eisleben, where the father pursued the business of a miner with great

success.

Young Luther was brought up in the strict habits and under the severe

discipline of the age. His father was accustomed to inflict on him

cruel chastisements, and his mother, for a mere trifle, whipped him

till the blood came. Such was the general system of family government

at that day. When sufficiently advanced, Martin Luther was sent to

Eisenach, where he had access to an institution which taught the

learning of the time. But he had no friends, and was obliged to procure

his own bread. For this purpose, he used to go about the streets, with

some of his companions as poor as himself, singing at the door of such

as would listen. He had a fine talent for music, and though he often

chanted the favorite songs and ballads of the day, he also sometimes

sung his own compositions. This he was accustomed to call “bread music.”

In one of his excursions, he came to the house of a respectable man,

named Conrad Cotta. Before it rose some lofty trees. In the shadow of

these, young Martin threw himself down, and his heart being burdened

with sadness, he poured forth his feelings in a strain of plaintive

melody. The wife of Conrad, attracted by the melancholy tones, came

to the door, and invited the youth to enter. She then placed before

him the fare her humble house afforded. The boy’s gratitude, ardently

expressed, touched her heart, and she invited him to come again. Thus

an acquaintance began, and Luther was, after a short time, invited to

take up his residence at the house, which he did; and thus, relieved

from the evils of poverty, he was able to prosecute his studies. Long

after, when his fame filled all Europe, these kind and efficient

friends had the pleasure to reflect that the great Reformer was the

hungry ballad-singer, whom they had comforted and cherished in the days

of poverty.

Having spent five years at Eisenach, Luther was sent, in 1501, to

the university of Erfurth, then a respectable seminary, but since

suppressed. His father wished him to study law, but he had little

inclination for this, and devoted himself to general literature and

music, which latter he continued to cultivate through life. At the

university, he showed the jovial, careless disposition which generally

marks the German student. He was, however, much struck when one day

searching for an old book in the library, to meet with a copy of the

Bible. He had before thought that all sacred writings were contained in

the portions which were read in the churches. This discovery doubtless

gave occasion to much reflection.

In 1505, an event occurred, which changed the current of Luther’s

thoughts, and gave direction to his future life. He was a lover of

nature, and one day indulging his taste in this respect, he was

rambling through the fields with a friend. A storm was gathering over

their heads, but they continued the conversation, which had relation to

some serious subject. In the mind of Luther, the pealing thunder was

the type of the future judgment. He turned to speak to his companion,

when, at the very instant, the latter was struck dead by a flash of

lightning. Luther stood a moment in fear and awe; he then knelt by

the side of his companion, and lifting his eyes to Heaven, he made a

solemn vow to devote his future life to the service of God. Educated in

the Catholic faith, this was equivalent to a vow that he would enter

a monastery and become a monk, which he did in 1505, in spite of his

father’s remonstrances.

It was in the Augustine convent of Erfurth, that Luther had now taken

his vows. With the ardor and sincerity of his character, he devoted

himself to religious contemplation; but he did not, in the retirement

of the cloister, find the peace he sought and anticipated. He was

haunted by temptations, and distressed by scruples and doubts. He

discovered what had not before been suggested to his mind, that, in the

absence of substantial enemies found in the world, the mind may people

the solitary cell with demons, which have the power as effectually to

stab our peace.

In the convent Luther at last found a friend, who understood

his character and ministered to his spiritual wants. This was

Staupnitz, the provincial of the order, or ecclesiastical governor

of the Augustine convents in the district of Erfurth. He was an

intelligent, honest, and kindhearted man, and by advice, instruction,

and encouragement, cleared the mind and lightened the heart of the

distracted votary.

The talents of Luther were soon appreciated, and in 1508, at the

instance of Staupnitz, he was appointed a professor of philosophy

in the university of Wittenberg. He here delivered lectures, which

were well attended, and which were marked by a freedom of thought and

manner unusual at that day. In 1510, he was sent to Italy, on business

connected with the order, which laid the foundation of a great change

in his views.

Luther was a sincere votary of the Catholic Church. With the simplicity

of an honest mind, he supposed that he should find religion in its

utmost purity at Rome, and that the Pope, the head of the church, would

be a fit representative of the Holy Apostle of whom he claimed to be

the successor. How was he doomed to be disappointed in these views!

On his arrival at the city of Milan, he was received into one of

the convents as a guest. Here he found his brethren, instead of

devoting themselves to the austerities of religion, as was the case

at Wittenberg, addicted to every species of luxury. In the seclusion

of their cloisters, they sat down to sumptuous tables, loaded with

luscious viands, delicious fruits and choice wines. Sheltered from the

observation of the world, they cast aside the forms and ceremonies of

their order, and gave themselves up to license and indulgence. Fasts

were neglected--penances despised. Luther looked on with horror, and

at last, unable to restrain his emotions, broke forth in terms of

reprobation of these debaucheries.

The monks, being alarmed lest they should be exposed, caused poison to

be administered to Luther;--the dose was slight, and they intended to

repeat it; but finding himself unwell in the night, he arose and set

forward upon his journey. He thus unconsciously baffled his enemies,

though his health suffered for a long time from the effects of the

poison he had taken.

Pursuing his way chiefly on foot, Luther at last arrived at Rome. When

he reached the city, his heart burning with religious veneration, he

knelt down, lifted his hands to Heaven, and exclaimed “I salute thee,

Holy Rome, sanctified by the blood of the martyrs!” With an eagerness

that nothing could repress, he now ran from place to place, all seeming

in his pious imagination to be consecrated ground.

The pope at that time was Julius II. He was a man little calculated to

satisfy the views of Luther. He had arisen from an humble condition to

the loftiest pitch of earthly power. Nothing could be more directly

opposed to the meek spirit of Christianity than his whole soul and

character. He was a subtle politician, a bold and ambitious statesman,

an impetuous and determined warrior. How was Luther shocked, when

he expected to hear of the pious virtues of his Holiness, to find

him only spoken of for his gigantic ambition; his worldly policy;

his achievements in the field, as commander of his own forces; his

magnificent schemes of earthly aggrandizement, alike respecting himself

and the papal see!

One of his schemes of ambition was to erect a church at Rome,

surpassing all others in magnificence. Accordingly, in 1506, four

years before Luther’s arrival, the corner stone of St. Peter’s was

laid. In a few months, pushed on by the zeal of the pontiff, the walls

were towering over the other churches of Rome; but this precipitation

caused the enormous masses to crack, and thus, the progress of the vast

enterprise was retarded. It was not till long after that this edifice

was finished. The expense was enormous, and it will hereafter be seen

that this had a direct connection with the reformation of which Luther

was the great instrument.

During his short stay at Rome, Luther beheld the pope in a religious

procession. He was raised on a platform, and carried on the

shoulders of priests, who deemed it a favor thus to bear the sacred

representative of God on earth. His head was bowed upon his breast in

token of humility, but he was attired in the most gorgeous robes. His

crown glittering with jewels, was borne on a cushion by the highest

dignitaries. Then followed others with fans, of peacock and ostrich

plumes, which they waved around the person of the pontiff, to guard

it from every unhallowed mote. Then came the retinue of cardinals and

bishops with crosses and relics, and incense, and music, and lighted

tapers, and revered trophies, with all the pomp and circumstance, that

human ingenuity, seeking to capture the imagination, could invent. The

mighty pageant swept by, “and this,” said Luther, “was all I saw of

religion in Rome.”

He stayed but a fortnight in that city. He was disheartened and

disgusted with what he saw. Rome was filled with vice of every horrid

form, and every degree of enormity. He found, too, that the pope

and his cardinals were mere men of the world, that the priests were

generally voluptuaries, and many of them open infidels. Admitted as

he was to intimacy with many of them, he found that they often made

a jest and mockery of the most holy rites, and even while performing

the offices of the sacrament, in a sort of by-play turned them into

ridicule, and sneered at the deluded people who looked with reverence

upon these ceremonies. He hastened back to Germany, his heart

distressed, his mind bewildered, his faith shaken. It was this going to

Rome, however, that laid the foundation of his subsequent career.

Having returned to Wittenberg, Luther devoted himself to his

professorship, seeking peace of mind in a vigorous discharge of its

duties. Staupnitz, who saw his great powers, urged him to become

a doctor of divinity. Luther consented, and Frederick, Elector of

Saxony, and called the Wise, being proud of him, as a native of his

dominion, and an ornament of the university, paid the expenses of his

inauguration.

Julius II. died February 13, 1513, and the Cardinal Jean de Medicis,

under the name of Leo X., became the pope. In 1517, he authorized

the sale of indulgences in Germany, as Julius II. had done in France,

Poland, &c. The avowed object was to raise money to defray the expenses

of the Church of St. Peter’s at Rome, and to sustain the christian

league against the Turks. Very little, however, of the vast sums of

money obtained, was devoted to the objects for which it was avowedly

raised.

The practice of granting indulgences, had existed for centuries before

the time of Luther. The Romish Church, assuming to embody the power of

Christ, claimed the privilege of remitting the penalty and averting

the punishment, here and hereafter, of any sin committed, provided it

was confessed and repented of. A penance was often imposed, as the

condition of such remission and forgiveness. This penance frequently

was commuted for a sum of money, given to the church. Thus money, in

the light of penance, became one of the means and instruments by which

sin was to be pardoned. From this position, the next step, the sale of

indulgences, was obvious and easy. The popes and priests wanted money,

and holding the consciences of men in their grasp, they easily laid

them under contribution.

Leo’s chief agent in the sale of indulgences was a Dominican monk,

by the name of Tetzel. He was a man of high rank and station in the

church, and possessed all the address, cunning and effrontery necessary

to success in such a business. Clothed with the full power of the pope,

and encompassed by all the insignia of the church, his manner was lofty

and his aspect imposing. He was paid eighty florins, or forty dollars,

a month, beside all his expenses. He was allowed a carriage and three

horses. His perquisites, however, far exceeded his regular pay. His

success was so great, that at the town of Freyberg, he sold indulgences

to the amount of two thousand florins, in two days.

To show the effrontery of the man, thus employed by the pope, we may

state that he was guilty of the most abominable profligacy, and though

a priest, sworn to celibacy, carried about with him two of his own

children! These things, however, did not prevent the success of his

traffic. When he came to a place, he went into the church, and set up

a cross, with the pope’s arms suspended upon it. He then ascended the

pulpit, and addressed the multitude who gathered to hear him.

He declared that indulgences “are the most precious and sublime gifts

of God;” that “this cross has as much efficacy as the cross of Christ.”

“Draw near, and I will give you letters, duly sealed, by which even the

sins you shall hereafter devise and commit, shall all be forgiven you.”

“I would not exchange my privileges for those of St. Peter in Heaven,

for I have saved more souls with my indulgences, than he with his

sermons.” “There is no sin so great that the indulgence cannot remit

it”--“only pay largely, and the greatest crime shall be forgiven!”

“Even repentance is not indispensable.”

Having thus set forth the tempting qualities of his merchandise, he

would appeal to the feelings of his auditors: he would draw terrible

pictures of the torments of purgatory, to which they were all exposed,

and bright ones of the bliss of the heaven they could so easily

purchase; he painted the torments of those already in the fires of

hell, and appealed to friends around, to know if they would not buy

an indulgence for them--for they could even reach such as had already

entered into judgment. “Yes,” said he, “the very moment that the

money clinks against the bottom of the chest, the soul escapes from

purgatory, and flies free to Heaven!”

Thus every art and device was adopted, to cheat the people into the

purchase of these impious, corrupting and fraudulent papers. At the

present day, it would be matter of course, that such practices would

be punished by confinement in the state’s prison; but at that period,

under the high sanction of the church, the fraud was not detected by

the mass, and multitudes readily availed themselves of the opportunity

to appease their consciences for past crimes, and to fortify themselves

in impunity for future iniquity. It is scarcely possible to conceive

of the state of darkness into which the minds of men had sunk, at this

period. Was it not necessary, that reformation should be wrought in

that church, which had brought mankind to this condition?

The people flocked in crowds to Tetzel and his coadjutors. Men and

women, the young and the old, the poor, and even beggars, came--and

with money too--for such was the eagerness to possess the proffered

blessings, that all would in some way obtain the means. Close by the

cross, and in the church, the seller had a counter, where he received

his money and delivered the indulgences. Confession was administered

to the purchaser, but this was a mere form; it was not insisted that

penitence must be a condition of pardon. Kings, queens, princes,

archbishops and bishops, were to pay twenty-five ducats; abbots,

counts, barons, &c., ten ducats. Thus the prices were graduated to the

condition of the purchaser; and indeed, special bargains were made

suited to the ability of the applicant, and the nature of the sins he

wished to expiate.[A]

Although the mass of the people believed in the efficacy of

indulgences, and the propriety of their sale, there were many who

condemned the whole traffic as a cheat. Among these was a gentleman

of Saxony, who heard Tetzel at Leipsic, and was much shocked at the

imposture. He went to the church, and asked him if he was authorized

to pardon sins of intention--or such as he intended to commit? Tetzel

replied in the affirmative, and after some chaffing, the gentleman paid

thirty crowns for an indulgence, by which he was to be forgiven for

beating one against whom he had a grudge.

Soon after this Tetzel set out from Leipsic, and this Saxon gentleman,

overtaking him in the forests of Jutterbock, gave him a severe

drubbing, and carried off the box in which he had his treasures. Tetzel

raised a great clamor for this act of violence, and brought an action

before the judges of the district against the perpetrator. The latter,

however, pleaded the indulgence, and was fully acquitted.

Luther, at this time, was professor of Theology at Wittenberg, and he

soon had an opportunity of seeing the effects of Tetzel’s operations.

Upon some persons under his spiritual charge, he enjoined penance; but

they refused to submit to this, declaring that they had been released

from every penalty by Tetzel. Luther having denied them absolution,

because they would not submit to the prescribed penance, some of them

went to Tetzel, and made complaints of Luther. Upon this, the former

threatened with punishment, here and hereafter, all those who should

deny the efficiency of his indulgences.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTE:

[A] The following is a copy of an indulgence, in the common form.

“Our Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on thee, N. N., and absolve thee

by the merits of his most holy sufferings! And I, in virtue of the

apostolic power committed to me, absolve thee from all ecclesiastical

censures, judgments and penalties that thou mayest have merited; and

further, from all excesses, sins, and crimes, that thou mayest have

committed, however great and enormous they may be, and of whatever

kind,--even though they should be reserved to our holy father the Pope,

and to the Apostolic See. I efface all the stains of weakness, and

all traces of the shame that thou mayest have drawn upon thyself by

such actions. I remit the pains that thou wouldst have had to endure

in purgatory. I receive thee again to the sacraments of the church. I

hereby reincorporate thee in the communion of the saints, and restore

thee to the innocence and purity of thy baptism; so that, at the moment

of death, the gate of the place of torment shall be shut against thee,

and the gate of the paradise of joy shall be opened unto thee. And if

thou shouldst live long, this grace continueth unchangeable, till the

time of thy end.

“In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“The brother, John Tetzel, commissary, hath signed this with his own

hand.”

The Two Red Cents.

A grocer in Clinton county sold a drunkard a pint of new rum _according

to law_, and made _two red cents clear profit_. The drunkard shot

his son-in-law while intoxicated; and his apprehension, confinement

in jail, execution, &c. cost the county more than _one thousand

dollars_--which temperate men had to earn by the sweat of their brows!

What say tax-payers? Are you willing to pay a thousand dollars to

enable the grog-seller to make _two red cents_?

But this case is comparatively nothing when contrasted with a recent

transaction about the 1st of July, 1843. An Indian, one of those

half-civilized, rum-loving creatures who abound in the West, stepped

out of Cataraugus county into the State of Pennsylvania, where, it

seems, men are sold indulgences to sin, as well as in the Empire

State; and then filled his pocket-bottle with real “Red-eye,” and the

seller of the poison made _two red cents_ clear profit again. While

under its maddening influence, he went into a farmer’s house near by

with whom he was totally unacquainted, and murdered a mother and five

children;--all that comprised the little family, except the husband and

father, who was from home. When he returned to his little interesting

family what a sight met his eyes!--enough, it would seem, to curdle his

blood, and change the man to stone. There lay the mother and her five

little ones--from ten years of age down to infancy, stretched upon the

floor--swimming in blood, _and all dead_! Oh! what desolation was there!

“No more for him the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

And climb his knee, the envied kiss to share.”

* * * * *

Misgive, that you may not mistake.

[Illustration: Charlotte Corday]

Charlotte Corday.

There are few incidents of the French Revolution more intensely

interesting than those which relate to Charlotte Corday. Paris was the

scene of the most violent commotions that have ever been witnessed

in civilized society. All France was agitated with the strife of

parties that wrestled with each other in the capital. The hearts of

men seemed to be filled with frenzy. The common bonds of society were

rent asunder; new and strange ideas took possession of the minds of the

people. In the midst of this excitement, and wrought up by the fever of

the time, to a design beyond her sex, Charlotte Corday appeared upon

the theatre of action, and arrested even the attention of the maddened

populace of Paris, by her heroic self-devotion.

The triumph of the Jacobins over the rival Girondists in May, 1793,

rendered their power uncontrollable. Marat was treated with more honor

and respect than any individual since the revolution, and exerted a

sway in the Convention and the clubs more absolute than was ever before

known in bodies styled deliberative. In fact, they submitted to all

his whims and caprices, and seemed to derive to themselves honor from

the submission. His extravagances were more bearable from the obvious

certainty that the wretch was hastening to the grave, and that nothing

could save him. His constitution was never good, and at this time, he

was preyed upon by a leprous complaint; which adding its ravages to his

natural deformity and habitual want of personal cleanliness, rendered

him a most disgusting object. But this man of blood was not destined to

end his days by disease.

Of the Girondists, some were arrested and executed, others succeeded

in escaping, and were outlawed. Of this latter class, a number, among

them Barbaroux, he whose beauty of person and energy of mind could

move the heart of the philosophic Madame Roland, had taken refuge at

Caen. They held daily meetings at the town-hall, and thither frequently

came Charlotte Corday, a young lady of stately figure, with an open

and intelligent countenance, and about twenty-five years of age. Her

deportment was modest; she was of studious and meditative habits,

and was a republican before the revolution. In her visits to the

town-hall, she was always attended by a servant, and her inquiry was

for Barbaroux, with whom she had been long acquainted, and with whom

she pretended to have business. She now heard much of the atrocities

of the Terrorists; of the ferocity of Marat, who held in his hands

the destiny of her country, and what was as much to her, the fate of

Barbaroux. Patriotism and love both prompted her to the commission of

an act, by which, at the sacrifice of her own life, she should be the

savior both of her country and her friend.

A nun of Caen was desirous to obtain some family papers which were in

the office of the Minister of the Interior at Paris. Charlotte offered

to proceed thither to procure them, and was furnished by Barbaroux,

with a letter of introduction to his friend Dupenet, who would aid her

in procuring them.

On the 9th of July we find her seated in the diligence, and the details

of her journey are thus given in a letter to Barbaroux.

“You requested an account of my journey, and I will not excuse you

from the slightest anecdotes. I travelled with good mountaineers,

whom I suffered to talk as much as they pleased, and their discourse,

which was as absurd as their persons were disagreeable, contributed

not a little to lull me to sleep. I was not perfectly awake till I

arrived at Paris. One of my fellow travellers, who is, undoubtedly an

admirer of sleepy women, took me for the daughter of one of his old

friends, supposed me possessed of a fortune which I have not, gave me

a name which I never heard, and, in conclusion, offered me his hand

and fortune. When I was tired of his conversation, I said, ‘We are

admirable comedians, what a pity that, with such talents, we have no

spectators; I will go and fetch our fellow-travellers, that they may

have their share of the amusement.’ I left him in a very ill humor;

all night he sung plaintive songs, excellent procreatives of sleep. At

length I parted with him at Paris, refusing to give him my address, or

that of my father, of whom he wished to ask me in marriage.”

She delivered her letter to Dupenet, and the ostensible object of

her journey was accomplished. But she said nothing of returning. She

visited the Convention. Marat was not there, he was confined to his

house by sickness. She proceeded thither, but was refused admittance.

She returned to her inn, and despatched a note, telling him that she

was from Caen, the seat of rebellion; that she desired earnestly to

see him, and would put it in his power to do France a great service.

She received no answer. She wrote another note still more pressing,

and carried it herself to the door. He was just leaving his bath, but

her business was urgent, and she was admitted to his presence. “I am

from Caen,” said she, “and wished to speak with you.” “Be seated, my

child. What are the traitors doing at Caen? What deputies are at Caen?”

He took out his tablets, and wrote down the names as Charlotte gave

them,--“Louvet, Petion, Barbaroux; I will have them all guillotined at

Paris within a fortnight.” “Then you shall precede them,” exclaimed

Charlotte, and plunged a dagger through his heart.

She was at once seized and committed to prison. We will again quote

from her letter to Barbaroux. “I expected to have been instantly

put to death, but some men, truly courageous, preserved me from

the excusable rage of those I had rendered unhappy. As I really

preserved my presence of mind, I felt hurt at the exclamations of some

women, but those who save their country think nothing of the cost.

May peace be established as soon as I wish it! For these two days I

have enjoyed a delicious state of mental repose. The happiness of my

country constitutes mine; there is no act of self-devotion which does

not overpay in pleasure, the pain of resolving to adopt it. I never

hated but one single being, and I have demonstrated how violent that

hatred was. But there are thousands whom I love with more warmth than

I hated him. A lively imagination and a feeling heart promise but a

stormy life; I beg those who may regret my fate to think of this, and

they will rejoice at seeing me enjoy repose in the Elysian fields with

Brutus and a few of the ancients. As for the moderns, there are few

real patriots, who know how to die for their country; they are almost

all selfish. What a people to form a republic! I am exceedingly well

accommodated in my prison; the jailors are the best kind of people in

the world; to keep away _ennui_ they have placed soldiers in my room.

I have no objection to make to this by day, but by night it is not so

pleasant. I have complained of the indecency, but no one has thought

fit to attend to my remonstrance.... My trial comes on to-morrow at

eight; probably at noon, according to the Roman phrase, _I shall have

lived_. I cannot say how I shall encounter my last moments; I have no

need to affect insensibility, for I never yet knew the fear of death,

and never loved life but in proportion to its possible utility.”

On the 17th of July she was put on trial, and avowed the fact and all

the circumstances, alleging, as justification, that she considered

Marat a criminal already convicted by public opinion, and that she had

a right to put him to death. She added, that she did not expect to have

been brought to trial, but to have been delivered up to the rage of the

populace, torn to pieces, and that her head, borne on a pike before the

corpse of Marat, would have served as a rallying point to Frenchmen, if

any still existed worthy of the name.

She was led from the place of trial to that of execution. On the way

she displayed a firmness and tranquillity which even awed into silence

the _poissardes_, those furies of the guillotine, who in general

pursued the victim to death with execrations and reproaches. She

submitted to her fate with the same composure that had marked all her

previous conduct.

The circumstances which attended this extraordinary action, the

privacy with which it was concerted, the resolution with which it was

executed, the openness of confession, the contempt of punishment, and,

above all, the execrable character of the monster who was the subject

of it, have taken off so much of the horror generally felt at an act

of assassination, that the name of Charlotte Corday is generally

pronounced with respect and a great degree of admiration.

* * * * *

GRAMMATICAL WITTICISM.--“Bobby, what’s steam?” “Boiling water.”

“That’s right. Compare it.” “Positive, _boil_; comparative, _boiler_;

superlative, _burst_.”

Conjugal Affection.

CHAPTER I.

One of the most remarkable instances of conjugal affection is furnished

by the story of Victoria Colonna, which I will relate.

The Marquis de Colonna was accused by one of the emissaries of the

Inquisition, of heresy and treason; and at the instigation of his

uncle, Montalbert, who wished to ruin him, through private hatred,

Colonna was seized and thrown into a dungeon, his chateau ransacked,

and his wife and child were dispossessed of their inheritance.

Colonna had been conveyed to the castle of St. Angelo, and this was

all that could be heard respecting him. Whether he had been tried and

convicted, could not be learned. He was, in short, as dead to the world

and all his family and connections, as if he had suffered the usual lot

of mortality; and as such occurrences were by no means uncommon in the

Italian states during the reign of papal tyranny, Colonna was speedily

forgotten by all except his faithful wife, Victoria.

Although interdicted by the cruel laws of the Inquisition, and

threatened with the denunciations of the spiritual pater, Victoria

traversed nightly the walls of the great citadel; sometimes wading

up to her knees in the Tiber, when making the circuit of the towers

and bastions, listening in the midnight hour for the slightest sigh,

or footfall, that might reveal to her the cell in which her beloved

husband was immured. But for several months, all her efforts to

discover it were unavailing. Yet, nothing daunted by want of success,

and feeling no love of life but in her husband’s company, the faithful

woman still continued in the fond and anxious hope that Heaven would,

at its fitting time, listen to her prayers, and that she should again

be blessed with a sight of him so dear to her, or that she should at

least become acquainted with his fate.

Nor were her hopes in the end disappointed; for, early one morning, as

she was finishing her accustomed nightly wanderings round the black

and desolate pile, her attention was aroused, about the time of dawn,

by the clattering of a chip of a tile from the battlements, which fell

close to her feet. She immediately looked for the falling object; her

quick hopes immediately surmising it to be some signal from the one

she sought. Nor was she disappointed; the tile had been scratched upon

by a nail, and on it were inscribed the names of Albert and Victoria.

In a moment of rapture, she pressed the tablet to her heart, fell on

her knees, and offered her thanks to Heaven. She then turned her eyes

toward the lofty towers, and again small fragments of stone were made

to descend from a small grating about half way towards the top. “Here

then,” she ejaculated, “here is the cell of my beloved husband.” She

was confirmed in her thoughts, by perceiving the delicate hand of

Albert thrust through the narrow aperture of the bars; and the sight of

it so affected her that she fell down in a swoon, overcome with hope

and love and joy.

When she recovered, she made the best of her way to her dwelling in

the city, and immediately began to concert measures for her husband’s

escape. But when she considered the height and thickness of the walls,

the vigilance of the guards, the jealousy of the priesthood, the

suspicions of her neighbors, and the espionage of the minions of the

Inquisition, she almost despaired. Yet, as she fervently trusted in

Heaven for aid, she determined to use every effort to accomplish her

object, and sat down at once to consider the best means of doing so.

The first difficulty that presented itself was that of establishing

communication between herself and the prisoner. This the quickness

of her mind immediately overcame; or at least fancied it could. She

thought that by raising a small paper kite by the side of the tower,

its string might be easily made to pass over the grated aperture of

the dungeon. But how was the prisoner to be made acquainted with the

operation, which must necessarily be made in darkness, and at a time of

night, when people are usually in a deep slumber?

Waving all difficulties, however, she determined to make the attempt on

the following night. As soon as it was night, she put on the disguise

of one of those miserable wretches who search and prowl about on the

muddy banks of the river to pick up the refuse of the city. The wind

was fortunately fresh, as it was late in the month of October. She had

not forgotten to provide herself with the fragile instrument upon which

her hopes were built. It was a small paper kite, formed of oil paper,

stretched upon two cross pieces of very fine whalebone; and for a

string, she employed the strongest silk she could procure. The kite was

with some difficulty at length raised, and fluttered up at the sides

of the tower. With great patience and ingenuity, the indefatigable

wife brought it close against the grating from which the tile had been

thrown. The wind caused it to beat and flutter against the bars. It

aroused the prisoner. He put his hand forth, and succeeded in obtaining

the kite.

Although all was dark, yet the expectant prisoner had light enough

in his own thoughts to see that this was the part of some plan for

his deliverance; and he could attribute it to no one but to her whom

he knew to be attached to him in life or death. Finding, therefore,

the string still held below, he gave it several pulls. This was felt

by Victoria, who, overjoyed beyond measure, fastened a note to its

extremity, explaining the plan for his escape, and promising on the

next night, by the same means, to make another communication; and

having so far succeeded, she withdrew.

I need not attempt to describe the feverish anxiety of the following

day, both to the prisoner and his wife. To Victoria, as well as to

Albert, it was an age in length. At length, however, the night did

arrive, and at the accustomed hour, Victoria again raised her little

kite, and by this means established a communication as before; and

through its instrumentality, she supplied the prisoner with paper and

pencil to communicate his wishes and his desires.

On the next night, Albert prepared an account of what had befallen him

since the period of his arrest; that he had been three times examined

before the Inquisition, and exhorted to confess; that he expected daily

again to be summoned; and that he had been threatened to be put to

the torture. He also begged her to make herself well acquainted with

the plan of the prison, its avenues, passages, and character of its

keepers; and if possible, to obtain an admission within the walls.

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

ORIGIN OF THE FLOWER “FORGET-ME-NOT.”--Mills, in his work on chivalry,

mentions that the beautiful little flower “forget-me-not,” was known

in England as early as Edward the Fourth, and in a note gives the

following pretty incident: “Two lovers were loitering along the margin

of a lake on a fine summer’s evening, when the maiden discovered some

flowers growing in the water close to the bank of an island at some

distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them,

when her knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the

water, and, swimming to the spot, cropped the wished-for plant; but

his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement; and

feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he

threw the flowers on the bank, and casting a last affectionate look on

his lady-love, said, ‘Forget me not,’ and was buried in the water.”

* * * * *

PIGS.--The editor of the New York Sunday Mercury appears to hold young

pigs in very high esteem, having dedicated a piece of poetry entirely

to juvenile porkers. He intimates, however, that he should like them

better, if they didn’t _make hogs of themselves_ when they grew up.

[Illustration: Frederick II.]

Frederick II.

This king of Prussia, who acquired the title of _the great_, was born

on the 24th of January, 1712. He was reared in the school of adversity;

his father, Frederick William, being a brutal tyrant, even in his

own family. To escape from this domestic tyranny, which was almost

insupportable, he planned a clandestine flight from Prussia, with a

confidant by the name of De Katt. His father discovered this before

it could be carried into effect. The consequence was, that Frederick

was arrested along with his friend, and both were instantly tried

before an obedient court-martial, which condemned them to death. This

sentence would have been carried into effect against the Prince, but

for the interposition of Charles the VIth, of Austria, to whose earnest

entreaties Frederick William at length yielded, with the prophetic

remark that “Austria would one day discover what a serpent she had

nourished in her bosom.”

The prince, however, suffered a long and severe imprisonment, in

the fort of Custrin, where, as if to aggravate his punishment, the

unfortunate De Katt was beheaded on a scaffold, raised before his

apartment, to the level of the window, from which he was compelled to

witness this cruel and afflicting spectacle. His subsequent treatment

in prison was as harsh and severe as that of the meanest felon, and a

considerable time elapsed before he found the means of softening its

rigor.

This was at length managed through the instrumentality of a Baron

Wrech, whose family lived in the neighborhood, and who, at considerable

risk as well as expense, furnished him with books, music, and other

comforts. By degrees he so gained upon his gaoler, that he was

permitted, under cover of the night, to visit at the Baron’s residence;

and as the young Wrechs were sprightly and accomplished, as well as

anxious to serve him, they got up little concerts for his amusement.

In this way, for upwards of a year, his imprisonment was greatly

ameliorated.

The old king at last relented, and Frederick obtained his liberty;

but it was only on the special condition that he married Elizabeth

Christina, a princess of the house of Brunswick. This forced marriage

proved utterly abortive of the object intended by the tyrannical old

match-maker, for Frederick never lived with the princess, although,

through life, he treated her with the greatest respect. She was a woman

of meritorious conduct, but quite destitute of personal attractions.

Frederick’s marriage took place in 1732, and from that time till the

death of his father in 1740, he resided at Rheinsberg, a village some

leagues from Berlin. During this interval of eight years, he devoted

himself chiefly to literary pursuits, and wrote his _Anti-Machiavel_,

and _Reflections on the Character of Charles XII._ The social circle

with which he was connected at this time, consisted mostly of learned

and ingenious Frenchmen, and probably that circumstance contributed

to imbue him with the strong predilection which he ever afterwards

displayed in favor of everything French.

His accession to the throne in 1740, brought at once into action the

whole energies of his character. He himself entered personally upon

all the duties, usually committed by kings to their ministers; and in

order to accomplish the multiplicity of business which thus devolved

upon him, he laid down strict rules for the appropriation of his time,

to which he ever afterwards scrupulously adhered. He rose regularly at

four in the morning, occupying but a few minutes with his dress, of

which, however, he was careless even to slovenliness; and this practice

he continued till a late period of his life.

The details of a peaceful administration were, however, found quite

inadequate to the activity of his mind. Accordingly, in the first year

of his reign, he resolved on war; but, unfortunately for his character,

it was a war of aggression--a war, too, against a female, and the heir

of the very house which had saved him from the scaffold. He resolved

to wrest Silesia from Maria Theresa, of Austria, and in less than two

years he accomplished this object, the province being ceded to him by

the treaty of Breslaw, in 1742. It has ever since continued to form a

part of the Prussian dominions.

The acquisition of Silesia, and the grasping policy of Frederick seem

to have excited the jealousy of other European powers, as well as the

enmity of Austria; for a new war broke out in 1742, in which, after

a good deal of bloodshed, Prussia was again victorious, and had the

possession of Silesia confirmed to her by a new treaty.

In the succeeding ten years, Frederick sedulously cultivated the arts

of peace, and by adhering strictly to the systematic apportionment of

his time, he was enabled to exercise a personal superintendence over

every department of government, without abridging either his pleasures

or amusements, and without the slightest abandonment of his literary

pursuits. He carried on an extensive correspondence with Voltaire, and

several of the most distinguished literati of Europe. He wrote the

_History of his own Times_, and _Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg_;

and he re-established the Academy of Sciences of Berlin. It was in the

interval of peace, too, that he invited Voltaire, and other literary

characters to reside at his capital. The visit of that extraordinary

man, and its result, are well known. The quarrel between him and

Frederick, and the terms on which they parted, were little creditable

to either; and, besides, they very clearly proved to the world, that in

the business of life, philosophers are not superior to ordinary men.

The most important portion, however, of all Frederick’s labors during

these ten years of peace, was his civil administration. It comprehended

various useful reforms, and the introduction of numerous improvements,

for the benefit of the people. He was zealous in the cause of

education, and in the establishment of schools and professorships.

He also caused the laws to be revised and a new code to be prepared,

which, after much labor, was effected, and it still goes under his

name. This code abolished torture, and recognized universal toleration

in religion. Perhaps the general character of the jurisprudence he

established, may be best gathered from his celebrated instruction to

the judges:--“If a suit arise between me and one of my subjects, and

the case is a doubtful one, always decide against me.”

In the midst of all his improvements, Frederick was again roused to

war. He had been advised that Austria, Russia, and Saxony had entered

into a treaty for the conquest and partition of his territories.

He demanded an explanation from the court of Vienna, which, being

unsatisfactory, he immediately struck the first blow by marching an

army into Saxony, and taking possession of it almost unopposed. Thus

commenced the celebrated “seven years’ war,” the result of which,

after numerous battles, and an incredible waste of human life and

treasure, was a treaty which again confirmed Prussia in the possession

of Silesia, and established the reputation of Frederick as the greatest

military genius of the age.

The next ten years were spent in efforts to repair the devastation

and misery which Prussia had suffered by the war. Among other

ameliorations, may be mentioned his emancipation of the peasantry, from

hereditary servitude, which he began by giving up his own signorial

rights over the serfs on the crown domains. A good deal of his time was

also devoted to literary pursuits, as it was during this period that he

wrote his “_History of the Seven Years’ War_.”

In 1772 he became a party to the partition of Poland, and shared

largely in the spoil, as well as in the disgrace of that infamous

political robbery. In 1778, he was again in hostility with Austria,

respecting the succession to Bavaria, which that power, at the death

of the Elector, without issue, proposed on some antiquated, feudal

grounds, to re-annex to her own dominions. This war was of short

duration, Frederick being successful in settling the question by

treaty. In 1785, he had another dispute with Austria, in which he

appeared as the defender of the Germanic Confederation, and the rights

of its several princes. Here he was also successful, the emperor Joseph

yielding the question at issue, without having recourse to arms.

Frederick was now getting old, and his constitution had begun to decay.

He also suffered occasionally from gout, the necessary consequence

of rich diet and high-seasoned cookery, to which he was all his life

exceedingly partial. He had, moreover, a voracious appetite, and he

constantly indulged it to repletion. This brought on a complication

of disorders, under which he suffered severely, though he never once

uttered a complaint, but continued his public services with as much

zeal and anxiety, as when in perfect health. He continued to do so up

to August, 1786, when a confirmed dropsy having supervened, he fell

into a lethargy on the 16th of that month, and expired during the night.

An impartial reviewer of the reign of Frederick, will discard all that

is attractive or dazzling in his character, either from his talents

as an accomplished warrior, or his wit as a man of letters. He will

consider him simply as a ruler of a nation, and a member of the great

European community. In that view it is impossible to deny that his

administration of affairs was singularly marked by promptitude and

energy. Wherever active exertions were required, or could ensure

success, he generally prevailed; and to use the words of an elegant

writer, “as he was in all things a master of those inferior abilities

which are denominated address, it is not wonderful that he was

uniformly fortunate in the cabinets of his neighbors.” His reign,

however, with all its glory, and all its success, both in diplomacy

and war, was a memorable proof that the happiness of the people is of

little consequence, even to an enlightened despot, when balanced either

against his cupidity or his ambition. It was these qualities alone that

embroiled Frederick with his neighbors; and we have only to turn to his

own works for a melancholy confession of the disastrous consequences

which were thus entailed upon his subjects.

“The state of Prussia,” says he, in his history of his own times, “can

only be compared to that of a man riddled with wounds, weakened by the

loss of blood, and ready to sink under the weight of his misfortunes.

The nobility were exhausted, the commons ruined, numerous villages were

burnt, and many towns were nearly depopulated. Civil order was lost in

a total anarchy; in fact, the desolation was universal.” In this candid

exposure of the consequences of his own policy, Frederick has given

the true character of his reign. Such were the results of a successful

career of conquest; one which is often regarded as the most brilliant

in the annals of mankind--one which conferred the title of “the great,”

on the chief actor; and one which has been the almost unbounded theme

of eulogy. He increased his kingdom by twenty thousand square miles;

left seventy millions of Prussian dollars in the treasury, and an

army of two hundred thousand men; yet, while the government was thus

enriched and strengthened, we see by the monarch’s own confession, how

the people had suffered.

There is abundant evidence that Frederick was a man of art and

learning; and we know that he possessed the most unbounded influence

over his soldiery. Before the battle of Rostorth, which led to the most

celebrated of all the king of Prussia’s victories, Frederick addressed

his little army, not amounting to more than twenty-five thousand men,

in nearly the following words: “My brave soldiers--the hour is coming,

in which all that is, and all that ought to be, dear to us, depends

upon the swords that are now drawn for the battle. Time permits me to

say but little, nor is there occasion to say much. You know that there

is no labor, no hunger, no cold, no watching, no danger, that I have

not shared with you, hitherto; and you now see me ready to lay down my

life with you and for you. All I ask is the same pledge of fidelity

and affection that I give. Acquit yourselves like men, and put your

confidence in God.”

The effect of this speech was indescribable. The soldiers answered it

by a universal shout, and their looks and demeanor became animated

to a sort of heroic frenzy. Frederick led on his troops in person,

exposed to the hottest of the fire. The enemy for a few moments made

a gallant resistance; but, overwhelmed by the headlong intrepidity

of the Prussians, they at length gave way in every part, and fled in

the utmost disorder. Night alone saved from destruction the scattered

remains of an army, which, in the morning, was double the number of

its conquerors.

There are some anecdotes which exhibit the conqueror in a still more

pleasing light. He was fond of children, and the young princes, his

nephews, had always access to him. One day, while he was writing in his

cabinet where the eldest of them was playing with a ball, it happened

to fall on the table; the king threw it on the floor, and wrote on;

presently after, the ball again fell on the table; he threw it away

once more, and cast a serious look on the child, who promised to be

more careful, and continued his play. At last, the ball unfortunately

fell on the very paper on which the king was writing, who, being a

little out of humor, put the ball in his pocket. The little prince

humbly begged pardon, and entreated to have his ball again, which

was refused. He continued some time praying for it in a very piteous

manner, but all in vain. At last, grown tired of asking, he placed

himself before his majesty, put his little hand to his side, and said,

with a menacing look and tone, “Do you choose, sire, to restore the

ball, or not?” The king smiled, took the ball from his pocket, and gave

it to the prince, with these words: “Thou art a brave fellow; Silesia

will never be retaken while thou art alive.”

During his last illness, he endured many restless nights, which he

endeavored to soothe by conversing with the servant who chanced to sit

up with him. On one of these occasions, he inquired of an honest young

Pomeranian from whence he came? “From a little village in Pomerania.”

“Are your parents living?” “An aged mother.” “How does she maintain

herself?” “By spinning.” “How much does she gain daily by it?”

“Sixpence.” “But she cannot live well on that.” “In Pomerania, it is

cheap living.” “Did you never send her anything?” “O, yes; I have sent

her at different times a few dollars.” “That was bravely done; you are

a good boy. You have a deal of trouble with me. Have patience. I shall

endeavor to lay something by for you, if you behave well.” The monarch

kept his word; for, a few nights after, the Pomeranian being again in

attendance, received several pieces of gold, and heard, to his great

joy and surprise, that one hundred six dollars had been settled on his

mother during her life.

[Illustration: Man on horseback]

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER VI.

_Deliverance--arrival at a strange place--sickness--kindness

among strangers--account of Maroontown._

The rushing sound that filled my ears, as I fainted and fell to the

earth before the terrific image of the monster that threatened me

with instant death, was occasioned by the discharge of a musket. How

often does it happen that Providence interposes to save us, when

there appears to be no help at hand, and hope itself has departed. A

negro hunter happened to be passing at the precise moment that the

serpent was about to rush upon me, and crush me in its folds. I was

concealed from his view by the bushes that intervened; but he saw the

threatening attitude of the reptile, and knew that it was about to

strike upon some object near at hand. The huntsman was on horseback,

but the serpent was so intent upon its prey, that it allowed the man

to approach within a few yards. He then levelled his gun, and the

discharge nearly severed its head from the body. The convulsions of the

dying monster lashed the earth, and tore the adjacent herbage, while

the space around was covered with blood. These struggles gradually

subsided; the form was stretched out at length upon the ground in a

waving line, and, except a tremulous motion along the back, and a faint

vibration of the tail, the creature ceased to move.

Of this scene, I was, however, wholly unconscious. The negro, in

looking about for the object of the serpent’s meditated blow, soon

discovered me. He raised my head from the earth, and, after a few

moments, I slowly recovered my senses. When my eyes first fell upon the

face of the negro, his head covered with an immense palm-leaf hat, a

strange fancy crossed my mind. I conceived myself to be in the coils of

the serpent, and the countenance of the negro seemed to be the image

of my destroyer. But this illusion quickly passed away, and I speedily

realized my deliverance. A sense of unspeakable joy thrilled through

my heart, and I burst into a flood of tears. I was utterly unable to

speak, but I clasped the hands of the negro, who was kneeling by me,

and showed in his countenance the utmost sympathy and kindness. Never

have I felt toward any human being a more grateful emotion, than toward

my kind-hearted preserver at that moment.

I was soon able to get upon my feet, but when I saw the outstretched

form of the serpent, and beheld the traces of blood, and the earth torn

by its dying agony, a faintness again came over me, and I should have

fallen to the ground, but for the support afforded by my protector.

He now spoke to me, but in a language which I did not understand. He

seemed to comprehend my situation, however, and, placing me upon the

saddle of his horse, he mounted behind me. After winding through the

shrubbery for a short distance, we came to a pathway along which we

proceeded for the space of an hour, during which the negro paid the

utmost attention to my weakness. He held me upon the saddle, kept the

somewhat impatient steed in a walk, and did all in his power to render

my situation comfortable.

I now observed that we were emerging from the forest, and that

cultivated fields were opening before us. I noticed plantations upon

the hill sides, and, at a little distance, I perceived scattered

dwellings. These, however, were of a very humble cast, the sides

seeming to consist of stakes woven together with palm leaves, and the

roofs to be made either of palm leaves or straw. As we passed along,

I noticed a number of negroes engaged in various occupations; but I

discovered no white people. The population increased as we proceeded,

and when at last we entered a long, irregular street, the inhabitants

seemed to swarm like a bee-hive. Never have I seen such a strange

spectacle. The town consisted of huts, such as I have described,

and the people were all black. I had no difficulty in coming to the

conclusion that this was Maroontown--the negro settlement, through

which I had expected to pass on my journey. As we proceeded through

the street of the town, we soon attracted attention, and I became the

special object of curiosity. There were great numbers of children,

and being entirely naked, they looked like so many little monkeys.

Many of them were lying down at their ease; others were skipping and

frisking about like squirrels. Many of these began to follow us, and

when once a train had formed behind us, the plot seemed to thicken,

and we were soon surrounded by a throng of all sizes and sexes. These

flowed onward, leaping, shouting, babbling, laughing and dancing, and

performing all sorts of antics.

At length we reached a hovel of somewhat better appearance than the

rest. Here my guide dismounted, and, clearing a space among the

babbling crowd, partly by threats, and partly by blows, he took me

from the horse, and carried me into the dwelling. Placing me upon a

bed of straw, he drove out the children that had rushed into the room,

and fastened the entrance. He then spoke to his wife and daughter, no

doubt giving an account of the manner in which he had discovered me. I

became the immediate object of the care and kindness of the two women.

They provided for me some rice broth, of which I ate a little, and,

overpowered with fatigue, I fell asleep. My slumbers, however, were

disturbed, and my mind was agitated with terrific dreams. Worn out with

suffering of mind and body, my constitution gave way, and I fell into a

raging fever.

During the period of my disease, I had little consciousness, and I

have but faint remembrances of what passed. In the lucid intervals

which visited me, I could always perceive some one of the kind family

watching at my bedside, ready and prompt to attend to all my wants

and wishes. For the space of three weeks, I remained in a critical

condition, apparently hovering upon the narrow line between life and

death. Owing, however, to the prescriptions of a black physician, who

attended upon me with great care, and the affectionate nursing of my

friends, aided by my elastic constitution, the disease was at last

conquered, and I began to revive from my prostrate condition. I was,

indeed, wasted to a shadow, and when the fever left me, I could not

lift my arm from the bed, nor turn my head upon the pillow. During this

period of excessive weakness, I was as tenderly treated, as if I had

been an infant, and the heir of the house. Somebody was always at my

bedside to wet my parched lips with lemonade, to bathe my forehead, or

aid me to change my position. The rough, burly master of the hovel,

when called upon to lift me from my bed, seemed to have a new sense of

gentleness infused into his clumsy hands and arms.

Under these kindly auspices, when once my disease had left me, I

gradually acquired strength, and, in the space of a fortnight was able

to totter to the door. I was led out by the two women, and, as I gazed

around upon the uncouth scene, the ragged, irregular tenements, and

the half-naked inhabitants, it still seemed as though I was breathing

the air, and gazing on the landscapes of a sort of paradise. Such was

the cheering influence of that sense of returning health, which flowed

through my youthful veins.

I now began to make some acquaintances among the people; their language

was Dutch, with a mixture of negro and Indian gibberish. Of this, I

understood nothing, except the names of a few familiar objects, which

I gradually learned. At length, however, I met with a woman, who had

been a servant in an English family, and could converse in the English

tongue. From her I learned the history of this curious settlement.

It seems to have sprung up from the slaves that escaped from their

masters at Paramaribo, and the plantations along the Surinam. These

were hunted by the white people, and shot down like wild animals, or,

if captured, were subjected to the most cruel punishments, and the

rigors of slavery were rendered still more severe. The number of these

fugitives constantly increased. For a time, indeed, they wandered in

the forests, often alone, and reduced to a state of wildness, like the

native animals of the woods.

But they soon associated together, and, by their union and numbers,

became formidable to their oppressors. They retired to a considerable

distance from the Dutch settlements, and, occupying a fertile tract

of country, erected such slight habitations as their means afforded,

and the climate required. They began to till the soil, and bountiful

nature returned an abundant harvest for their efforts. They increased

rapidly, and in process of years they established a government suited

to their condition. By degrees the hostility between them and the

Dutch settlement subsided, and amicable intercourse commenced, and

at the time I was there, a considerable traffic was carried on

between the inhabitants of Maroontown and those of Paramaribo. The

settlement continues to the present time to consist entirely of a

negro population, living in the heart of Guiana, almost without the

mixture of foreign blood. Their manners are rather those of Africa than

America. We shall have something more to say of this strange place in

another chapter.

(To be continued.)

The Law of Honor.

A FABLE.

Two musquitoes met upon a cabbage-leaf one fine summer’s morning,

glutted with the spoils of the preceding evening. Flushed with success,

and anxious for battle, they began to eye each other with no very

gentle looks. Still they had no pretence upon which to begin shedding

each other’s blood, till one of them ran out his sting, and began to

whet it and put it in order for the first emergency. “Do you run your

sting out at me?” said the other. “That’s just as you please to take

it.” “Sir, that’s a downright insult.” “Very well, sir, I can’t help

that.” “Draw, then, and defend yourself!” Upon this challenge, like

other duellists, they made a great bluster, and while they prepared for

battle with an air of great courage, meanly took great pains to get

the advantage of ground and position. After several passes, one was

mortally wounded: they then made up, and while one expired, the other,

in the most chivalrous manner, said he was a gentleman. So the musquito

died with satisfaction.

[Illustration: _House in Cairo._]

Kahira, or Cairo.

This city, which is the capital of Modern Egypt, is situated in a plain

between the eastern bank of the river Nile and the ridge of Mokattam.

It occupies about three square miles, and is surrounded by a wall, and

commanded by a large citadel, where the pacha resides. The streets are

unpaved and narrow, some of them having rows of shops on each side.

The roofs of the houses are flat, and covered with plaster. The ground

floor apartments next the street have small wooden grated windows; but

those of the upper stories are formed of wooden lattice-work, which is

so close that it shuts out much of the light of the sun, but admits the

air. In the better houses, the windows are furnished with frames of

glass in the inside; these are closed in the winter.

There are many public buildings in Kahira. The mosques are numerous,

and some of them distinguished for their size, architecture, and great

age. There are also many public baths, which are handsomely ornamented

and painted, and in some parts paved with marble. The public gardens

are filled with groves of orange and lemon trees, and the cemeteries

are also much used as promenades.

The population is estimated at twenty-four thousand, consisting of

natives, Jews and strangers. The police maintained in the metropolis is

tolerably strict. Malefactors are mostly employed in the public works.

Kahira still maintains the reputation of being the best school of

Arabic literature, theology and jurisprudence. Schools for children

are very numerous; almost every mosque has a _koottab_, or day school

attached to it, in which children are instructed in reading the Koran,

and in writing and arithmetic.

[Illustration: _A Patagonian._]

Pictures of Various Nations.

CHAPTER VII.

CHILI.

Chili lies south of Peru, and is a narrow tract about twelve hundred

miles in length, between the Pacific ocean and the Andes. It has a

climate remarkably fine and salubrious, and a soil which is very

fertile. It seldom rains there, but the dews are abundant. In several

parts of the Andes, volcanoes yearly spout forth their fires, and

earthquakes are frequent and severe.

Chili was conquered by the Spaniards many years since; but the conquest

was achieved with much difficulty. In the native Chilese they found

a bold and intrepid people, who fought with desperate courage, and

continued the war for fifty years.

The Spaniards who have settled Chili, live principally in the northern

part. With these have mingled a few English, French and Italians.

The Creoles, or the descendants of the Spaniards, are generally well

made, honorable, intrepid and liberal; yet vain and fond of pleasure.

The men generally dress in the French fashion; the women in that of

Peru. But the Chilese ladies wear long gowns, and have a more modest

air. The Creole population are very extravagant in dress and in their

manner of living. The common people of the country lead a happy and

tranquil life. They are somewhat gay, and fond of music and poetry.

About one half of Chili is still possessed by tribes of the Aborigines,

who are called Araucanians. In many respects they are an interesting

people. They are not tall, but strong and robust, and intrepid

warriors, devoted to their country, and prodigal of their lives. They

are courteous, hospitable, faithful to their engagements, grateful

for benefits, and generous and humane towards the vanquished. Many of

them, however, are addicted to gaming and drunkenness. Great feasts are

sometimes made by them, on which occasions they are guilty of a most

wasteful prodigality.

They are copper-colored, but somewhat lighter than most of the northern

and central tribes. Their face is nearly round, eyes small, noses

flattened, but the mouth well made, and the teeth white and uniform.

They have long, black hair. They pluck out their beards by the roots.

Many of the women are handsome; are seldom gray before sixty or

seventy, nor bald before eighty. It is not uncommon to find among them

persons of more than a hundred years, retaining their teeth, and sight,

and memory unimpaired.

Of their dress, we shall only say, that it is generally tight or

compact, consisting of a shirt, with breeches, and a mantle reaching to

the knee. These are generally of wool, and of a blue color; though the

mantle is sometimes red or white. They ornament their heads with plumes

of feathers. The women wear a gown reaching to the feet, but without

sleeves. It is bound round the waist with a girdle, confined by a

silver clasp in front. Their hair is left to fall on their shoulders,

and is decorated with brilliant stones. Bracelets, necklaces, and rings

are also worn, and most of the lower classes have ornaments of silver.

These people do not live in villages, but their habitations are

generally at a distance from each other, on the banks of rivers. These

are commonly surrounded with trees, under the shade of which the family

take their meals. Many of the men have several wives, each of whom

daily presents her husband with a dish of food, cooked at her own fire.

The Araucanians are distinguished for their horsemanship and for their

eloquence. For this last, their language is well adapted.

PATAGONIA.

Patagonia is the most southern country in South America. It has never

been much explored; so that we can say but little more about it, than

that the northern parts have a milder climate and a more productive

soil than the southern parts, which are intensely cold. It is as cold

there as Cape Horn, or as it is in the northern part of Canada. Of

the inhabitants, also, we can give no very particular account. Some

Europeans, however, have visited them, during their voyages of trade or

discovery.

In 1764, Commodore Byron landed in Patagonia, and had an interview with

the natives. They have always been said to be _giants_, and he found

them to be so. They seemed to him to be generally six feet and a half

high, and some of them quite seven feet. The tallest Americans are

seldom over six feet; generally not more than five feet, and seven and

ten inches.

He found them not only thus tall, but very robust. Only their hands and

feet are small. They are a warlike tribe, yet courteous and humane.

In their complexion, they are copper-colored. They have straight,

black, and coarse hair, usually tied behind with a string. They paint

themselves with circles round the eyes, and with various colors. Their

teeth are exceedingly white, and remarkably even and well set.

Their dress is made of the skin of the guanaco, sewed together into

pieces about six feet long and five broad, which are wrapped as a cloak

round their body. The upper part, however, falls back, and thus exposes

the neck and shoulders to the weather, and makes them look almost

naked. They appear to eat raw flesh of animals. They are excellent

horsemen, and will pursue their game on horseback, in places of danger,

where an American would be afraid to go.

In 1766, Captain Welles visited Patagonia, and while there, he took

several of the people on board his ship; but he was surprised to find

that they had no curiosity about anything, excepting a looking-glass,

before which they danced and played a thousand tricks.

TERRA DEL FUEGO.

Of Terra del Fuego and its inhabitants, we know still less than of

Patagonia, and the people of that country. It is an island, separated

from Cape Horn by a strait, called the straits of Magellan, after the

navigator who first discovered it. The same navigator gave the name

of Terra del Fuego to the island. It signifies “_the land of fire_,”

and was given to the island because he and his men discovered on it

numerous fires, which proceeded from volcanoes.

The island is a dreary region; bleak, barren, and mountainous. Winter

reigns here nearly the whole year round. The inhabitants are of a

middle stature, with broad faces, flat noses, and high cheekbones. They

paint their bodies, which are naturally fair, and what clothes they

wear are made of seals’ skins. Shell fish is their principal food.

Their huts are miserable shelters, built in a conical form, or much

like a tunnel.

The inhabitants of the north seem to be quite different from those of

the south. The former are said to be cruel and treacherous; the latter

harmless and simple. They are alike destitute of curiosity, however,

and although the climate is extremely cold, they go almost naked.

* * * * *

SMALL MATTERS.--The nerve of a tooth, not as large as the finest

cambric needle, will sometimes drive a strong man to distraction. A

musqueto can make an elephant absolutely mad. The coral rock, causing

a navy to founder, is the work of worms. The warrior that withstood

death in a thousand forms may be killed by an insect. The deepest

wretchedness results from a perpetual continuance of petty trials. A

chance look from those we love, often produces exquisite pain or

unalloyed pleasure.

* * * * *

“Take your _time_,” as the man said, when he returned a borrowed watch.

[Illustration: bat]

The Bat Family.

The family of bats is very numerous, and some of its members are

queer characters, as we shall presently show. They have puzzled

the naturalists not a little; for while they have the structure of

quadrupeds, they have the motion of birds. They are the only creatures

that unite these two qualities. There are such things, indeed,

as flying squirrels, and flying opossums, but these do not raise

themselves by wings; they only support their bodies by spreading out

skinny membranes on either side, in descending from an elevation, and

are thus able to make a long, sloping leap.

The bat, on the contrary, raises himself into the air by his wings,

and glances about hither and thither, with all the ease and vivacity

of a bird. Yet this creature has no feathers. He is covered with hair,

and when his skinny wings are folded up, he looks very much like a

mouse or a mole. He even squeaks like a mouse, and thus an appearance

of veracity is given to the fable of La Fontaine. In this, the bat

is represented as having, on a certain occasion, got into the nest

of a weasel, the sworn enemy of birds. When the weasel was about to

destroy him as one of the feathered tribe, the little fellow escaped by

representing himself to be a mouse. Afterwards, coming in the way of

the cat, he was upon the point of being devoured as a mouse; but he now

showed his wings, and was let off, on the plea of being a bird.

In a former number, we have spoken of the vampire, which is found in

Guiana, and have made mention, also, of certain other species of this

curious tribe.

We now proceed to speak of the general habits of the whole race. They

frequent caverns, dark ravines, and crevices of rocks. Here they sleep

by day, but, as evening approaches, they sally forth, pursuing such

insects as have not gone to their repose. They are active and busy

during the warm season, but when the cold evenings of autumn set in,

they retire to their dim retreats, where they often cluster together

by hundreds. Here they remain in a dormant state during the winter.

In this condition they show the greatest sensibility to the touch,

and their bodies even shrink from the approach of the hand, before it

comes in contact with the body. Yet nothing can rouse them from their

profound sleep.

There are nearly one hundred and fifty different kinds of bats. In

this country they are small in size, and comparatively few in number.

In tropical regions they are more numerous, and in some places, they

fill the air so thickly, as to increase the gloom of twilight. In India

there is a species, called flying foxes, whose outstretched wings

measure six feet from tip to tip.

[Illustration: Joshua commanding sun and moon]

Joshua commanding the Sun and Moon to stand still.

One of the most remarkable events mentioned in Scripture, is that to

which the preceding picture relates. It has often been the subject of

the painter’s pencil, and gives ample scope for the exercise of his

highest talent. The story, as related in the tenth chapter of Joshua,

presents a scene of the utmost sublimity. The Israelites having fled

out of Egypt, after forty years’ wandering, had been conducted by

Moses to the borders of Canaan. This great leader having died in the

land of Moab, Joshua became the chief of the nation. Under his guidance

they entered the promised land. In the course of their march they were

met by the kings of the Amorites, who attacked them in the mountains.

Encouraged by divine assurance of success, Joshua withstood the host,

and a terrible conflict ensued. The Israelites prevailed, and a

miracle, or what seemed a miracle, was wrought in behalf of Joshua and

his army. The Amorites were defeated, and Joshua, obeying the divine

command, stretched forth his hand, and said, “Sun, stand thou still

upon Gibeon, and thou moon in the valley of Ajalon!” Obedient to this

injunction, the sun and the moon paused in their course; the day was

prolonged, and the Israelites continued to pursue and cut down their

enemies.

There is something in the idea of a great battle, where thousands of

men are engaged in the deadly conflict, and of which the Creator is a

spectator, and at whose command even the mighty orbs which give light

and heat to the universe are stayed in their path, which excites the

imagination, and lifts the mind to the loftiest pitch of excitement.

The subject is, indeed, almost too grand for human conception, and not

even the creative pencil of the painter can fully master it.

Our Correspondence.

The following letter is a _sweet_ one, as our readers will see, before

they get through. The writers may rest assured that they will be

forgiven, if they put their threat in execution respecting the barrel

of sugar. We should like the description of the process of making the

article, very much; and it is very likely, when we get it, that we

shall hitch a first-rate story upon it.

_Baton Rouge, La., April, 1844._

MR. ROBERT MERRY: SIR,--We take pleasure in declaring to you

that your name and the fame of your periodical have at

length reached us here in the far south-west. And from the

spirit of kind good-nature which seems to mark all your

communications with your young friends, we are ready to

think that you will not spurn the salutations of your new

acquaintances in Louisiana. Though this may be the first

voice from the “Creole State,” we hope it will not be the

last. We would have you and all your readers down east, and

north, and all other parts of our great country, understand

that we are not exactly in a barbarous state--nor

approaching it--as we mean to show by patronizing the

Museum.

That good old gentleman, Peter Parley, has long since

become a favorite among us; and it was only necessary to be

informed that you were his near kinsman or intimate friend,

that you enjoyed his confidence, and are even intrusted

with all the precious relics left by him,--to secure you

the most ready reception and all that generous hospitality

in which the people of our state abound. We have often

heard of that place “away down east,” called Boston; and

especially how many fine schools, and books, and all such

useful things, our young friends there enjoy; and since we

found out the characters of Peter Parley and Robert Merry

among others of your distinguished citizens, our curiosity

is more excited, and, no doubt, many of us will be led to

come and see that part of the land if we live to grow up.

But if we do, we wish very much not to appear behind others

of your black-eyed and blue-eyed friends in intelligence.

Therefore we mean to have your interesting and instructive

publication, which, with other improvements that are being

made in our means of instruction, we think, will help us to

keep up with the age, and prepare to act our part as well

as the Yankee boys and girls.

Now we don’t like to make promises, any more than yourself;

but just to encourage you we will give you a _hint_ at

_least_. You know we raise _sugar cane_ in this state;

and we are told that you and your northern readers know

nothing about _making_ sugar, but only _eating_ it. Now,

if you have a sweet tooth, (for we hope you havn’t become

toothless yet,) you wouldn’t despise a barrel of the finest

sugar or the best _sirop_ from some plantation in this

vicinity--if you should happen to find one on some of your

Boston ships, _especially_, should it be accompanied by a

description of the process of making it, for the benefit of

all your little _sweet-loving_ readers. Hoping, then, that

you will punctually furnish _us_, as well as your older and

nearer admirers, with all the good things you are wont to

distribute, we make our bow as

YOUR NEW READERS OF BATON ROUGE.

We thank Pierce L. H. of Brooklyn, N. York, and our friend P., for

their communications.

Sarah C. F. is satisfied with our reasons why the eastern coast of

America has a colder climate than the western coast of Europe, but

wonders that Kamskatka is so much colder than Alaska--both being in the

same latitude. She will find an explanation in the fact that the latter

is a mere island, and the surrounding ocean moderates and equalizes

the temperature. Kamskatka, it is true, is near the sea, but it is

contiguous to Siberia, which is an extensive mass of unbroken land,

which is always colder than the sea.

* * * * *

We thank H. L. P----, Jane S----r, M. A. K., and John P----e, for their

several communications. We hope S---- will comply with his promise, and

tell us about the salt works of Syracuse.

* * * * *

We are obliged to omit, this month, a wild story of Bill Keeler’s,

called Dirk Heldriver; a tale by the Old Man in the Corner, and

something about Inquisitive Jack. They shall come next time.

Happiness.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

[Illustration: Music]

1. There is a spell in every flow’r,

A sweetness in each spray,

And every simple bird has pow’r

To please me with his lay.

And there is music on each breeze

That sports along the glade;

The crystal dew-drops on the trees

Are gems, by Fancy made.

There’s gladness too in everything,

And beauty over all

For everywhere comes on with spring

A charm which cannot pall!

And I!--my heart is full of joy,

And gratitude is there,

That He, who might my life destroy,

Has yet vouchsafed to spare.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. AUGUST, 1844. No. 2.

[Illustration: August]

August.

This is the eighth month of the year, and derived its name from

Augustus, emperor of Rome. In England it is the month of harvest,

and the old Saxons used to call it arm-month, arm being the word for

harvest. It is everywhere a busy season, and is thus noticed by an old

poet:

The ears are filled, the fields are white,

The constant harvest-moon is bright;

To grasp the bounty of the year,

The reapers to the scene repair,

With hook in hand and bottles slung,

And dowlas scups beside them hung,--

The sickles stubble all the ground,

And filful hasty laps go round;

The meals are done, as soon as tasted,

And neither time nor viands wasted.

The fifth day of August is noticed in England for two reasons: it is

the birthday of Saint James, and oysters on this day come into use.

They are not allowed to be eaten, by order of parliament, till this

time, as they are deemed unwholesome during the summer. The event is

thus celebrated by the rhymester:

Green groves rise at dawn of sun,

August fifth! come, haste away!

To Billingsgate the thousands run;

’Tis oyster day!--’tis oyster day!

Now, at the corner of the street,

With oysters fine the tent is filled;

The cockney stops to have a treat,

Prepared by one in opening skilled.

Shake off the beard--as quick as thought

The pointed knife divides the flesh;--

What plates are laden, loads are brought,

And eaten raw, and cold, and fresh!

The tenth of August is the festival of St. Lawrence. He suffered

martyrdom at Rome, being roasted to death on a red-hot grate of iron.

The church of St. Lawrence in London is dedicated to him, and has a

gridiron on the steeple for a vane.

The fifteenth of this month is what is called _Assumpsion day_ by

the Catholics. It is a great festival with them, and is designed to

commemorate the assumption, or taking up of the Virgin Mary into

heaven. It is one of the most famous of the Romish festivals, and

is celebrated in France, Italy, and other Catholic countries, with

processions, songs, ceremonies, and every variety of religious

pageantry.

If we may be permitted to say a word to the farmers, we would advise

them to declare a war of extermination on the thistles in and about

their premises. It is said by some correct cultivators, that if the

Canada thistle is cut in August, before its seed is ripe, it will die

in an accommodating manner; because the stalk, which is hollow, will

fill with water and destroy the root.

It is also said, if you cut bushes in the old of the moon in August,

you will destroy them root and branch. We doubt if the moon will

interfere in the matter; but August is the best time for cutting

bushes, because vegetation having come to a close for the season, the

bushes will not so readily sprout again from the roots.

Bill and the Boys.

DIRK HELDRIVER.

I recollect, one winter evening, when Bill and myself, with three or

four young companions, were assembled around the fire of the “Cock and

Bull,” it chanced to be Bill’s turn to tell a story. It was a wild

night, for the wind blew, and the sleet rattled against the windows, as

the heavy gusts swept round the corner of the old tavern. When Bill was

about to begin his story, I could see that his cheek was a little pale,

and his eye glistened as if there were something extraordinary in his

mind. At length, he began, and related the following story, as nearly

as I can recollect it.

About sixty miles north of the city of New York, a range of lofty

highlands crosses the Hudson, nearly from west to east, which passes

under the name of the Fishkill mountains. The river has cut away this

mighty barrier for the space of two or three miles, but it rises on

either side and lifts its blue summits almost to the clouds. At the

foot of the eastern portion of this range is now the pretty village of

Fishkill, and scattered along the banks of the river are the luxurious

country-seats of the De Wints, Verplancks, and other old Dutch families.

But our story goes back for nearly a century, to a period when there

were only a few scattered settlements along the banks of this noble

river, and while yet the savage, the bear, and the panther were found

in the forest. At this time, a man, who bore the semblance of a

gentleman, purchased a large tract of land along the bank of the river,

and at the distance of two or three miles from the eastern branch of

the mountains we have described. Here he caused a large mansion to be

constructed in the Dutch fashion, and having laid out his grounds with

considerable care, he removed hither with his wife, and a large retinue

of servants. He bore the name of Hielder, and supported the style and

figure of a man of fortune.

After a few years he had a child, a daughter, which became the special

object of the care and attention of both parents. Hielder himself was a

somewhat stern and gloomy man, and he seemed to impress his character

upon everything around him. The mansion was deeply imbedded in the tall

trees, and the apartments, wainscotted with oak and feebly lighted,

had a peculiarly sombre aspect. The servants gradually assumed a dark

and mysterious look, and the lady herself, though very beautiful, was

always dressed in black, and was distinguished by a complexion of

almost deathlike paleness.

Several years passed, and the little girl, who was named Katrina, might

now be seen walking with her mother amid the long, straight, shady

avenues that were cut in the forest. Excepting the persons connected

with the establishment, few persons visited the spot; it was therefore

marked with peculiar loneliness, which seemed to increase the gloomy

and mysterious aspect of the place. The proprietor of the mansion had

no intercourse whatever with the people of the vicinity, and never,

except once a year, when he made a short visit to the city of New York,

did he leave his residence. He spent much of his time in reading, and

devoted several hours each day to the instruction of his child, who now

seemed to be the only object of his affections. It appeared indeed that

there was some deep-rooted bitterness at his heart, which he attempted

to alleviate by the education of his daughter.

The child was indeed worthy of all his care, yet she seemed the very

opposite of everything around her. She had light, flaxen hair, blue

eyes, snowy complexion, and an ever-laughing expression of countenance.

Seated in the gloomy library with her father, she seemed like a spot of

playful sunshine, lighting the recesses of a cavern.

It was remarkable, that although she was the favorite of all around,

and evidently the object of the deepest interest to her parents, the

father still seemed not to reflect from his own heart any portion of

the child’s cheerfulness and vivacity. Though she romped, frolicked,

laughed and toyed, a ray of pleasure, or even a passing smile never

lighted his countenance. Her spirit shone upon him, but it was like

light falling upon a black surface, which absorbed, but did not throw

back, its rays. A keen observer, indeed, would have said that the moody

father felt even a rebuke in the joyous gaiety of his child.

With the mother there was this difference, that though she was

generally sorrowful, the springs of happiness seemed not wholly

dried up. She felt a mother’s pride in the surpassing beauty of the

child, and was often cheered by the little creature’s hoyden mirth. In

the presence of the master, the servants were habitually silent and

gloomy. But if at any time they found the little girl apart, they not

unfrequently indulged in a game of romps.

Such was little Katrina, a playful, happy creature, in the midst of

shadows and gloom--the idol of all, and apparently the object in which

the affections of the parents, as well as the rest of the household

were centred. It was when she had reached the age of about six years,

that an incident occurred of the deepest interest. At the close of a

summer evening, a small sloop anchored in the river, near the house we

have described. A boat was let down, and a man, wrapped in a cloak, was

landed upon the beach. He proceeded to the mansion, and, inquiring for

the master, was conducted to the library. The room was vacant, but the

stranger sat down, and occupied himself in gazing around the apartment.

At length, the proprietor came, his countenance being marked with

something of anxiety. The stranger arose, laid aside his cloak, and

stood before his host. For a moment he did not speak; but, at last, he

said, “You pass, I understand, by the name of Hielder. I know your real

name, and I presume you know mine.”

“I know you not,” said Hielder, sternly.

“Then you shall know me,” said the stranger. “My name is Hieldover, the

victim of your perfidy, and I am here to avenge my wrongs.”

“This is a pretty tale,” said Hielder; “and you bear yourself bravely.

Perhaps you are one of Robert Kidd’s men, and have come here in search

of gold; but you have mistaken your errand. I have but to ring the

bell, and my servants will execute my will upon you.”

“This bullying will not answer your purpose,” said Hieldover; “nothing

shall turn me from my purpose, which is to extort from you the fortune

that you have obtained by the basest perfidy and fraud. You pretend

not to know me; I will refresh your memory. Fifteen years since you

were made my guardian at Amsterdam, by my father’s will. You possessed

yourself, by forgery, of my ample fortune. You departed from the

country in secrecy, and I was left a beggar. I have since been a

wanderer over the earth, and have known toil, and suffering, and

sorrow, while you have been revelling in the wealth which was mine. I

have traced you through the four quarters of the globe, and had sworn

in my heart to follow upon your track like the bloodhound, till I could

find you and bring you to justice.”

During this speech, the pale countenance of Hielder was frequently

flushed with anger. At last, he said, sneeringly, “You have spoken

freely--have you done? If so, I will show you the door.” Hieldover

seemed to be on the point of giving vent to his rage; but he checked

himself, and said, “You deny my claim, then? You refuse to do me

justice?”

“I have no answer to make,” said Hielder, “to an idle braggart.”

“Beware, then, of my vengeance,” said the other, clenching his fist,

and looking defiance in the eye of Hielder. He then took his leave.

This scene passed without the knowledge of any individual, except the

parties concerned. Yet for several days the master of the house seemed

even more gloomy than usual. He spoke little to any one, and remained

almost wholly in the seclusion of his library. After a month, however,

had passed away, he seemed to be restored to his former condition, and

resumed his wonted occupations. He seemed more than ever devoted to his

child, although he maintained his accustomed sternness. For a time he

would hardly allow the child to be out of his presence, but at length

the mother was permitted to resume her walks, attended by her daughter.

One day, she went out in the morning, but did not return at the usual

hour. Some anxiety was excited, and the servants were sent forth in

search of their mistress and the child. They returned without being

able to find her. All was now alarm. Hielder himself went forth, and

the people were directed to scour the woods in every direction. They

soon brought tidings to their master that the lady was found, but the

child was missing. When discovered, she was insensible; but when she

came to herself, she stated that while she was walking in the woods,

a stranger suddenly sprung upon the child, and bore it away. He fled

toward the mountains, and she pursued till she swooned and fell to the

ground. Here she remained, in a state of insensibility, till she was

taken up by the people who were in search of her.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

CURRAN AND THE MILLER’S DOG.--“Curran,” says Barrington, in his

memoirs, “once related, with infinite humor, an adventure between him

and a mastiff, when he was a boy. He had heard somebody say, that any

person, throwing the skirts of his coat over his head, stooping low,

holding out his arms, and creeping along backwards, might frighten the

fiercest dog, and put him to flight. He accordingly made the attempt

on a miller’s animal in the neighborhood, who _would never let the

boys rob the orchard_; but he found to his sorrow, that he had a dog

to deal with, who did not care which end of a boy went first, so that

he could get a good bite of it.

“‘I pursued the instructions,’ said Curran; ‘and as I had no eyes

save those in front, I fancied the mastiff was in full retreat, but

I was painfully mistaken; for, at the very moment I fancied myself

victorious, the enemy attacked my rear, and, having got a reasonably

good mouthful of it, was fully prepared to take another, before I was

rescued.’”

* * * * *

NATURAL CURIOSITY.--In Scotland, at the entrance of the river Leven,

is a lofty rock, occupied as a castle. On the surface of this, there

is a huge figure, formed by nature, which makes an excellent profile

of the celebrated Duke of Wellington. It is an object that always

attracts the attention of the passengers of the steamboats, as they

are passing the castle.

* * * * *

“Be content with what you have,” as the rat said to the trap, when he

left his tail in it.

[Illustration: Inundation of the Nile.]

The River Nile.

The whole northeastern part of Africa consists of a mighty expanse

of desert sand, extending for upwards of a thousand miles in each

direction. The chains of wild and rocky mountains by which it is

traversed, give only a more rugged and dreary character to this immense

waste. One vast feature alone breaks this terrible monotony. From the

high chains of Abyssinia, and from the still loftier mountains of the

moon, that traverse Central Africa, descend numerous and ample streams,

which, long before entering Egypt, unite in forming the Nile, a river

of the first magnitude.

Although the Nile in its whole progress through this desert does

not receive the accession of a single rivulet, it brings so vast an

original store as enables it to reach and pour a mighty stream into

the Mediterranean. For many hundred miles in the upper part of its

course, confined between high and rocky banks, it is merely bordered by

a brilliant belt of fertility, the sandy waste stretching indefinitely

on both sides; this is Nubia.

After traversing the barrier of the cataracts, it passes through a

broader valley between mountains of some height, and on its banks are

many shaded or inundated tracts, which yield products of considerable

value; this is Upper Egypt. Emerging from these mountains, the Nile

enters a flat and extensive plain, where it separates, and by two great

and divided streams, with various intersecting branches, enters the

Mediterranean; this is Lower Egypt.

In the last part of its course, the Nile is nearly on a level with

the district which it intersects, and when swelled by the autumnal

rains of Central Africa, overflows it entirely. The waters begin to

rise about the 18th or 19th of June, attain their greatest height in

September, and subside as gradually as they rise, and within about

an equal space of time. The land thus covered with the fertilizing

alluvial deposit, collected during so long a course, becomes the most

productive, perhaps, on the face of the globe; and notwithstanding its

limited extent, and the mighty wastes on which it borders, has always

maintained a numerous population.

Thus it appears that the fertility of Egypt is solely dependent on the

Nile, and that, but for this, it would be, like the rest of Africa in

this quarter, a sandy and desolate waste.

The Old Man in the Corner.

THE PHILOSOPHER REBUKED.

There was once a learned man, or philosopher, who was fond of prying

into the works of nature, and every other source of knowledge. At last

he became vain of his great stores of information, and was somewhat

rash in forming his opinions.

One evening, as this philosopher was conversing with a friend, the

discourse turned upon the Bible, and the former declared that he did

not believe in it. A somewhat warm dispute ensued, in the course of

which the philosopher said that he rejected the Bible, because it

contained many doctrines which he could not comprehend; “and _I make

it a rule_,” said he emphatically, “_never to believe anything which I

cannot understand_.”

It happened that there was a little girl in the room, the daughter

of the philosopher. She was about eight years old, and though of a

lively and playful turn, she was remarkably intelligent and observing.

While the father and his friend were engaged in conversation, she was

occupied with her toys upon the floor, and seemed absorbed in her

sports. Yet she listened to the discourse, and though she did not

understand it all, yet she caught the remark of her father which we

have noticed above, and treasured it up in her heart. She also noticed

the inferences which her father drew from the proposition to which we

have alluded.

Without paying the least attention to the little girl, the gentlemen

pursued their conversation, and the philosopher declared, that, as he

could not understand how the death of Christ could contribute to the

salvation of the sinner, he rejected the doctrine of the atonement, as

unworthy of belief.

“It appears to me,” said his friend, “that if you reject everything

which you cannot wholly conceive or comprehend, you must not only

reject the Bible, but adopt the views of the atheist, and deny the

existence of a God.” The philosopher admitted the force of this

observation, and declared, that, as he had no sensible, or visible,

proof of the existence of the Deity, he disbelieved the existence of

such a Being.

Thus far the watchful ear and quick sense of the child caught and

comprehended the conversation, and as her mother had given her a

religious education, she was not a little startled and surprised at the

opinions which her father had uttered.

She said nothing about it, however, at the time, and two or three

weeks passed before she gave any indications of having noticed the

conversation. She was one day walking with her father, when they

chanced to discover a single violet--the first they had seen, for it

was the beginning of spring. She stooped down to pick it, but paused a

moment, and looking her father in the face, inquired, “What makes this

little flower grow, father?”

“The heat and moisture and the principle of vegetable life,” was the

reply.

“But how does it grow?” said she. “Can heat and water and seeds make a

flower?”

“It is the course of nature, my child,” said the philosopher.

“But I want to know,” said she, “what this course of nature is? I want

to know how it operates? Is nature alive? Has it power to make flowers?

and by what means does it work?”

“I cannot tell you, child,” was the answer. “We do not understand these

things,--we only know the fact that such things are.”

“Well, don’t you believe that the flower grows, father?” said the child.

“Certainly,” was the reply. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I heard you tell Mr. B., the other day, that you never

believed anything you could not understand.”

The philosopher here turned the conversation, and they walked on.

A few days after this the child was taken sick of a fever. As she lay

upon her bed, she could distinctly feel the beatings of her heart,

which shook her whole frame. Her father was by the bedside. Though

suffering from disease, the mind of the little girl was perfectly

clear.

“What makes the heart beat?” said she to her father.

“It is the principle of life,” said he.

“And what is this principle of life?” said the child.

“I cannot explain it to you,” said the philosopher; “we do not

comprehend it; we only know that there is such a thing, and that by its

impulse the heart beats and the blood circulates.”

“Put your hand on my breast,” said the child. The father did as

requested.

“Does not my heart beat, father?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“And yet you cannot comprehend how this is. You said we must believe

nothing which we cannot explain. Yet I know that my heart beats, though

you cannot tell me how, or why. Dear father, may I not believe in a

God, though I cannot comprehend his nature or existence; and may I not

believe in the Bible, and its wonderful doctrines, even though they may

be beyond my feeble reason?”

The philosopher stood rebuked, but again he turned the conversation.

The fever which had attacked the little girl proceeded in its rapid

course, and in a few days she drew near her end. As her spirit was

about to depart, she called, in a faint whisper, for her father. He

placed his ear near to her lips, and caught her last words; “Father,

may I not believe that Christ died for sinners? may I not believe,

though I cannot fully comprehend, the doctrine of the atonement?”

The philosopher wept, and answered, “Believe, my child; you have

conquered my unbelief!”

[Illustration: leopards]

The Hunting Leopard.

This handsome animal of the Cat family,--sometimes called the _Ounce_,

and also the _Chetah_,--is of the size of a large dog, and has a very

long tail. It is of a pale yellow above and white beneath,--the body

being marked with irregular black spots. It is of a slender make, and

its agility is surprising. It is less ferocious than the tiger, panther

and true leopard; and having blunted claws, like a dog, is used, in the

southern parts of Asia, for hunting the antelope and other game. It

is a native, also, of Africa, but it has never been trained for this

purpose.

The chetah is chiefly used in hunting by the nobles of India. The

mode of proceeding is thus described. The animals are carried to the

field in low chariots, being tied and hooded. This is done in order

to deprive them of the power and temptation to anticipate the word of

command by leaping forth before the appointed time. When they are thus

brought within view of a herd of antelopes, which generally consists of

five or six females and a male, they are unchained, and their hoods are

removed, their keeper directing their attention to the prey, which, as

they do not hunt by smell, it is necessary that they should constantly

have in sight.

When this is done, the wily animal does not at once start forward

towards the object of his pursuit, but, seemingly aware that he would

have no chance of overtaking an antelope in the fleetness of the race,

in which the latter is beyond measure his superior, winds cautiously

along the ground, concealing himself as much as possible from sight,

and, when he has in this covert manner nearly reached the unsuspecting

herd, breaks forth upon them unawares, and, after five or six

tremendous bounds, which he executes with almost incredible velocity,

darts at once upon his terrified victim, strangles him in an instant,

and takes his fill of blood.

In the mean while the keeper quietly approaches the scene of slaughter,

caresses the successful animal, and throws to him pieces of meat to

amuse him and keep him quiet while he blinds him with the hood, and

replaces him upon the chariot, to which he is again attached by the

chain. But if, as is not unfrequently the case, the herd should have

taken the alarm, and the chetah should prove unsuccessful in his

attack, he never attempts to pursue them, but returns to his master

with a mortified and dejected air, to be again let slip at a fresh

quarry whenever a fit opportunity occurs.

Conjugal Affection.

CHAPTER II.

[Concluded.]

Victoria immediately saw the propriety of the latter suggestion, and on

the following day she disguised herself as a Moorish fruit-seller; and

with a basket of vegetables on her head, and her little daughter by her

side disguised in the same manner, she got admittance to the outward

wards of the castle; and while disposing of her fruit to the governor

and his dependants, got into conversation with the soldiery, from whom,

however, she could obtain none of the information she wanted.

Her whole time was now occupied by day in visiting the prison in the

disguise she had assumed; and at night in keeping up the correspondence

of so much importance. By this means, at the suggestion of Albert,

she supplied him, not only with writing materials, but with a file, a

chisel, and a hammer; and had got even a rope in readiness, should it

be required for future operation.

Albert had in the first instance thought of breaking through the walls

of his dungeon; but alas! they were eighteen feet thick, and no effort

that he could make upon them with the slight tools he possessed, was

sufficient to separate them. He had, with great caution, taken out two

or three stones in the wall of his dungeon, but the interior stones

were so firmly wedged, that they defied him. The labor of his task was

enormous; and this was increased from the necessity of replacing every

stone in its respective niche, so as to escape the vigilant eye of the

keepers. So, at last, poor Albert began to despair.

Victoria, however, whose inventions were more fertile than those of her

husband, still comforted him. She told him that she would never desist

in her exertions while he remained a prisoner, and bade him have hope

and trust. He, however, had little reason to hope, for he was told by

one of his guards, that on the next day, he was to be examined for the

fourth time.

And examined he was. Torn from his dungeon at midnight, he was again

brought before the Inquisition. The examiners sat before him, in a room

hung with black. Behind the chair of the chief commissioner, who wore a

square cap, shone, in all the brilliance of pure white silver, an image

of the crucified Redeemer; and beneath it, a skull and cross bones.

The marquis was bound, and without being asked a single question, was

placed at once upon a rack in the corner of the room. A physician stood

by his side to watch his agonies, and to stop the torture when beyond

human endurance; and the secretary of the fraternity sat ready to

record the answers to the questions put to the unhappy man.

Thus tortured to confess crimes which he never committed, the marquis

had every bone dislocated; and when nature gave up the contest, and he

sunk into stupor, he was removed back to his dungeon. For some days,

he remained in the most helpless condition, without being able to move

a limb, except in exquisite torture. Yet, after a time, his system

recovered its wonted strength, and Albert was again inspired with hope.

Victoria Colonna had pursued the same course of communication

previously adopted for several successive days, and receiving no

answer to her signs, was at last on the brink of despair. She believed

that the wickedness of man had done its worst, and that her husband

had escaped by death from the power of the tormentor. Day after day,

she watched with anxious longing for some sign of his still being an

inhabitant of the earth; but no sign was given to her, and she was

on the point of giving up all further exertions, when on one of her

nightly walks and watchings round the captive’s tower, her ear was

delighted with the well-known clatter of a piece of tile. She ran

to the spot, and once more recognized the well-known handwriting of

Albert--“I still live for Victoria,” was the only sentence inscribed by

the unhappy prisoner.

The faithful wife now lost not a moment in devising some other plan

for her husband’s escape. She pondered all the next day, and part of

the next night. As soon as it was dark, she again raised her kite by

the side of the tower, placed a note under its wing, in which she

bade her husband be of good cheer, promising all her assistance, and

suggesting his making a breach in the wall with the implements already

afforded him. To this, on the following night, Albert replied, stating

the utter impracticability of the plan, by reason of the thickness of

the wall; but urging her to procure a sufficient quantity of gunpowder,

by which the masses of stone might be separated and a breach made.

Victoria seized the hint, and with the rapidity of thought, made her

arrangements. By means of the kite, the following night, a stouter

line was raised to the aperture, and from this, one still stronger;

and by means of the last, the prisoner drew up several other cutting

implements--a boring auger, and several parcels of gunpowder. Lastly,

a still larger cord was drawn up; and it was then arranged that on the

following night, the attempt should be made to blast the massive walls

of the tower.

The next day, Victoria was busily employed in arranging the means of

escape. She had procured the dress of a friar, both for herself and

husband, and wore one over the other; and at midnight, she again took

her station below the tower. Again she established the communication

between herself and husband; and having raised to himself several other

packets of gunpowder, lastly had fastened to the cord the lighted

match. But at the very moment of success, she found a strong arm

grasping her, and two ruffian soldiers, with unsheathed weapons, close

at her breast. She screamed fearfully. The words--“bind her,” startled

her still more, for it was the voice of Montalbert, the wretch who had

caused the imprisonment of her husband.

“Drag her away,” said the count.

Victoria clung to the projecting walls of the castle, having fixed her

fingers within a clamping-iron, and hung to it with the tenacity of one

who clings to life; while her screams and lamentations filled the air.

Albert heard it, and judged of the cause. He applied the match to the

mine he had pierced through the stones of the tower. With a tremendous

crack and explosion, the ancient walls opened, shook, collapsed, and

fell. The tower was shattered to its foundation; and prisoner and

dungeon, turret and battlement, fell down in one prodigious ruin, and

with an uproar that shook the city.

Montalbert lay dead among the ruins. The faithful Victoria was

miraculously saved, and Albert rose from the fallen stones uninjured.

He clasped his beloved wife to his heart, and without losing a moment’s

time, both escaped in the confusion and consternation that followed.

They soon proceeded far from Italy, to a land where imprisonment for

conscience sake is unknown, where spiritual domination cannot usurp

nature’s rights; and where the children of God can walk in security

and peace; and that land was England. Here they lived the remainder of

their days in all the enjoyment which this country of true liberty

always affords to the fugitive and stranger.

* * * * *

A POINTED BLOW.--An invalid sent for a physician, the late Dr.

Wheelman, and after detaining him for some time with a description of

his pains, aches, &c., he thus summed up with--

“Now, Doctor, you have humbugged me long enough with your good-for-nothing

pills and worthless syrups; they don’t touch the real difficulty.

I wish you to strike the cause of my ailment, if it is in your power

to reach it.”

“It shall be done,” said the Doctor, at the same time lifting his cane,

and demolishing a decanter of _gin_ that stood upon the sideboard!

* * * * *

INHABITANTS OF AN OYSTER.--Observations with the microscope have shown

that the shell of an oyster is a world occupied by an innumerable

quantity of small animals, compared to which the oyster itself is a

colossus. The liquid enclosed between the shells of the oyster,

contains a multitude of embryos, covered with transparent scales,

which swim with ease; a hundred and twenty of these embryos, placed

side by side, would not make an inch in breadth.

This liquor contains besides, a great variety of animalculæ, five

hundred times less in size, which give out a phosphoric light. Yet

these are not the only inhabitants of this dwelling; there are, also,

three distinct species of worms.

* * * * *

“I am transported to see you,” as the convict at New Holland said to

the kangaroo.

[Illustration: _St. Peter’s Church._]

Church of St. Peter’s at Rome.

This sublime edifice is by far the most costly and stupendous religious

building in the world. It was begun by one of the popes of Rome, Julius

II., in 1506. His object was, to have a church that might become the

seat and centre of the great Catholic Church throughout the world. The

first architect employed was Lazzari, but he died soon after, and the

task devolved upon the famous Michael Angelo. It required, indeed,

a man of great genius to design and carry forward so stupendous a

work. The building was one hundred and fifteen years in progress, and

extended through the reigns of no less than eighteen popes. The cost

of it was amazing, being equal to one hundred and sixty millions of

dollars at the present day. A period of one hundred and fifty years or

more was required to complete the colonnade and other ornaments after

the body of the structure was finished. Great numbers of people are

now constantly at work to keep the enormous mass in repair. The annual

expense of this is estimated at thirty thousand dollars.

The clear length of the church within is 615 feet, its utmost breadth

448, its height 464 feet. The greater part of it is of stone, though

some portion is of marble. The foundations are immense, and it is said

that they contain a greater mass of stone than the building above

the ground. In front of the church, and within the colonnade, is a

beautiful obelisk, brought from Egypt almost two thousand years ago. On

each side of this is a fountain, the waters of which rise to the height

of seventy feet and fall in three cascades; the whole forming a cone of

falling waters. They continue to fall day and night, and nothing can be

more beautiful than the effect produced. They are supplied by ancient

Roman aqueducts, from lake Braccano, which is seventeen miles distant.

Every thing is vast in and about this wonderful edifice. The interior

is very grand, and strikes the beholder with awe. The figures of the

four Evangelists, which adorn the inside of the cupola, are of such

enormous size, that the pen in the hand of St. Mark is six feet long.

The interior is enriched with a great number of figures of saints and

other works of art. In the centre of the church, where the light pours

down from the dome, is the tomb of St. Peter, before which one hundred

lamps are kept constantly burning.

Some idea of the vastness of this structure may be formed from the fact

that great numbers of persons live upon the roof, in buildings which

are not seen from below, yet appear almost like the streets of a city!

[Illustration: _A Gypsy telling fortunes._]

Fortune-Telling.

The desire of looking into futurity--of knowing what is going to

happen--appears to be universal in mankind. To a certain extent, we may

gratify this feeling, but it is to be done by the exercise of a sound

judgment. We may thus generally tell what is coming to pass, in respect

to most important transactions of life, so far as is necessary for us.

But many people desire to go farther; to unseal the book of fate, and

read what is hidden from mortal sight. Young ladies often desire to

know who they shall have for husbands: whether they shall be rich or

poor; happy or miserable. And instead of leaving these things to time,

and the dispensation of Providence, they must often go to some cheat

who pretends to tell fortunes. Thus they lose their time and their

money, and allow themselves to play the part of folly.

Nor are young ladies the only persons who sometimes yield to such

idle nonsense. Young men often do the same--and also old men and old

women. It is, I believe, a common notion, that certain strange, odd,

eccentric, mysterious persons have the power of reading the future and

telling what is coming to pass. So common is this shallow superstition,

that fortune-tellers, though they require a good deal of money, to read

their riddles, often find pretty good encouragement.

These jugglers generally pretend to tell the fortunes of persons by

the stars, or by looking at the lines in the palm of the hand, or by

the cast of the countenance, or by all these means combined. They

frequently consult books with strange figures in them; and sometimes

they seem to make profound calculations. But all these are mere arts to

impose upon their dupes. The simple fact is, that fortune-telling is,

always and under all circumstances, a cheat. One person can see into

the future as well as another, as to all that lies beyond the sagacity

of mere human judgment. A person who believes, therefore, that any one

has the art or gift of fortune-telling, is the victim of superstition,

and the dupe of artifice.

In England, Spain and Germany there are a few wandering people called

Gypsies. They are of a dark skin, almost like our Indians: they have

black hair, black eyes, and altogether a dark and wild aspect. They

speak a strange tongue, have strange habits, and are a very peculiar

people.

The women of this race very often pretend to be fortune-tellers. They

have great address in making their dupes believe in their mysterious

power. They frequently gain some information as to the history of a

person; then, presenting themselves before him, offer to tell his

fortune. Affecting to know nothing of him--never to have seen him

before--they proceed to weave the web of fate; taking care to mingle in

some real incidents of his life. The person thus is amazed to find the

strange Gypsy, who has never seen him before, telling accurately the

leading circumstances of his history; and as she seems to read the past

by her mysterious art--he thinks, by the same power, she can of course

unravel the future!

* * * * *

TRAVELLING in the north-west of America is effected by dog-trains.

Three dogs will draw a man and his provisions. The traders travel all

over the wilderness with them over unbeaten snow, generally following

the course of rivers. The dogs are easily trained to turn, halt, or

go, by the word of command. When the traveller wishes his dogs to turn

to the left, he says “chuck,” and cracks his little whip on the right

side of the train; if to the right, he says “gee,” and cracks it on

the left side. When he wishes them to start or quicken their gait, he

says “march,” or “_avancez_;” when he wishes to turn short about, he

says “_venez ici_,” making a motion with the little whip at the same

time.

* * * * *

Ne’er till to-morrow’s light delay

What may as well be done to-day.

* * * * *

Ne’er do the thing you’d wish undone

Viewed by to-morrow’s midday sun.

The Life of Martin Luther.

(Continued.)

When Luther was fully informed of the operations of Tetzel and his

associates, he drew up certain themes or propositions, setting

forth his own views of the powers of the church, and denouncing the

avarice, impudence and licentiousness of the priests who went about

selling indulgences and extorting money, under the pretence of making

collections for the church.

Though there was nothing in these themes, but what many Catholics had

maintained, they assailed in some points, especially the favorite

doctrine of infallibility, the accepted creed of that day. He, however,

boldly published them, challenged reply, and defended them in his own

pulpit. Multitudes gathered to hear him, and his opinions were rapidly

spread over Europe.

Tetzel and his associates were greatly enraged; they formally burnt

Luther’s theses, and then proceeded to answer them, chiefly by assuming

the supreme authority and infallibility of the pope. This injured their

cause, and their reply to Luther was publicly burnt by the students

of Wittemberg. Such was the beginning of the storm which shook Europe

to its foundation, and finally stripped the pope of his spiritual

supremacy. Yet, when Leo heard of the dispute at Wittemberg, he only

said, “It is a quarrel between monks;--but brother Luther seems to be a

man of parts!”

Luther’s fame was rapidly extended, but as yet he had no idea of

separating from the Church of Rome. In 1518, he wrote a submissive

letter to the pope, in which he says, “I throw myself prostrate at

your feet, most holy father: call or recall me, condemn or approve, as

you please: I shall acknowledge your voice as the voice of Christ, who

presides and speaks in your person.”

But the pope, who had once thought so lightly of Luther’s influence,

was ere long seriously alarmed, and at last summoned him to appear

at Rome, to be examined, within sixty days. The danger to Luther in

doing this was obvious, and his friend the Elector of Saxony obtained

permission to have his examination take place at Augsburg. Here

Cardinal Cajetan, or Caietano, was commanded to examine him. Thither

Luther went, accompanied by his friend Staupnitz. The cardinal required

a recantation of what he had written; but this Luther refused. Warned

of danger that threatened him, he left Augsburg, and returned to

Wittemberg. The pope now issued a bull, declaring that he, as Christ’s

vicar on earth, had power to deliver from all punishment due for sin,

to those who repented and were in a state of grace, whether alive or

dead. Luther now appealed from the pope to a general council of the

church.

Pope Leo now commissioned a prelate, named Milnitz, to endeavor to

bring Luther to a recantation. This dignitary was a man of talent

and skill, and in an interview with Luther, he greatly conciliated

the feelings of the latter. Milnitz condemned the abuse of the sale

of indulgences, threw the blame upon Tetzel and his associates, and

finally induced Luther to write another submissive letter to the pope,

acknowledging that he had carried his zeal too far, and promising to

observe silence upon the matter in debate, if his adversaries would

adhere to the same line of conduct. This letter has subjected Luther

to great scandal, as a retraction of his principles; but it must be

regarded only as evidence of the profound reverence with which he

regarded the institution of the Church of Rome, in whose faith he had

been educated, and the difficulty with which his mind burst asunder the

fetters which it had thrown around him. The pope himself at this period

wrote a kind letter to Luther, and it is probable that the breach might

have been healed, had not Luther’s enemies again opened the controversy.

Eckius of Ingoldstadt challenged Carolstadt, one of Luther’s disciples,

to an open discussion at Leipsic. Luther went thither himself, agreeing

to take no part in the disputation. The debate attracted the great

and the learned, from a vast distance. Among the listeners was the

celebrated Melancthon, who was determined by what he here heard to

devote himself to the cause of reform.

Eckius was a man of brilliant eloquence, and seemed to have the

advantage of his antagonist, after a dispute of six days. It was then

agreed, by Eckius’ desire, that Luther himself should enter the lists.

The debate was continued for several days, and different accounts were

given of the result; but Hoffmann, the rector of the University of

Leipsic, who had been appointed judge of the disputation, considering

it to be so equally balanced, that he refused to pronounce a decision.

Luther went on to write several works, mostly questioning the lofty

assumptions of the Church of Rome. He exposed the fatuity of penance,

and pilgrimages; the impiety of worshipping saints; and the abuses of

the confessional; he condemned the celibacy of priests, and denounced

monastic vows. Leo now assembled a congregation of cardinals, before

whom Luther’s works were laid for adjudication. By their advice, a

bull was drawn up, in which forty-one propositions, taken from his

books, were denounced as heretical; his writings were condemned to be

publicly burnt, and he himself was summoned to appear at Rome, and

retract his writings on pain of excommunication. Luther again appealed

to a general council of the church; and publicly separated himself from

the communion of the Church of Rome, by burning the pope’s bull on a

pile of wood, without the walls of Wittemberg, in presence of a vast

multitude of people. This occurred, December 10th, 1520. Soon after,

the pope thundered against him his bull of excommunication.

The situation of the great Reformer was now one to put his moral

courage to the severest test. Staupnitz, his early friend, had

deserted him, and made peace with the church; Luther had written to

Erasmus, of Rotterdam, who had written in behalf of reformation in

the church, but that timid and irresolute scholar made him no answer.

Even Spalatinus, once his ardent friend, was now seized with fear.

Eckius, who had also been his friend, was, as we have seen, in open

opposition to him. At the same time, society was violently torn with

the questions which Luther had started. While some declared in his

favor, the majority, including a vast preponderance of the rich and

powerful, continued, even in Germany, to oppose him. By the rigid

Catholics he was looked upon with horror. No terms too harsh could be

found to heap upon his name; no scandal so vile could be invented, that

it did not find believers; he was withal denounced by the papal bull

of excommunication, that formidable and fearful curse, which few minds

in that age had the iron hardihood to withstand. He was accused in the

view of millions, who would have deemed it a service worthy of heaven

to have taken the life of one regarded as a disciple of the Devil. The

“arch-fiend” was a common title, bestowed upon him by his enemies. Yet,

amid these perils, Luther stood as undaunted as the oak before the

tempest; and though the lightning fell and the thunder burst upon and

around him, he met it all unscathed.

Luther had, indeed, one powerful and steadfast friend,--Frederick the

Elector of Saxony. The pope had endeavored to persuade him to give up

the dreaded and hated priest, but in vain. He now sought to accomplish

his object by other means. Maximilian, the Emperor of Germany, was

dead, and Charles V., King of Spain, in 1518, had been elected in his

place. Leo applied to him to make an example of Luther, as an obdurate

heretic. Frederick interposed, and persuaded Charles to cause him to be

tried by a diet of the empire at Worms. Having obtained the emperor’s

safe-conduct, Luther set forward upon his journey to that place, for

his trial.

His friends trembled for the issue; every heart seemed burthened save

his own. Melancthon, now his intimate friend, attended him. Luther,

in the pulpit, seemed to breathe only of religion: in society, he was

frank, cheerful, and engaging. He cultivated every innocent thing that

could make life more agreeable. He went on his way to Worms, which many

expected would prove his grave, with perfect equanimity, saying, “If it

is God’s will that I die, I am prepared; yet I believe that my time has

not yet come.”

He arrived at Worms on the 16th of April, 1521. On entering the town,

he began singing the hymn--“Our God is a strong citadel”--and this

became the inspiring song of the Reformation. Numbers of Luther’s

friends, who were with him, alarmed as they approached the city of

Worms, deserted him; but his cheerfulness continued unchanged.

Worms was at that moment the point to which the eyes of all Europe

were turned. Thither multitudes had gathered, impelled by an intense

desire to see the result of the trial. The questions at issue had

evidently entered deeply into the hearts of men; and now the person who

had caused this mighty movement was there. And what was he? A simple

monk,--a man without station, office, rank or badge; but truth and

courage had given him a power which made potentates tremble. They were

as the Philistines, and he as Samson, with his arms around the pillars

of the temple. With what a feeling of interest did the concourse of

people look on Martin Luther that day!

He was conducted, the day after his arrival, to the diet, by the

marshal of the empire. There were the cardinals and princes in their

badges of office and insignia of rank. It was an august assembly,

in which Charles V., Emperor of Germany and King of Spain, presided.

Luther came in, wearing a simple black gown, with a belt around

his waist. He moved with a modest but tranquil step. Melancthon,

Spalatinus and other friends were at his side. Luther was now asked

if he acknowledged himself to be the author of certain books bearing

his name. When they were enumerated, he said he would not deny them.

“Are you ready to retract what has been condemned in these books?”

was now asked. He requested time for reply;--a day was given him. The

enemies of Luther now triumphed, and his friends feared for him. It was

apprehended that he would shrink from the fearful ordeal. When he went

to the diet, he was cheered by thousands of voices; as he returned, the

enthusiasm had passed away.

The next day, Luther again appeared before the diet, and being asked

if he meant to retract his writings, he replied mildly, yet firmly, in

Latin, that he did not. He besought the assembly to hear with candor

and judge him with fairness. He appealed to the youthful emperor, and

mildly warned him against rash judgments.

When one of the assembly demanded of him a direct answer to the

question whether he would recant or not--he replied that he would

retract nothing, unless it could be shown to be inconsistent with the

Bible. To the Scriptures he appealed, as the word of God, and when that

sustained him, he would yield nothing. “To act against my conscience,”

said he, “is neither safe nor honest. Here I stand--I cannot do

otherwise--may God help me. Amen!” The latter words were pronounced in

his native German, with a deep and affecting emphasis.

Although the assembly, as Catholics, disapproved of Luther’s views,

his noble bearing excited their respect and wonder. The Archbishop of

Treves, touched with the sublimity of his conduct, paid him a visit,

and sought to win him back to the church. This was, of course, in vain.

Luther’s friends were now filled with enthusiastic admiration, and his

enemies could not withhold their respect. The decision of the diet was

of course against him, and the emperor ordered him forthwith to leave

Worms. He left it on the 26th of April.

An edict was now issued by the emperor, to go into effect as soon as

his safe-conduct to Luther should expire. In this, he was denounced

as the “Devil in the shape of a man and the dress of a monk. All the

subjects of the empire,” continued the bull, “are required to seize

upon him, and deliver him up to justice.” It may well be believed

that dismay now seized upon the friends of Luther. What was their

horror, soon after, to hear that as he was travelling with a single

attendant towards his house, he was beset in the forests of Thuringia,

dragged from his carriage by several men in masks, and hurried away.

His companion had escaped to tell the tale. Consternation reigned

throughout Germany, and in the town of Wittemberg, sorrow and wailing

was in almost every dwelling.

But it was not long before a new work from Luther’s pen was announced,

and it was of a date subsequent to his alleged murder. Melancthon also

received a letter from him--“Give yourself no uneasiness for me,”

said he; “both you and your wife may rest assured of my welfare. I am

not only supplied with all the necessaries of life, but if I chose I

could command the luxuries; but I trust God will preserve me from such

snares. I wish not to receive the reward of my labors in this world,

but in the world to come.”

The explanation of the mystery was this. The elector, foreseeing that,

in consequence of the emperor’s proclamation, Luther’s life would be

in danger, had caused him to be waylaid and carried in safety to the

old castle of Wartburg, near Eisenach; while a story of his murder was

propagated by his fugitive attendant. Luther, being supplied with every

convenience, devoted himself to study, yet was required by the elector

by no means to permit his retreat to be known. He was situated in an

old castle, built upon a lofty eminence which commanded a delightful

prospect. Freed from care and anxiety, his mind seemed to soar aloft

like the birds around his dwelling. His letters written at this period

are full of poetic fancy, and show that his mind sympathized with the

lovely scenes around him.

His confinement lasted for ten months. During this brief period, he

translated the New Testament into German, besides writing treatises

against auricular confession, monastic vows, clerical celibacy, prayers

for the dead, &c. His works spread with amazing rapidity, and produced

a wonderful effect, particularly in Saxony. Hundreds of monks quitted

their convents and married; the Austin friars of Wittemberg abolished

mass. The excitement soon ran into excess, and Carolstadt, a disciple

of Luther, demolished the images in a church at Wittemberg, and

proposed to banish all books from the university, except the Bible. He

even affected to obey to the letter the sentence pronounced on Adam,

and went to work a portion of each day in the fields. The mild and

polished Melancthon caught the infection, and labored in a baker’s shop.

Luther in his retirement heard of these follies, which were calculated

to ruin his cause, and at the risk of his life immediately departed for

Wittemberg. He now preached openly his doctrines, with amazing power

and effect. He succeeded in quelling the violence of his fanatical

followers. These sermons are patterns of moderation, wisdom and popular

eloquence; they show a marked contrast to the violence and scurrility

which soil his writings directed against the malignity and duplicity

with which he had chiefly to contend.

Luther was now the acknowledged head of the reformation. He continued

by preaching and writing to aid the great cause of Protestantism. His

productions were stained with coarse invective; but this was the taste

of the age, and belongs equally to his opponents. In 1524, he threw

off his monastic dress, and condemned monastic institutions. Convents

both of men and women were now rapidly suppressed, and the reformation

in some cases ran into fanaticism. A sect called Anabaptists ran into

the wildest extremes at Munster. They made war upon property and law,

and in their madness practised the grossest vices and crimes under the

sanction of religion. Luther was sorely grieved at these things, and

did all in his power to correct them, though not with complete success.

In 1525, he married Catherine de Bora, a young nun, who had left her

convent a year before, and resided with Melancthon. He was happy in

this marriage, and though at the age of forty-two, seems to have

entered into it almost with the affections of youth. In 1534, he

completed his great work, the German version of the Bible, which is

much admired for its elegance, force and precision, and has rendered

the Scriptures really popular in Germany.

The remaining years of his life were passed in comparative quiet. In

1546, being at Eisleben, he fell sick on the 17th of February, and

seemed at once to be aware of his approaching end. He grew worse in

the evening, and died in the midst of his friends, expressing a firm

conviction of the truth of that faith, which he had taught. His body

was carried to Wittemberg, and buried with great honors.

Luther’s works are voluminous, and great favorites in Germany. In

company, he was always lively, and abounded in sallies of wit and

good humor; he gave advice and assistance wherever it was needed; he

interested himself for every indigent person who applied to him, and

devoted himself with his whole soul to the pleasures of society. Rough

and stormy as are his controversial writings, he was no stranger to

the elegant arts. His soul was filled with music, and he often solaced

himself by singing and playing upon the flute and lute.

Nor is Luther to be regarded only in the light of a religious

reformer. He not only burst the bonds of religious tyranny throughout

Christendom, but he created in Germany that impulse towards spiritual

philosophy, that thirst for knowledge, that logical exercise of the

mind, which have made the Germans the most intellectual people in

Europe. He was the friend of education, of mental freedom, of religious

light, of civil liberty. He rescued the Bible from the exclusive grasp

of the Church of Rome; by a gigantic effort he translated it into his

native tongue; he not only made it acceptable to forty millions who

spoke his native language, but he made it the common property of the

people of all Europe. He was no courtly flatterer--but the friend

of the poor and the humble; he was as ready to condemn cupidity and

extravagance among his followers, as among those who adhered to the

Church of Rome.

The life which Luther led was calculated to develop the sterner parts

of his character, and we must admit that his writings display many

gross and abusive passages; yet he possessed many gentle and attractive

qualities. His love of music amounted to a passion; “Old Hundred,” a

tune which has guided and elevated the devotion of millions, was his

composition, and some of our sweetest hymns were written by him. His

familiar letters are full of gentle affections. Even when Tetzel,

his special enemy, was deserted by those who had used him, and now,

in poverty and desolation, was upon his deathbed, Luther was at his

side, pouring into his harassed soul the oil of consolation. One of

his last acts, was that of reconciliation, in a noble but distracted

house. When we look through the steel mail of the controversialist, the

reformer, and observe traits of character like these, we cannot but

lift our thoughts with thanks to Heaven, that human nature--with all

its drawbacks--when elevated by religion, has such capacities as these.

To estimate Luther’s character, and the work he accomplished, we must

bear in mind the circumstances under which he acted. He was educated

a Catholic, in a country where the dominion of the Romish Church was

complete, as well over the government as the people. All around him,

father, mother, friends, society were living in abject submission to

the established creed. Doubts were held as the suggestions of the

Devil; freedom of thought was infidelity; denial of any received dogma

was heresy, and worthy the judgments of the Inquisitor--of punishment

here and hereafter. These were the orthodox notions of the age, and

Luther was a priest of that church which bound the civilized world to

such a system.

What a fearful struggle in his own mind, with his own habits of

thought, his associations and convictions, did it involve, for the

Reformer first to doubt, and then to repudiate, the faith which thus

enthralled him! What courage of soul, to meet the fears that spring

up in the bosom; what energy of mind, to rend asunder the chains that

fetter the reason, in such a condition! And when he had triumphed

over internal difficulties, what a work was still before him! The

pope, by the invisible cords of spiritual despotism, held all Europe

in subjection. Every monarch was more or less his slave; every

prison, like some fearful monster, was ready to open its jaws at his

command, and close them upon whomsoever he might designate: the jealous

inquisition, with all-seeing eyes, all-hearing ears, spread its net on

every hand. All the united powers and prejudices of society--public

opinion, laws, institutions, armies, prisons, chains, fire, the

rack--were in the hands of the church, and it was against this that one

man was called to contend. It was as if a single knight, and he without

arms, were called to attack the lordly castle, whose massive walls and

towering battlements might look down with disdain upon the assailant.

And yet Luther triumphed. We cannot doubt that he was sustained by a

deep conviction of the rectitude of his cause; that a sense of duty

raised him above the considerations of personal interest and safety;

that he acted as if in the presence of God, and in the hope of a

heavenly, not an earthly, recompense. We must not only admit that his

abilities were great; his qualities rare and well adapted to his work;

that he was a man of peculiar singleness and sincerity of aim; and that

he was endowed with the richest graces of religion; but we must admit

something more--that truth is mighty; that the abuses of the Church

of Rome had risen to such a pitch as to furnish the very elements of

revolution; and finally, that the good providence of God shaped events

to their great issues in behalf of liberty and light. Can any one

explain the revolution achieved by Luther, on any grounds short of

these?

[Illustration: _Rent-Day._]

English Farmers.

This picture represents a scene very common in England, but more rare

with us. A farmer is paying the rent of the house and farm he occupies,

to their owner. Here the farmer usually owns the land he tills and the

house in which he dwells. It is not always so, but land is so cheap

with us, that he may generally be the proprietor of enough for the

support of a family, together with a tenement sufficient for their

comfort.

In England there is hardly such a class of persons as our independent,

prudent, intelligent owners of the soil: the farmers are there, for

the most part, persons of some wealth, who hire land upon leases of

twenty-one years. They are a highly respectable class of persons,

seldom laboring themselves, and only overseeing their numerous

workmen. The persons they employ are often exceedingly poor, toiling

very hard for small wages, with poor fare.

The wife of the farmer in England is generally a stout, rosy-cheeked,

handsome woman, very neatly dressed; she oversees the dairy, and the

various operations of the household. She is generally very systematic

in her affairs; each person has her particular course of duty, and is

expected to do it thoroughly.

The English farm-house is generally of brick or stone; it is

irregularly built, and seems to have been put up at many different

times, according to circumstances and without any regular plan. It

looks ancient, dark, respectable and comfortable. Within, it is a

pattern of neatness, and is full of good furniture. The beds are plump,

and the sheets white as snow. Every bedroom is furnished with a carpet,

table, bureau, &c.

The table of the English farmer is generally well provided, and when

the family is seated around it, the scene is a very pleasant one.

[Illustration: _An English Farm-yard._]

The barns in England are usually of stone, and often several buildings

are crowded together. A good deal of the hay is preserved in stacks.

The barnyard of a thriving English farmer is generally a scene which

seems to bespeak wealth and abundance; but it must be remembered that

we are speaking of the wealthier class. Some of these cultivate several

hundred acres, and it is not uncommon for one farmer to pay an annual

rent of from five to ten thousand dollars.

* * * * *

LONDON MENAGERIES.--These are very expensive establishments. The

expense of Wombell’s collection is 170 dollars a day. The cost of the

animals also is very considerable. A fine elephant is worth 4500

dollars; tigers have been sold at 1400 dollars each; a panther is

worth 450 dollars, hyenas from 200 to 300; zebras from 700 to 900

dollars; a fine ostrich is worth 900 dollars. A young Indian

one-horned rhinoceros cost Cross 5000 dollars; and three giraffes cost

the London Zoological Society 3000 dollars, exclusive of expenses.

* * * * *

The word _gazette_ was derived from the name of the small Venetian

coin, which was the price of the first newspaper.

A Story of the Revolution.

The following story, related by a mother to her children, a few years

since, will show the spirit which existed among the people of New

England at that trying period:

“Late in the afternoon of one of the last days in May, ’76, when I

was a few months short of fifteen years old, notice came to Townsend,

Massachusetts, where my father used to live, that fifteen soldiers were

wanted.

“The training band was instantly called out, and my brother, next

older than I, was one that was selected. He did not return till late

at night, when all were in bed. When I rose in the morning I found my

mother in tears, who informed me that my brother John was to march the

day after to-morrow morning at sunrise. My father was at Boston, in the

Massachusetts Assembly. Mother said that though John was supplied with

summer clothes, he must be away seven or eight months, and would suffer

for want of winter garments. There were at this time no stores and no

articles to be had except such as each family would make itself. The

sight of mother’s tears always brought all the hidden strength of the

body and mind to action. I immediately asked what garment was needful.

She replied, ‘pantaloons.’

“‘O! if that is all,’ said I, ‘we will spin and weave him a pair before

he goes.’

“‘Tut,’ said my mother, ‘the wool is on the sheep’s back, and the sheep

are in the pasture.’

“I immediately turned to a younger brother, and bade him take a salt

dish and call them to the yard.

“Mother replied, ‘Poor child, there are no sleep shears within three

miles and a half.’

“‘I have some small shears at the loom,’ said I.

“‘But we can’t spin and weave it in so short a time.’

“‘I am certain we can, mother.’

“‘How can you weave it?--there is a long web of linen in the loom.’

“‘No matter; I can find an empty loom.’ By this time the sound of the

sheep made me quicken my steps towards the yard. I requested my sister

to bring me the wheel and cards, while I went for the wool. I went

into the yard with my brother, and secured a white sheep, from which I

sheared, with my loom shears, half enough for a web; we then let her go

with the rest of the fleece. I sent the wool in with my sister. Luther

ran for a black sheep, and held her while I cut off wool for my filling

and half the warp, and then we allowed her to go with the remaining

part of her fleece.

“The wool thus obtained was duly carded and spun, washed, sized,

and dried; a loom was found a few doors off, the web got in, woven,

and prepared, cut and made two or three hours before my brother’s

departure--that is to say, in forty hours from the commencement,

without help from any modern improvement.”

The good old lady closed by saying, “I felt no weariness, I wept not, I

was serving my country. I was assisting poor mother, I was preparing a

garment for my darling brother.

“The garment being finished, I retired and wept, till my overcharged

and bursting heart was relieved.”

This brother was, perhaps, one of Gen. Stark’s soldiers, and with such

a spirit to cope with, need we wonder that Burgoyne did not execute his

threat of marching through the heart of America?

Lady Jane Grey.

We think our readers can hardly fail to be interested in the story of

this amiable, but unfortunate lady. We shall therefore tell it at some

length.

Melancholy as was the fate of this illustrious personage, she was

fortunate, in one respect. Though placed in a situation to excite envy

and prejudice, and though calumny and misrepresentation might be deemed

a road to royal favor, no one of her cotemporaries has dared to say

ought that was ill of her; and the more attentive is the examination

of her history and character, the more deserving will she be found of

those praises, which some, in later times, have hinted to have had

their origin in a desire to glorify a political and religious martyr.

She was the daughter of Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, and Frances

Brandon, a granddaughter of Henry VII., and was born at “a very faire,

large, and beautiful house,” called Bradgate, in 1537.

The intercourse between parents and children was not of that pleasing

character, now so universal; good discipline was maintained by fear,

rather than love; children, especially daughters, were never admitted

to any familiarity with their parents; they were obliged, even in

womanhood, to stand at the cupboard side during visits, except when

permitted to have a cushion to kneel on; and it was not unusual for

ladies of the highest rank, to correct their grown-up daughters, even

before company, with the large fans which it was the fashion to carry.

The parents of Lady Jane were even more than usually severe; which

with one, who from her birth was distinguished for the gentleness of

her disposition, was wholly unnecessary; “for what need,” says the

quaint Fuller, “of iron instruments to bow wax?” The first care of her

parents would doubtless be to instruct her in those matters which were

deemed indispensable to a young lady’s education. She was taught music,

and not only played on several musical instruments, but accompanied

them with a voice exquisitely sweet; her execution in needle-work

was beautiful; she was skilled in the art of making confectionary,

then an important part of lady-like duty; nor was she deficient in a

knowledge of surgery and medicine, for the practice of which arts those

boisterous times furnished frequent occasion. At a period a little

earlier than this, with a knowledge of these things, a young lady’s

education would have been deemed complete; for reading and writing were

thought to be dangerous accomplishments, any further than to be able

to spell out the Missal. But the reformation in religion had excited

a desire for general knowledge, as well as a spirit of inquiry into

religious matters; learning, as well with women as with men, became the

fashion; “a grete number of noble women,” we are told by a contemporary

writer, “were given to the studie of human sciences, and of strange

tongues, and it was a common thinge to see young virgins so nouzled and

trained in the study of letters, that they willingly set all other vain

pastymes at naught for learnynge’s sake.”

The early promise which lady Jane gave of genius and excellence,

induced her parents to bestow even more than ordinary pains in the

cultivation of her intellect. The most learned men of the day were

chosen to be her preceptors, and under their instruction, she, at

a very early age, became well skilled in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew,

Chaldaic, Arabic, French, and Italian languages, as well as in her own

tongue.

The severity of her parents proved of ultimate benefit to Lady Jane,

in a manner which she shall herself relate. The celebrated scholar,

Roger Ascham, being about to leave England on a diplomatic mission to

Germany, went to take leave of the family at Bradgate, who had been

his early patrons. He tells us that on his arrival there, he found

that the duke and duchess, with all the ladies and gentlemen of their

household, were hunting in the park; but that the Lady Jane was in her

chamber. Requesting permission to pay his respects to her, to whom he

states himself to have been much beholden, he was admitted. He found

her reading the Phædon of Plato, in Greek, with as much delight as some

gentlemen of that day would have read a merry tale of Boccacio. Having

made every respectful inquiry, according to the custom of the times,

he asked the youthful student why she would lose such pastime, as was

going on in the park? She replied, “I wisse all their sport in the park

is but a shadow to that pleasure I find in Plato. Alas, good folk!

they never felt what true pleasure means.” Ascham then asked, “How came

you, madam, to this deep knowledge of pleasure? and what did chiefly

allure you unto it, seeing not many women, but very few men have

attained thereunto?” “I will tell you,” replied Lady Jane, “and tell

you a truth, which, perchance, you will marvel at. One of the greatest

benefits that ever God gave me, is, that he sent me so sharp and severe

parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster; for, when I am in presence

either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand

or go, eat, drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or

doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, even so perfectly as God

made the world, or else I am sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened,

yea, presently sometimes with pinches, nibs and bobs, and other ways,

(which I will not name, for the honor I bear them,) so without measure

disordered, that I long for the time that I must go to Mr. Aylmer,

who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements

to learning, that I think all the time nothing whiles I am with him;

and when I am called from him, I fall on weeping, because whatsoever

I do else but learning, is full of great trouble, fear, and whole

misliking to me; and thus my book bringeth daily to me more pleasure

and more.” This interview made a lasting impression on Ascham, and we

find him referring to it in a letter which he addressed to her from

Germany. “I have travelled far; I have visited the greatest cities, and

have made the most diligent observations upon the manners of nations,

their institutions, laws, religion, and regulations; but I have found

nothing that has raised in me greater admiration than what I found in

regard to yourself last summer; to see one so young and lovely, in

the noble hall of her family, at the very moment when all her friends

were enjoying the field-sports; to find, I repeat, so divine a maid

diligently perusing the divine Phædon of Plato; in this more happy, it

may be believed, than in her noble and royal lineage.”

In addition to her own personal claims, there existed on the part of

the reformed clergy a new source of interest. Rumor said that she

was the destined wife of the young monarch, Edward VI., and as such

they looked upon her as the future supporter of the true interests

of Christianity. Perhaps, had the youthful parties been allowed to

follow their own inclination, the union might have taken place; they

were playmates in their infancy, and there was a great sympathy of

tastes, as well as similarity of temper. But the choice of each must

be controlled and made subservient to the purposes of ambition. Before

Lady Jane was eleven years old, the possession of her hand in marriage

became the object of political intrigue. Somerset, the Protector,

sought it for his son, hoping, also, to bring about the marriage of

the young king with his own daughter. But these schemes, by which he

trusted to secure the permanence of his power, proved the cause of

his downfall. His brother, Lord Sudley, was equally ambitious, and

more artful; and finding that Somerset’s plans could not otherwise

be counteracted, he became the chief agent in procuring his death.

Sudley’s triumph was short; he himself fell before more successful

rivals, Northumberland and Suffolk, who soon attained to a degree of

power, which left nothing to be desired but to give it permanency.

The health of the king was manifestly failing, and his death would be

their destruction; for zealous protestants such as they, had nothing

to hope from a Roman Catholic sovereign. The order of succession then,

as limited by Henry VIII., must be changed. This was a bold measure,

but it might be successful; Mary and Elizabeth had both been declared

illegitimate by act of parliament, at Henry’s own suggestion; it was

but to procure a confirmation of this, and Lady Jane Grey stood next to

the throne.

To cement the union between these ambitious nobles, a marriage was

arranged between the Lady Jane and Lord Guilford Dudley, son of the

Duke of Northumberland. There was short time for courtship, and the

practice of those acts of gallantry which the fashion of the day

required. No sweet madrigal softened the way to the lady’s heart; nor

had the appointed bridegroom much time for the display, on his breast

or in his hat, of the little gold-embroidered and edged handkerchief,

with the tassels at each corner and in the middle, which enamored

damsels were wont to present to their favorites. The marriage followed

close upon the agreement; the king, to show the pleasure which it gave

him, was bountiful in his gifts. But even in this his natural love of

economy was gratified; for the forfeiture of the effects of the duke

and duchess of Somerset had placed at his disposal much rich apparel,

not much the worse for wear, which he now bestowed on the bridal party.

Though the match was one of ambition on the part of the parents, it was

well calculated to secure the happiness of the parties, for the Lord

Guilford Dudley would seem to have possessed every quality fitted to

win a lady’s heart, and to keep it. Besides the approval of the king,

it met with that of the court and of the public, who, as the bridal

procession passed along, were loud in testifying their admiration of

the beauty and innocence of the youthful bridegroom and his lovely

bride.

The pomp and splendor which attended these nuptials, formed the last

beam of joy that shone in the palace of Edward, who grew so weak a

few days afterwards, that Northumberland thought it time to carry

his project into execution. How he effected his purpose cannot be

better stated than in the language of Fuller. “King Edward, tender

in years and weak with sickness, was so practised upon by the

importunity of others, that, excluding his two sisters, he conveyed

the crown to the Ladie Jane, his kinswoman, by that which we may well

call the _testament_ of King Edward, and the _will_ of the Duke of

Northumberland. Thus, through the pious intents of this prince, wishing

well to the Reformation; the religion of Mary obnoxious to exception;

the ambition of Northumberland, who would do what he listed; the

simplicity of Suffolk, who would be done with as the other pleased; the

dutifulness of the Lady Jane, disposed by her parents; the fearfulness

of the judges, not daring to oppose; and the flattery of courtiers most

willing to comply, matters were made as sure, as man’s policy can make

that good which is bad in itself.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

THE BAMBOO.--This is an eastern production, of various and most

important uses. It grows from fifteen to sixty feet high, being from

five to fifteen inches in diameter. It grows as much as twenty feet in

a few weeks. It flourishes wild in many places, but it is cultivated

with great care in China and other places. The soft shoots are cut and

eaten like asparagus, and sometimes salted and eaten with rice. The

hollow joints afford a liquid, and if not drawn off, a concrete,

medical substance. Its seeds are eaten as a delicacy; its large joints

are used as buckets; and, in many countries, no other wood is used for

building. Ships are framed out of it, and it furnishes masts and

yards. Its leaves make fans. It is also used to make bows, and to

convey water to a distance. It also forms writing-pens, and is woven

into baskets, cages, hats, &c. Bruised into a pulp, it makes fine

paper, and is also used for many kinds of furniture.

* * * * *

PRACTICAL ADVANTAGE OF SCIENCE.--The following illustration of the

utility of science, in the common occurrences of life, is from the

Genessee Farmer:--“A penknife was by accident dropped into a well

twenty feet deep. A sunbeam, from a mirror, was directed to the

bottom, which rendered the knife visible, and a magnet, fastened to a

pole, brought it up again.”

GRANDMOTHER’S SCHOLAR.

_Grandmother._

Come hither, my poor orphan boy!

Come to your granny’s knee;

’Tis time that you should learn to read,

And tell your A, B, C.

It is not fit that all the day

Should pass in idleness away.

_Boy._

Oh, grandmother! the sun shines bright,

The bird sings in the tree,

The bees are out--_they_ never go

To say their A, B, C.

I wish I were a bird to play

Among the leaves, and sing all day.

_Grandmother._

My foolish child! the sun shines bright,

To ripen corn and fruit;

The bird has fled full many a mile,

Upon her fond pursuit;

And, for the little bees, there’s not

A flower in their search forgot.

_Boy._

But, grandmother, they do not learn

In little books to read,

They tell no crooked letters’ names,

And they’re well off, indeed.

I too would fly about all day,

And glad, so I might be as gay.

_Grandmother._

Poor boy! they cannot think or speak,

But what they have been taught,

With industry and studious care

They practise as they ought;

Do you remember, last July,

The nest in the hawthorn hard by?

_Boy._

Yes, grandmother, so soft and warm,

All twigs and moss without,

With quilted wool and slender straws

Plaited and twined about,

And then inside so smoothly spread,

Oh, ’twas a tempting little bed.

_Grandmother._

Aye, child, and all that moss and down

Was brought by many a wing,

Twigs from the distant upland wood,

Moss from beside the spring;

Remember, time, and pains, and care,

Brought all those things together there.

For do you think that in the tree

Itself the nest would grow,

So firmly built, and nicely wove,

And lined?--“Oh, granny, no!”--

Then think, how every bird that flies

Must labor ere his roof can rise.

_Boy._

But, grandmother--the humming bees,--

Well--on a summer’s day,

What can you see, from morn to eve,

So busy as are they?

Into each flower their trunks they dive,

And laden cluster round the hive.

_Grandmother._

Learning A B is not so hard

As flying all the day;

And to a bee’s industrious life

Your book is only play;

Beside, God gave you speech and thought,

To be improved, and ruled, and taught.

_Boy._

Ah, granny, this is very true,

But I should like to know,

If it is good to speak and think,

Why don’t the birds do so?

And why did God make them to fly,

And us to walk through wet and dry?

_Grandmother._

My child, why did he make the sun

Above our heads to glow?

Why did he bend upon the cloud

His bright and glorious bow?

Why did he make the thunder sound,

And draw the solemn night around?

Why, but because he saw ’twas _best_?--

He gave to flower and tree

The power to blossom, bud, and fruit,

And for man’s good to be.

But man, he made to praise him still,

And humbly do his Maker’s will.

And we do not his laws obey

In wasting time that flies,

Or being idle all day long

Instead of being wise.

Then come, my child, begin, and we

Shall soon outgrow our A B C.

Our Correspondence.

Thanks, gentle friends, for your many favors--but you must not expect

me to insert them all here. I read them with great satisfaction, and

even when you find a little fault, I am not the less pleased--

particularly if you tell me how to do better. But as to printing all

your epistles, you must consider that I have Bill Keeler’s stories to

put in, and the Old Man’s in the Corner, and a great many other

things. I have, indeed, so many matters crowding into my columns, that

I am this month obliged to leave out Dick Boldhero altogether!

However, I find that our subscribers like Our Correspondence very

well, and therefore I shall put in as much of it as my space will

allow.

* * * * *

I am much obliged to A---- R----, who sends me the following

PUZZLE.

I am composed of seven letters.

My 3, 2, 4, is what boatmen do.

My 5, 3, 2, 1, is the most useful of all metals.

My 5, 1, 6, 7, is the smallest division of long measure.

My 6, 7, 5, 1, is a part of the face.

My 1, 2, 4, is the best time to do what is necessary to be done.

My 4, 5, 1, is what those who try for rewards of merit like to do.

My 3, 5, 6, 7, is what many people like to be.

And my whole is a town in Connecticut.

The following is very acceptable.

_Syracuse, July 7, 1844._

MR. MERRY,--I hope you will be willing to have a letter from

me, as I am going to tell about the salt works of this place.

Syracuse is a large town, with about 8000 inhabitants. A

mile from us, is Salina, a village in which are many salt

springs. The water is pumped out and conducted by canals

to Syracuse, where salt is made from it. The water is

stronger than sea water, and yields a great deal more salt.

The salt is made by vats, which expose the water to the

sun and evaporate it, or by boiling it. Both methods are

adopted. There are a great many of these establishments,

and it is supposed that this year they will all make four

millions of bushels.

One establishment puts up 1200 bags of 28 pounds each, a

day. They require about 1200 yards of cotton cloth, every

day, for the bags. You would be very much interested to go

into this establishment. There is a long flue, more than

seventy feet long, which runs under a great many kettles,

in which the water is constantly boiling. The salt is here

formed in crystals, white as snow. It is taken out and put

in a bin, where it looks like a great long snow-drift.

It is taken from this place, and put in a trough thirty

feet long and ten wide, with fire beneath; a sort of harrow

is made to work back and forward in this, thus stirring

the salt. It is then ground, and carried by machinery to a

place where it is put in bags.

It is really a curious place, and if you were there, you

would think salt as plenty as snow in winter at Boston.

The salt made at Syracuse is very much liked; some of it is

fine and nice for the table. Some is put up in small, neat

boxes and sent all over the country.

When you were here the other day, I got a peep at a man

they told me was you; but as he hadn’t a wooden leg, I have

some doubts whether it was really you. Perhaps your leg

has grown on again, or you have had one put in as good as

new--for it is said the Yankees, down east, are very clever

at domestic manufactures.

Now, Mr. Merry, if you don’t put this into your Magazine,

I hope you will at least say that you have received it.

I like the Magazine pretty well, but I didn’t understand

what that picture of the big, jumping bull meant at the

beginning of the April number. Perhaps you can tell me.

Yours,

J----S L----N.

* * * * *

☞ We are obliged to confess that our friend here has given us a good

hint; the animal he mentions was meant for _Taurus_, the Bull, which is

the zodiacal sign for April.

_Detroit, May 30, 1844._

MR. MERRY,--Will you allow me to tell you that I like your

Magazine pretty well--indeed, I may say, very well--but it

does not come regular. I go to the post-office a great many

times, when it should come, but I am obliged to go away

without it. You know “hope deferred makes the heart sick.”

So I am often disappointed. Will you do better in this,

good Mr. Merry?--and as you tell us many wise things, will

you set us an example of punctuality, and oblige your friend,

S----L M----LL.

☞ Thanks to S----. I will talk with the publishers about this.

The Snow-Drop.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

=For one or two voices.=

[Illustration: Music]

Now the spring is coming on,

Now the ice and snow are gone,

Come, my little snow-drop root,

Will you not begin to shoot?

Come, my little snow-drop root,

Will you not begin to shoot?

Ah! I see your little head

Peeping on the flower bed,

Looking all so green and gay

On this fine and pleasant day.

For the mild south wind doth blow,

And hath melted all the snow;

And the sun shines out so warm,

You need not fear another storm.

So your pretty flowers show,

And your petals white undo;

Then you’ll hang your modest head

Down upon my flower bed.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. SEPTEMBER, 1844. No. 3.

[Illustration: September]

September has come, and it would seem by the picture, that peaches have

come with it. This is indeed a fine season for our little friends who

are fond of fruit, such as peaches, pears, and plums. Who is there,

indeed, that does not like these nice things? But beware, boys and

girls; do not indulge in them to excess. Even the best things in this

world may be converted into evils by abuse. Even peaches, which are not

only delicious but very wholesome, may still become the occasion of

disease, if taken in undue quantities.

Thus you see that moderation is required of us in the midst of

our enjoyments. But I do not intend now to preach a sermon. It is

September, one of the pleasantest months of the year, and I have a few

pleasant words to say about it. It is a season of delicious fruits;

it is also a period when the excessive heat of summer is succeeded by

the mild and gentle coolness of approaching autumn. The landscape has

lost something of its brilliant verdure. The fields and forests are

tinged with a sober brown. The leaves of the maple, the ash, and the

oak are exchanging their green hue for brilliant dyes of red, purple,

and yellow. Many of the birds are gathering in flocks, and, with much

noisy chattering, are preparing to depart to southern climes, where

they may spend the winter. The sparrow, the cat-bird, the thrush,

and the towee-bunting have already withdrawn into the thickets. The

robin has left the orchard, and retired to the forests, and the young

crows, trying to caw like their fathers and mothers, are heard in the

mountains.

Whoever will take a walk in the woods will see a great many of that

splendid bird, which has so many names, glancing from tree to tree, and

seeming to hold some very good-natured discourse with his companions.

This is the high-hole, high pole, flecker, yellow jay, or golden-winged

wood-pecker, whichever you choose to call him.

The gardener is now rooting up the weeds, and the farmer is getting

in his second crop of hay, called _rowen_. The markets are now full

of melons, and other fruits and vegetables, of many kinds,--potatoes,

beets, carrots, cabbages, and tomatoes. Surely, September is a fine

time.

All Hallow-e’en.

Among the inhabitants of Scotland, the last day of October is called

All Hallow-e’en, or Holy evening. The people formerly had many

superstitions and some pleasant customs respecting it. These still

linger in the Highlands; and the following story, extracted from an

English book, will give some account of the manner in which this

evening is still commemorated there.

There are few Highlanders in whom the memory of Hallow-e’en does

not awaken some pleasing recollections of the past, and with it are

associated some of their happiest days. I propose to explain to my

young friends some of the joyous festivities of this season.

Among many families in the Highlands, there were none I loved so

well as the Graemes of Glennburton. Four merry girls and one quiet

boy circled their hearth on the last day of October, the eventful

Hallow-e’en. A crowd of young visitors was also there. The cheerful

dance over, our dear and kind friend, Mr. Graeme, drank to many happy

Hallow-e’ens, in which we noisy youngsters joined most heartily.

The nut basket now appeared. Nell Graeme, the second daughter, a tall

girl of seventeen, singled out two nuts and said, “Who shall I burn?”

At once, the whole group, who were quite prepared, cried, “Geraldine

and Lord Elva.” The two nuts were placed in one bright spot in the

fire; they burnt for a time most lovingly; but at last Geraldine

bounded out of the fire. Oh! naughty girl--she had fairly quarrelled

with him whom her young companions had declared to be her sweetheart.

Geraldine now sprang forward, and revenged herself by burning

the blushing Nell with her coz. It was very amusing to watch the

countenance of each damsel, as her name was given to the nut, and

coupled with another. One girl blushed, a second laughed, a third cast

down her eyes, and so on. Tired of this, they at length hurried to tea;

and then came the real fun, as that noisy, pretty black-eyed girl,

Jessie Graeme, declared.

Now, my young friends, follow me to Mrs. Graeme’s kitchen; yes, to the

kitchen,--clean, bright, and pure enough for any one to enter; the

floor well scoured and sprinkled with sand; the small copper saucepans

and tin covers hung round the walls, shining and bright as burnished

gold; the mutton-hams and other delicacies in such famous order hanging

overhead. It was the abode of plenty and cleanliness; so I thought,

as I entered it, and surveyed with delight the preparations for the

“company,” as Mary the cook said.

A huge tub full of crystal water was in the middle of the floor, and a

basket of immense rosy-cheeked apples. The company entered. Plump went

three dozen apples into the tub, with a splashing that made the ladies

retreat speedily. Mr. Graeme put numerous shillings and sixpences into

the apples, and we all ducked to fish them out. Happy those who got an

apple; thrice happy those who got money in their apples. Many untoward

accidents occurred; Jane had fastened her long curls with a comb, and

as she stooped and hunted down a rolling apple, Jessie Graeme, lover

of mischief and fun, pulled out the comb; down went the ringlets, to

assist poor Jane in her search after the apple.

Jessie laughed heartily, and in her turn danced up to the tub. No

sooner had she bent over the water, than Hugh slily pushed her in, and

the ill-fated Jessie fell plump into the water. Her brother helped her

out, and though strongly tempted to cuff his cheeks for his impudence,

she was obliged to march off and change her wet clothing. Tired at

length of this diversion, “snap dragon” was called. “Hurrah for snap

dragon!” cried Harriet Graeme.

A large flat dish, filled with whisky and raisins, cleared from their

stalks, was laid upon the table; gloves and mittens were hastily torn

off; pocket handkerchiefs, scarfs, and other combustible parts of the

ladies’ dresses were put out of the way. There was a rush and a crowd

round the dish; Hugh held the match to the spirits, and the blue flame

flickered, and the “mountain dew” blazed gloriously. “Begin!” shouted

Hugh.

Fifty hands were at once dipped into the snap dragon, and drawn back,

carrying streams of the blue and liquid flame. Another plunge! fresh

screams, and a river of fire on the table; the dish upset; Harriet’s

dress on fire; Donald the gardener’s hair in a blaze. A hearth-rug

nearly smothered Harriet, and a bucket of water cooled Donald

completely. There was a universal burst of laughter; even Black Kitty,

the cook maid, so called, from her jet black hair, was heard to giggle

behind the scullery door; and Donald, now recovered from his singeing

and ducking, roared himself into convulsions in the back passage. They

now all began to count the raisins; whoever had the largest odd number

was the lucky one. Merry Jessie was the lucky one.

The happy party now retired to the drawing-room, saying, that of all

games, snap dragon was the most amusing. Up stairs, they found a

blazing fire, and supper laid on the table. In the centre of it stood,

most conspicuously, the Hallow-e’en cake, so delicately iced over

and ornamented with a wreath and bunch of the last roses. This cake

contained a ring, for marriage; a sixpence for wealth; and a thimble,

for an old maid. The cake was cut up by Hugh. The youngest of the party

took the first piece, and the gentle fairy, Minna Erskine, found the

ring. Jessie Graeme darted forward, and seizing a bit of cake, crumbled

it to atoms, and found the sixpence. Happy little pair, who, almost

screaming with joy, fairly hugged each other with delight.

Dear mamma was declared a confirmed old maid by finding the thimble.

The laughter of the young ones at this knew no bounds; but they were

soon brought to order by Mr. Graeme, reminding them that it was within

a quarter of an hour of midnight, and that “good nights” must be

exchanged. The young ones quickly though reluctantly took the hint, and

after affectionate kissings and greetings, from our papas and mammas,

we all marched off, once more to talk of the events of the evening, and

to anticipate and prepare for fresh sports and merriment.

* * * * *

BONAPARTE’S WIT.--Soon after Napoleon had attained the rank of captain,

a soldier one day approached him, and showed him his coat which was in

rags, at the same time demanding another in a dissatisfied tone. “A new

coat?” replied the young officer; “you do not call to mind that your

honorable scars would no longer be visible.” This well-timed compliment

entirely satisfied the poor soldier.

After Napoleon became emperor, during a parade, a young officer stepped

out of the ranks, in extreme agitation, to complain that he had been

ill-used, slighted, and passed over, and that he had been five years a

lieutenant, without being able to obtain promotion. “Calm yourself,”

said the emperor; “I was seven years a lieutenant, and yet you see

that a man may push himself forward for all that.” Everybody laughed,

and the young officer, suddenly cooled by these words, returned to his

place.

* * * * *

The following description of the gardens at the Tusculan villa,

Belvidere, in Italy, is given by a traveller. “Behind the palace,”

says he, “an aquatic stream dashes precipitately down a succession of

terraces, and is tormented below, into a variety of tricks. The whole

court seems alive at the turning of the cock. Water attacks you on

every side; it is squirted in your face from invisible holes; it darts

up in a constellation of _jets d’eau_; it returns in misty showers,

which present against the sun a beautiful iris. Water is made to blow

the trumpet of a centaur and the pipe of a cyclops; water plays two

organs; makes the birds warble and the muses tune their reeds; it sets

Pegasus neighing, and all Parnassus on music. I mention this

magnificent touch as a specimen of Italian hydraulics. Its sole object

is to surprise strangers.”

* * * * *

At Thebes, the coffins of mummies are burnt for fire-wood, and the

ruins of limestone are burned for lime.

[Illustration: _The stranger carrying off Katrina._]

Bill and the Boys.

_The story of Dirk Heldriver, continued._

In a preceding number we have given an account of the manner in which

Katrina was taken from her mother and borne away into the woods.

We must now continue the story, as it was related by Bill to his

companions.

Nothing could exceed the state of excitement produced upon M. Hielder

by the news of the carrying off of his daughter; for a few moments,

he seemed to be in a frenzy of rage, muttered the name of Hieldover

between his teeth, clenched his fist, and uttered the most terrific

imprecations. But in a short time, he conquered his passion, and,

ordering six men to attend him, they all set out in pursuit of the

offender. They had learned as well as they could from Madam Hielder the

direction which the robber had taken, which appeared to be towards the

mountains. They soon found the traces of footsteps which led along the

bank of a small river that swept down from the heights. They followed

these for about two miles, when the ground became rocky and broken, and

they could no longer trace them. It seemed certain, however, that the

stranger had ascended the mountain, directing his course to a deep and

wild dell that lay between two rugged cliffs, that seemed to rear their

naked heads to the clouds.

The party drew themselves out in a lengthened line, and proceeded

to search the tangled valley that lay before them. The impatience of

Hielder led him in front of the pursuers, and the excited state of

his feelings made him almost forget his attendants. It was not long

before he saw, or thought he saw, the object of his pursuit. He rushed

forward, urging his way between the branches of the trees and the thick

mass of underwood, regardless of the obstacles that lay in his path,

his garments torn, and his hair streaming in the wind. He was soon

separated from his companions, and entirely forgetting them, urged his

way through the wilderness.

Again he fancied that he saw the figure of a man, at a considerable

distance, bearing a child in his arms. He seemed to be straining up

the sides of the mountains, and at a considerable distance. Hielder

redoubled his efforts, and in his agony of mind, shouted aloud, filling

the hollow of the mountain with his cries. For a long time he continued

his pursuit, occasionally catching glimpses of the flying robber and

his daughter, or objects that seemed to be such. At length he came to

an open space, and on a rocky eminence before him, he imagined that he

saw the form of Hieldover, holding out his child in triumphant mockery.

Hielder was armed with pistols, and, snatching one of these from

his belt, he aimed it at the form of Hieldover, and fired. This was

instantly followed by a scream, which seemed to be that of the child.

Smitten with horror at the idea that he had killed his daughter, the

father sank down on the ground in a state of insensibility.

It was now evening, and M. Hielder, as we have stated, had been for a

considerable time separated from his attendants. They had discovered

his absence from their line, and for some hours had been in search

of him. One of them heard the report of the pistol, and directed his

steps towards the spot from which the sound seemed to proceed. In the

darkness, however, he passed the body of his master, and continued to

push forward. The pursuit was continued till morning, when the party

collected together by means of signals, and began to deliberate upon

what was to be done.

While they were thus occupied, they saw M. Hielder approaching. They

were all struck with amazement at his strange appearance. His clothes

were torn in fragments; his hat was gone, and there were traces of

blood upon his face. His countenance was pale as ashes, and his eye had

the startled and wild expression which belongs to a madman. He said

not a word, and when the men addressed him he gave no answer. After a

little deliberation, they concluded to return, and two of them, taking

their master by the arms, led him homeward. He made no resistance, and,

in the course of a few hours, they reached the house.

M. Hielder continued in a state of derangement for nearly two weeks.

He was not violent, but his mind seemed constantly occupied with

the vision of some object before him, which he earnestly sought to

reach. Sometimes in his eagerness, he would spring out of his bed, and

endeavor to pursue the phantom, which fled before him and eluded his

grasp. At others, he would beckon to it, and again reach out his arms,

beseeching it to come to him. He often uttered the name of Hieldover,

and would frequently say, “Give me back my child; give me my daughter,

and I will restore all. Be satisfied, Hieldover, with your revenge.

Take the money, but give me my child. Is there such cruelty in the

heart of man? will you wring the heart that is broken? will you grind

in the dust the form that crouches at your foot? Do as you please--kill

me, if you will, but restore to me once more my child.”

The wife of the poor man was unceasing in her attentions. Day and night

she was at his bedside, seeking to allay the fever of his mind, and

administering to him such medicines as the physician prescribed. Nor

were these kind and skilful ministrations without their due effect.

By degrees the symptoms of the patient became alleviated, and, in the

space of a few weeks, his reason seemed to be restored. Yet his form

was wasted almost to a shadow, and his mind seemed to participate

in the exhausted condition of his body. He however gradually rose

from this state of depression, and at last seemed once more in the

possession of health and vigor.

His countenance, however, was greatly changed. The stern, dark, moody

expression which formerly brooded over his countenance, had given place

to settled melancholy, tinged with a somewhat startled aspect. His firm

nerves, too, had become shaken, and the sudden rustling of the wind,

or the sound of an unwonted footstep, made him tremble from head to

foot. There was still a haughty feeling in him, which taught him to

conquer these humiliating symptoms; but in the struggle between pride

and weakness, an effort often took place, which was manifested by the

large cold drops standing upon his forehead.

The early history of M. Hielder was unknown to the people around him.

They were ignorant of the visit paid him by the stranger, who called

himself Hieldover, and which we have already described. They were

at a loss, therefore, to account for the events which had recently

transpired. Who could have carried off the child? What motive could

any one have for such an act? Why was the master of the house wrought

up into such a frenzy? Why was he cheated with illusions, and finally

driven to a state of madness in the mountains? These were the questions

discussed by the gossips around the house; and as no better answer

to these inquiries could be found, they were all resolved by the

conclusion that the dark and mysterious being who carried off the girl,

was the devil himself.

I am sorry to have anything to say about this personage; but a century

ago, when these things happened, it was very much the fashion to lay

everything to him which could not be otherwise explained. Of course,

whoever undertakes to tell a story of that day, is likely to have

something to say about him. We need only add, that we shall have as

little as possible to do with him on this, as on every other occasion.

The suggestion having been once made that the scenes we have described

were the work of a being of the other world, it soon grew into the

established opinion of the people attached to Hielder house. Nor were

confirmations of this wanting. Several of the servants declared that

they had seen, in the evening twilight, a dark figure, with a slouched

hat and wrapped in a cloak, moving mysteriously along the avenues

around the house. Others insisted that they had seen a strange light

dancing in the hollow of the mountain, where M. Hielder had met the

strange apparition.

These tales soon reached the ears of their master, and he readily

concluded that they might be founded in truth. He determined,

therefore, to investigate the subject for himself. In the course of

a few evenings, he saw a dusky figure standing in the shadow of the

trees at no great distance from the house. He approached it, but it

glided from him, and was soon lost in the depths of the forest. He,

however, pursued the retreating spectre. He soon saw it again, and it

seemed now to pause. He approached it, and could distinctly recognize

the tall and majestic figure of Hieldover. At this moment, the latter

spoke--“Approach me not, as you value your life; but if you wish to

know the fate of your child, visit me to-morrow at this hour. You will

find me at home in the mountains.” Saying this, the form departed, and

was immediately buried in the mazes of the wood.

M. Hielder was thrilled with a kind of horror, but he determined to

accept the fearful invitation. At the appointed time, he left the

house alone, and set out for the mountains. It was now autumn, and the

leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. The night was gloomy,

and the wind swept in hollow gusts through the forest. The tops of the

trees waved with an uneasy and troubled motion in the gale. There was

no human voice to disturb the night, but many strange and ominous

sounds came upon the ear of the adventurer, as he now began to ascend

the shaggy sides of the highlands. The creaking of the trees, whose

branches rubbed against each other, the shrill wailing of the owl, and

the continued roar of the wind, served to increase his excitement,

though not in any degree to shake his purpose.

Resolutely striding on through the mass of crumpled leaves that covered

the ground, he reached, at last, a position that commanded a view of

the spot where he had seen his child in the arms of Hieldover. This

consisted of a mound of rocks, which rose in the form of a pyramid

in the centre of a valley, scooped out of the side of a mountain.

The whole scene was covered with trees, except a small space which

encircled the mound. This consisted of a grassy belt, through which a

small stream passed on either side of the pyramidal rock.

M. Hielder paused a moment to consider what course he should take,

when a small flame gleamed upward from the very point where Hieldover

was standing with his child, when he discharged the pistol, as we have

related. Receiving this as a signal, he plunged down into the valley,

crossed the stream, and, with an almost frenzied energy, began to climb

the rocky mound. Seizing upon the branches of trees and shrubs, he

clambered upward, and soon attained the point from which the light was

still gleaming.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

“I won’t be trod upon with impunity,” as the steel-trap said to the

fox.

[Illustration: John Howard]

John Howard.

This eminent and laborious philanthropist was born in 1727. His father

was a London tradesman, who, dying early, left him in possession of a

handsome fortune. Having always been fond of travelling, he conceived

a desire to visit Lisbon immediately after the great earthquake. He

embarked accordingly, but was captured by a French privateer. To

this accident the world is probably indebted for the exertions made

afterwards by Howard for the relief of prisoners. The sufferings which

he endured himself and witnessed in his fellow-captives, made an

ineffaceable impression upon his mind.

This was strengthened by his being made sheriff of Bedfordshire,

when he had charge of all the prisons in the county. Shocked by the

miseries and abuses which he found prevailing in these abodes of crime

and misfortune, he set himself diligently to work to inquire into the

nature of the evil, and, if possible, to find a remedy. During the

year 1773, he visited most of the county gaols in England, and having

obtained information on their management, he laid the result of his

inquiries before the House of Commons. In 1774, two acts were passed;

one for relieving acquitted prisoners from the payment of fees; the

other for preserving the health of the prisoners.

Howard being once actively engaged, became more and more devoted to

his benevolent pursuits. He travelled repeatedly over Great Britain,

sometimes even extending his journeys to the continent, visiting the

most noisome places, and relieving the wants of the most wretched

objects. In 1777, he published a quarto volume containing details of

prisons in various places, and containing a mass of information really

astonishing, when we consider that it was obtained at the constant

hazard of his life from infection, and by untiring and unassisted labor.

The importance, both in prisons and hospitals, of preventing the

spreading of infectious diseases, produced in Mr. Howard the desire to

witness the success of the Lazaretto system in the south of Europe,

more especially as a safeguard against the plague. Danger or disgust

never turned him from his path, and on this occasion he went without

a servant, not thinking it right, for convenience’ sake, to expose

another person to such a risk.

In 1785, he travelled through France, Italy, and thence to Smyrna,

where the plague was raging, in order that he might undergo the

quarantine at Venice, to which place he sailed. In 1787, this devoted

man returned home and published the result of his foreign travels. Two

years after, he renewed his travels on the continent, intending to go

to Turkey. He had, however, proceeded no further than the Crimea, when

a rapid illness, which he believed to be an infectious fever, caught in

prescribing for a lady, put an end to his life, January 20th, 1790. He

was buried at Cherson, and the utmost respect was paid to his memory by

the Russian government.

Mr. Howard’s character was pure and simple; without great talents, but

accomplishing much by devoting his whole energies to one good object.

He was abstemious in his habits, and capable of going through great

fatigue, spending freely both his fortune and constitution in the

cause to which his life was devoted. He was twice married, and lived

at Cardington, near Bedford. He had one son, who unfortunately became

insane.

Lovewell’s War.

There are few passages in history more remarkable than that which is

known by the above title. It displays the daring character of the

settlers of New England at the period, as well as the ferocious and

crafty spirit of the savages. It is a bloody story; yet it may be well

to make our readers acquainted it.

Before the subjugation of Canada by the British, the New England

settlements were constantly exposed to the hostilities of the eastern

Indians, and a spirit of jealousy and revenge was kept up, not only

between the different nations, but also between individuals. The

boundaries of the different territories being loosely defined, left

both sides exposed to real or fancied encroachments; so that pretexts

for war were always at hand. The French Jesuits had planted themselves

among the Indian tribes at an early period; and at the beginning of the

eighteenth century, they had two churches among the eastern Indians,

the one at Penobscot, and the other at Norridgewock, within the

boundaries of the present State of Maine.

At the latter resided the Jesuit Sebastian Rasle, a man of talent,

learning and address, who, by accommodating himself to the Indian

mode of life, and maintaining a gentle, condescending deportment, had

completely won the affection of the savages, and his influence over

them was supreme. Knowing the power of superstition over their minds,

he took advantage of this, and of their prejudice against the English,

to strengthen the interest of the French among them. He even made the

offices of devotion serve as incentives to their ferocity, and kept a

banner on which was depicted a cross surrounded by bows and arrows,

which he was accustomed to hoist on a pole at the door of his church,

and gave the Indians absolution, previous to their setting out on a

warlike expedition.

The governor of Canada held a constant correspondence with this Jesuit,

and received through his hands information of anything that transpired

among the tribes in that quarter. From these individuals, the savages

received every encouragement to assert their title to lands occupied

by the English, and to molest the settlers, by killing their cattle,

burning their haystacks, and robbing and insulting them. Many of the

inhabitants, alarmed by these demonstrations of hostility, removed

from the frontiers in 1720. The garrisons were reinforced, and scouting

parties were sent abroad, which checked, for a time, the hostile

movements of the Indians, who were compelled, the same year, to give

hostages for their good behavior. This last requisition was highly

disrelished by the governor of Canada, who renewed his efforts to keep

up the quarrel, and secretly promised to supply the Indians with arms

and ammunition, although, as Great Britain and France were not then

at war, he could not openly assist them. The New England governments

obtained information of these intrigues; yet, though highly incensed,

they judged it best not to rush into hostilities. The main dispute lay

between the Indians and the proprietors of the eastern lands, and the

public were not directly concerned in it. No blood had as yet been shed

within the limits of the English territory.

Rasle was considered to be the principal instigator of the Indians,

and it was thought that if he were removed, all would be quiet. A

proposal was made to send the sheriff of York county with a posse of

a hundred and fifty men, to seize him and bring him to Boston; but

this bold stroke was not ventured upon. In the summer of 1721, Rasle,

in company with the Count de Castine from Penobscot, and Croisil from

Canada, appeared at one of the English garrisons, and presented a

letter, written in the name of the several Indian tribes, to Governor

Shute of Massachusetts, declaring that “if the English did not remove

in three weeks, they would kill them and their cattle, and burn their

houses.” The lands in question were comprehended within the limits of

the English patents, and the settlers were considered the only legal

proprietors. They had been accustomed to obtain regular deeds of sale

from the Indians, and pay them a valuable consideration; but some of

these titles were of obscure and uncertain original, and the memory

of such transactions is soon lost among people who possess no written

records. The Indians easily forget the sales made by their ancestors,

or imagine that such bargains are not binding upon their posterity.

The Massachusetts government, on receiving this menacing epistle,

sent an additional force to the Maine frontier, and being desirous to

avoid a rupture, invited the Indians to a conference, from which the

French emissaries were to be excluded. This invitation was treated

with neglect; and in the succeeding winter, a party under Colonel

Westbrooke was ordered to Norridgewock, to seize Rasle. They reached

the village undiscovered, but before they could surround his house, he

had escaped into the woods, leaving his papers in his strong box, which

they brought away without committing any act of violence. Among these

papers were his letters of correspondence with the governor of Canada,

which afforded positive proof that he was deeply engaged in intrigues

to incite the Indians to hostilities. The savages were enraged at this

attempt to seize their spiritual father, and resolved upon revenge.

In the summer of 1722, they made a descent upon the settlements at

Merry Meeting Bay, and captured nine families. Dismissing some of the

prisoners, they retained enough to secure the redemption of their

hostages in the hands of the English, and sent them off to Canada.

Their next attack was on the fort at St. George, on the Ameriscoggin,

where they were repulsed with considerable loss. They afterwards

surprized some fishing vessels in the eastern harbors; and at length

made a furious attack on the town of Brunswick, which they destroyed.

These hostilities determined the government of Massachusetts to issue a

declaration of war against them, which was published in form at Boston

and Portsmouth, on the 25th of July, 1722.

(To be continued.)

Echoes.

Echoes reside, for the most part, in ruined abbeys, in caverns, and in

grottoes; they reverberate among mountains, whisper in the areas of

antique halls, in the windings of long passages and in the melancholy

aisles of arched cathedrals. There is an ancient portico near the

temple of Clymenos, in the district of Cythonias, which repeats every

given sound three times.

At Woodstock there was one which was said to have returned seventeen

syllables during the day, and twenty in the night. In the sepulchre of

Metella, the wife of Sylla, an echo repeated five different times, in

five different keys; and it is said that on the banks of a river, near

Coblentz, an echo recited seventeen times. He who spoke or sung could

scarcely be heard, and yet the responses were loud and distinct, clear

and various; sometimes appearing to approach, and at other times to

come from a great distance, much after the manner of an Æolian harp.

In the cemetery of the Abercorn family, at Paisley, in the county of

Renfrew, there is an echo exceedingly beautiful and romantic. When

the door of the chapel is shut, the reverberations are equal to the

sound of thunder. Breathe a single note in music, and the note ascends

gradually with a multitude of echoes, till it dies in soft and most

bewitching murmurs. If the effect of one instrument is delightful, that

of several in concert is captivating, exciting the most tumultuous and

rapturous sensations. In this chapel, lulled by ethereal echoes, sleeps

Margery, the daughter of Bruce, the wife of Wallace and the mother of

Robert, king of Scotland.

A singular echo is heard in a grotto near castle Comber, in Ireland.

No reverberation is observed till the listener is within fifteen

or sixteen feet of the extremity of the grotto; at which place a

most delightful echo enchants the ear. Most travellers have heard

of the eagle’s nest near Mucross Abbey, on the banks of the lake of

Killarney. This celebrated rock sends forth the most fascinating

repercussion. Sound a French or bugle horn, and echoes, equal to a

hundred instruments, answer to the call! Report a single cannon, and

the loudest thunders reverberate from the rock and die in endless peals

along the distant mountains.

A nobleman’s seat about two miles from Milan produces such a surprising

echo as can scarcely be equalled in the world. Mr. Addison observed

that upon firing a pistol, he heard the sound returned fifty-six times,

though the air was then foggy, and consequently not proper for making

an experiment to advantage. At first, the repetitions were very quick,

but the intervals were greater in proportion as the sound decayed.

This astonishing echo was probably never designed by the architect,

but it is occasioned by two parallel walls of a considerable length,

between which the sound is reverberated from one to the other till

the undulation is quite spent. Some persons assert that the sound

of one musical instrument in this place resembles a great number of

instruments playing in concert.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER VII.

Although I was gradually recovering from the state of extreme weakness

to which I had been reduced, still, I continued so feeble as to render

it impossible for me to proceed on my journey. I continued therefore

with my kind friends at Maroontown, occasionally taking a short walk

about the place. I soon became acquainted with a number of the people.

I was very much gratified by the good-natured manner in which everybody

treated me. The houses were extremely slight, many of them consisting

only of sticks set in the ground, the roof and sides being formed of a

thatch of palm leaves. Others were a little more substantial, the walls

being framed of mud and stone. The place hardly seemed like the abode

of human beings, and when I gazed upon it, I fancied that it was only

the village of some ingenious animals, a little elevated in the scale

of being above the beavers.

But notwithstanding this rude aspect of their dwellings, the people

themselves seemed the most light-hearted and merry set I ever beheld.

Every night there was music, and dancing, and laughter, and frolic,

and what seemed strange, there was very little of riot or violence.

A good feeling seemed to pervade all classes, and if they were poor,

ignorant, and in some respects degraded, they seemed at least happy and

kind-hearted. There was very little government among them, and though

they had magistrates, it was seldom necessary for these to make any

great show of authority.

While I was at this place, the old woman, who spoke English, as I have

already mentioned, told me a good many tales relating to the history of

the place, one of which I will give to my readers.

One of the earliest inhabitants of Maroontown was King Congo. This

personage was born on the African coast, and was the eldest son of

one of the petty kings in that quarter. He was captured by a party of

slavers, brought to Paramaribo, and offered for sale as a slave. He was

a good-looking fellow, about twenty years of age, of great strength and

daring courage. He was readily purchased by a merchant of the city, and

became a servant in his family. Submitting to his fate, he performed

the duties required of him with a tolerable grace, though occasionally

the remembrance of his birth and former dignity crossed his mind, and

for a moment caused his feelings to revolt from the drudgery required

of him.

It happened that one day, when he was a little moody from reflections

like these, his master demanded of him some service of more than

ordinary servility. Congo seemed to hesitate for a moment, and stood

looking his master in the face, as if about to question his right thus

to command him. The latter, greatly incensed, struck the negro in the

face. Congo, surprised and irritated, seized his master by the collar,

and was about to dash him to the floor, when suddenly recollecting

himself, he unclenched his hand and said, sneeringly, “I scorn to

wrestle with one so much weaker than myself; but I will not serve a man

who treats me with such indignity.”

The rage of the master now knew no bounds. He called aloud for his

servants, and as about a dozen of them rushed into the room, he

commanded them to seize the offender. But Congo was now thoroughly

roused. As the men seemed about to seize him, he retreated to a corner

of the room, seized a chair, and, whirling it before him, defied the

whole party. These, knowing his prodigious strength, and frightened

by his wild and threatening aspect, stood aloof, afraid to grapple

with such an enemy. In vain were the threats of the master. Finding it

impossible to urge them on, he seized a pair of pistols, and, taking

deliberate aim, discharged them both at the offender. One of the balls

missed; the other entered the right arm of Congo, and, shattering the

bone, the uplifted chair fell to the floor, and the broken limb swung

useless by his side.

Finding it in vain to resist farther, the negro yielded, and being

strongly bound, was immediately taken to a public establishment, kept

for the purpose, and received a hundred lashes upon the naked back.

The poor fellow was now shut up in a small room, almost without light

or air, it being the purpose of his master to subdue him by privation

and suffering. His arm was dressed, and care was taken that he should

not die, for this would have been a serious loss to the pocket of the

proprietor.

At length, Congo recovered; but his strength was wasted, and he could

only totter about with great effort. He was now released, and his

master, not fearing him in his present enfeebled condition, took

him once more into his house. Here he was treated with the greatest

harshness. He was required to labor beyond his strength, and when he

was tardy from exhaustion, he was buffeted either with the hand or foot

of his lordly proprietor.

Congo submitted to all this with apparent humility, but a feeling

was burning within him which was destined ere long to work out his

deliverance.

In a few months his health and strength were completely restored,

and though he continued to perform his duties with alacrity, he was

meditating some plan by which he might escape from his bondage. In this

state of things, it chanced that he was one day passing by the public

whipping-house, when, hearing the lashes and screams of the sufferer,

he opened the door and went in. He there saw a young woman drawn upward

by the wrists, so that her feet were three or four inches from the

ground, while the executioner was inflicting upon her back the number

of lashes commanded by her master.

For a moment the blood rushed to Congo’s brain, and a dizzy

feeling came over him; but soon recovering, he rushed up to the

whipping-master, wrenched the whip from his hand, threw him upon the

ground, and laid the weapon lustily upon his back. He then cut the

rope which tied the hands of the suffering girl, and rushed out of the

place. Bewildered with his own emotions, he walked along the street,

apparently unconscious of his situation; but a loud shout, and a posse

of people at his heels, roused him from his revery. Congo turned round,

faced his pursuers sternly for a moment, and then, with a swift foot,

set out for the country.

For two miles he ran like a deer, but finding that he was pursued by

men on horseback, he leaped over the banks of the river Surinam, and

plunged into the water. Several of the horsemen came up and discharged

their pistols at the fugitive, but he was beyond their reach. He

swam across the river; but here a new danger awaited him. An immense

alligator lay upon the bank, and, as he approached, sprung upon him.

Nothing could have saved Congo at this moment but his strength and

courage. As he was approaching the shore, he saw the alligator, and,

drawing his knife from his belt, he faced the monster, and, plunging

his knife down his open jaws, killed him in an instant.

Delivered from this peril, Congo turned round, shook his fist

triumphantly toward his pursuers who lined the opposite bank of the

river, and set forward upon his journey toward the woody districts that

lay in the distance. These he at last reached, and burying himself in

the recesses of the forest, he lived like a wild animal upon the fruits

that nature afforded.

A party was soon made up and set forth, for the purpose of capturing

the daring negro. They were provided with guns, and attended by several

blood-hounds. The latter soon came upon the track of the fugitive,

and their deep bellowing at once announced to him his danger, and to

the hunters that the game was near at hand. Being armed with a stout

bludgeon, Congo departed, and for nearly two days the hounds were

unable to overtake him. At last, finding himself excessively fatigued,

he paused and determined to await the approach of the dogs, and give

them battle. They soon came up, and the leader sprang upon him. With a

single whirl of his club, the negro laid the animal prostrate upon the

earth.

In an instant, however, three more were before him, ready to bury their

fangs in his flesh! With his uplifted weapon, Congo looked the fierce

animals steadily in the eye. They paused for a moment; but, overcoming

their fear, they sprang upon him. Two of them were soon stretched

lifeless upon the ground, but a third seized Congo by the leg, and

brought him to the earth. The animal then sprang at his throat, but the

nimble knife of the negro despatched him in the very act. Wounded and

bloody, the poor fellow arose and dragged himself forward. He was soon

too faint to proceed, and fell to the earth.

The hunters now came up, and seeing that their dogs were killed, began

to deliberate as to the course they should pursue. Congo, sheltered

in the bushes, saw and heard all that passed. They concluded that it

was in vain to pursue the fugitive farther, and resolving to rest

themselves for a while, determined then to return. Taking off their

knapsacks, they laid them down with their guns, and three of the party

went in search of water, leaving the fourth behind. This individual sat

down upon the ground, and, leaning against a tree, was soon asleep.

It may well be imagined that Congo watched these proceedings with great

interest. Waiting till the three men were out of view, he issued from

his hiding-place, and carefully crept forward, toward the slumbering

hunter. The latter, however, was but partially asleep, and awaked by

the rustling of the leaves, saw the negro creeping upon him. Amazement

paralyzed him for a moment, then springing to his feet, he seized his

gun and fired. The ball missed, and, the instant after, he was grappled

in the arms of his formidable enemy. After a momentary struggle, they

both fell, and Congo was uppermost.

What was his surprise, in looking in the face of his prisoner, to

see his former master. Congo drew his knife from his belt; the blade

glittered aloft, and was already descending to inflict a fatal blow,

when his purpose changed, and he said, “It was your intention to kill

me, and were I in your place I should not have a moment to live. But I

will not imitate a white man.” Saying this, he took the straps of one

of the knapsacks that lay near him, and bound his prisoner firmly on

his back to the roots of a tree. Then seizing the four muskets, the

ammunition and the knapsacks, he said, with a smile, to the prostrate

gentleman, “Good-bye, massa,” and departed.

The huntsmen soon returned and released their companion, but finding

that their guns were now in the hands of the enemy, they thought

it most prudent to make a hasty retreat. While they returned to

Paramaribo, to be laughed at for their defeat, Congo, well armed and

provisioned, secreted himself in the forest. He was now too formidable

to be pursued, and soon meeting some of his countrymen, who, like

himself, had become inhabitants of the wilderness, they repaired to

the present site of Maroontown, and began to make a settlement. Here

they were speedily joined by other fugitives, and the village, thus

commenced, soon became a considerable town. Congo received the title

of king, and for many years continued to exercise authority over the

settlement.

(To be continued.)

[Illustration: Inquisitive Jack]

Inquisitive Jack.

CHAPTER VI.

It is time to fulfil our promise in respect to Inquisitive Jack. We

have but two or three chapters more to give, in respect to his life

and adventures, and here is one of them. We have told how Jack had

become acquainted with insects, birds, quadrupeds, and other living

things. We have now to give some account of the manner in which he

became interested in botany, which means the science of plants, trees

and flowers. Of course, everybody is fond of pretty flowers, roses,

and lilacs, and lilies, and peonies, and pinks, and sweet peas, and

other pretty blossoms. And everybody must be interested in trees, which

furnish us with fruit, and fuel, and shade; and they must be interested

in shrubs, which yield us so many berries. But there is something more

in the history of these things, than what at first meets the eye; and I

am now going to tell you something about them.

Jack happened one day to go down into the cellar, and he there saw a

potato which had been left upon the ground, and which had now begun to

put forth several shoots. These were perfectly white, and Jack asked

himself why the stalks of a potato in the cellar should be white,

while the stalks in the open air were green. He watched the potato

for several days, and perceived that it was growing quite rapidly. At

length, one thing greatly excited his curiosity. The potato itself was

lying behind a barrel, and the stalk had grown around this, and was now

pointing its head upward toward a low, narrow window, which permitted

a little light to enter the cellar. The vine of the potato seemed to

be actually directing its course toward this window, as if it really

wanted to see the light, and breathe the fresh air.

Greatly excited by these observations, Jack continued to watch the

potato from day to day, at the same time musing with himself as to what

it could mean. “Has this potato,” said he, thoughtfully, “got sense and

feeling? does it feel itself to be a prisoner, and want to go out to

see the light and breathe the air? Who has taught this plant to bend

its way toward the light, and lift up its head and point its leaves

toward that which it seems to require?” Not being able to satisfy these

inquiries, the boy at last went to his Aunt Betsey, and opened the

subject to her. This led to explanations, the substance of which was as

follows.

Plants or vegetables are organized substances, which live and grow

by the aid of light, air, and moisture. They need to be fed as much

as animals, and will as soon die without food, as an insect, bird,

or quadruped. Instead of taking in their sustenance by means of a

mouth, they suck it up by means of roots. These draw from the soil the

particular nutriment that is required in the form of sap, and this is

distributed to the branches and leaves of the plant. Heat and moisture

are necessary in order to set the sap in motion. Air and light are

imbibed by the leaves of the plants. The various colors of plants are

drawn from the rays of the sun.

All plants are propagated by seeds. These, however minute, contain all

the members of the parent plant--stalk, leaf and flower. These are so

nicely folded up as not to be distinguished; but when the plant begins

to grow, you can see, with the microscope, the several parts unfolding,

one by one, until at last they assume the form of the plant from which

they sprung. It is said that the acorn, which is the seed of the oak,

contains all the members of the future tree.

Jack was exceedingly delighted with these curious facts, and, according

to his custom, he pursued the investigation of the subject by his own

observations, by reading books, and by inquiries of his intelligent

and obliging aunt. In the progress of his studies, he learned many

other curious facts, some of which we must relate, for they are quite

amusing.

Although plants have no sense or thought, yet nature seems to have

made provision which supplies all their wants. To prevent chestnuts

and walnuts from being devoured before they are ripe, the former are

covered with a prickly burr, and the latter with an exceedingly bitter

rind. When these are ripe, the outer coating bursts open, and lets out

the imprisoned fruit or seed. Similar contrivances are observed in

respect to a multitude of other plants.

Some seeds, as those of apples, peaches, plums, pears, cherries,

currants, &c., are covered up in a fleshy or pulpy substance, which we

call fruit. Here a double purpose is answered. The seeds are nicely

taken care of, while mankind, with many other creatures, are provided

with an ample store of delicious food. But lest the seed should be

destroyed before it is brought to maturity, the fruit is very sour or

bitter, until the seeds are quite ripe.

Thus we see that God, who has taken such kind care of animals, by

giving them the power and skill to acquire their food and perpetuate

their existence, has also taken care even of the life and prosperity

of plants. As these depend entirely upon seeds for their propagation,

he has provided that these seeds shall be wrapped up, protected, and

nursed, almost as carefully as little children. Nor is this all. We

might suppose that a seed would fall from the tree, and finding no

other soil than that beneath the shadow of its parent, it would shoot

up and perish for the want of light, and heat, and air. But as children

are able to go from the parent roof and find homes for themselves,

so God has provided that seeds shall emigrate from their homes, and,

scattering themselves abroad, cover the face of nature with diversified

vegetation.

You will be curious to know how this emigration of the seeds is brought

about. I will tell you. You have seen the thistle down, in the autumn,

rise upon the air and go sailing along to a great distance. That down

has got a thistle-seed attached to it, and it is carrying it along to

some place where it may rest, and being imbedded by the rain in the

soil, it will shoot up into a thistle. Thus you see the little seed is

supplied with wings, upon which it flies away from home, and sets up

for itself. One thistle will throw off many thousands of these downy

seeds, and thus the race is multiplied.

There are many other plants that have winged seeds, which are

distributed in the same way. Perhaps you think the rough winds

of autumn are unpleasant and mischievous, but remember that they

shake myriads of seeds from the plants and trees, and scatter them

abroad over the land. Nor is this the only way in which seeds are

disseminated. Birds carry the stones of cherries, and the seeds of

various kinds of berries, from the place where they are produced, to

other distant points.

Quadrupeds disperse the seeds of various grasses and grains, by

carrying them from one point to another. The burdock and the cockle

seeds attach themselves to the woolly fleece of animals, and are thus

dispersed. Rains carry seeds down the slopes of hills and mountains,

and rivers bear them from one region to another.

Some seeds scatter themselves by means of springs in their covering,

furnished by the plant itself. If you slightly pinch the ripe seed-case

of the pretty flower of the gardens called the balsam, it will burst

asunder, and scatter the seed in all directions. The pouch which

contains the seeds of the wood-sorrel, also bursts and scatters them

around on all sides. The capsules of ferns open with a spring. The

seeds of some species of this plant, when viewed through a microscope,

upon paper, seem to be endowed with a kind of leaping movement.

These and many other curious particulars Jack learned about plants;

but he was not yet able to answer some of the questions which had been

suggested by the potato in the cellar. How did this plant know that

it wanted light and air? and what made it bend round the barrel, and

move forward toward the window? Are plants endowed with feeling and

knowledge, which teaches them their wants, and points out the means

by which these are to be satisfied? These inquiries were pursued, and

Jack at last became acquainted with what is thought by learned men upon

these interesting topics.

Animals are endowed with what is called instinct, which is inherent or

implanted by God. The purpose of this is to make them act in a manner

to secure food, to protect themselves from injury, and in general to

promote their happiness. This instinct is sometimes distinct from

intelligence, and sometimes mixed with it. In its simplest form,

it seems to be as involuntary as the beating of the heart, or the

circulation of the blood. Thus a hen sits upon her eggs, but the reason

she does not know. She is guided by some power as distinct from her own

knowledge, as is the beating of her heart.

Now, we know nothing of this instinct, except that it is a principle

implanted by God to promote the benefit of the species to which it

belongs; and that, at the same time, it is totally different from that

intelligence which springs from knowledge, and leads its possessor to

act in a particular manner, from its own reflections. A species of

instinct of a lower grade is doubtless imparted to plants. If seeds are

cast into the soil in the shade, as they require light, this instinct

impels them to creep, bend, and rise, as the case may be, where it may

receive the light and air it requires. Such was the conclusion to which

our young botanist arrived; and here we must leave him for the present.

* * * * *

BONAPARTE’S WAYS.--The great roads constructed by Napoleon over the

Alps, are, that over Cenis, 30 miles long and 18 yards wide; that over

Semplon, 36 miles long and 25 yards broad; one partly through galleries

hewn in the rocks, 683 feet; that over Genevre, 6,000 feet high; that

from Nice to Monaco; and that over St. Gothard, 8,264 feet high. They

are altogether the most gigantic efforts of labor since the pyramids

of Egypt.

Lady Jane Grey.

(Continued from page 61.)

After her marriage, Lady Jane led a life of almost as great seclusion

as before; she pursued her studies and maintained a correspondence in

Latin with the most eminent reformers in Germany. She took little heed

of the ambitious designs of her parents; nay, it is almost certain

that she was purposely kept in entire ignorance of them, and that

the first intimation which she had of her destiny, was when the two

dukes, attended by other nobles, came to announce to her the death

of Edward, approaching her with the respect and ceremony appropriate

to a sovereign. The intelligence caused her both surprise and grief.

She refused to receive the crown, pleading the superior right of her

cousins Mary and Elizabeth, and the little probability that the people

would recognize her title. “But,” she continued, “if fortune would

give me warranties of her favor and her constancies, should I be well

advised to take upon me this crown of thorns, which would not fail

to torment me, though I were assured not to be strangled with it? My

liberty is better than the chain you offer me, with what precious

stones soever it be adorned, or of what gold soever framed. I will

not exchange my peace for honorable and precious jealousies, for

magnificent and glorious fetters; and if you love me in earnest, you

will rather wish me a secure and quiet fortune, though mean, than an

exalted condition exposed to the world, and followed by some dismal

fall.”

But the nobles had proceeded too far to be thwarted in their purpose

by the scruples or the disinclinations of a young girl. Northumberland

commanded and threatened, Suffolk begged and entreated, yet Lady Jane

did not yield, notwithstanding the habits of implicit obedience in

which she had been educated. A new auxiliary was then brought into the

field; Lord Guilford Dudley, dazzled by the brilliant destiny which

seemed to await him, was induced to exert his influence; the wife could

not withstand his wishes, and surrendered her own judgment to the will

of her relations.

The sovereigns of England were wont to pass the first days after

their accession at the Tower, in London; and, in compliance with

this custom, Lady Jane proceeded thither, accompanied by a brilliant

cavalcade of nobility, of both sexes. The streets through which she

passed were crowded with people, but it was from curiosity rather than

satisfaction; no acclamations of joy saluted her,--an omen which gave

great encouragement to the friends of Mary.

That princess, who was in the country at the time of Edward’s death,

in the mean time was not idle, nor content to yield her birthright

without a struggle. As soon as she learned what was passing at London,

she summoned the nobles to attend upon her, and wrote to the council,

expressing her surprise, that she, the heir to the throne, had yet

received no official notice of the death of the late sovereign. Those

members of this body, who, for the most part, had yielded their assent

to the usurpation, through fear of Northumberland, were now alarmed at

the little support which the act received from the people, and were

devising means to escape from the imprisonment, in which, under the

honorable name of attendance upon Queen Jane, they were held in the

Tower. Their confinement was not of long duration. On the 11th of July,

1553, Jane removed to the Tower, and caused proclamation to be made

of her accession, at the usual places in London; the people listening

to the herald in silence. On the 19th of the same month, proclamation

was made, at the same places, of the accession of Queen Mary; but the

attendant circumstances were far different on the occasion; the civic

authorities of the city seemed to accept Mary as queen, and with such

applause was she received by the people, that, from the commencement,

not a word more could be heard for the general acclamations. A

contemporary letter-writer says that “the like triumphe was never seen.

The number of capps that were thrown up at the proclamation weare not

to be tould. The Earl of Pembroke threwe awaye his cap full of angels.

The bonfires weare without number; and what with shoutynge and criange

off the people, and ringing of belles, theare could no one man hear

almost what another sayd; besides banketynge and skipping the streete

for joy.”

The news of what was passing in the city produced a rapid change of

policy in the Tower. Many of the very counsellors, who the day before

had set their hands to resolutions to stand by the Lady Jane, hastened

to be present at the proclamation of Queen Mary, and despatched

messengers to that princess, humbly soliciting her pardon for their

offences. Suffolk, as much dejected as he had before been exalted,

proceeded to his daughter’s apartments, ordered all the ceremonials

of royalty to cease, and admonished her to bear, with what patience

she could, a return to private life. She was not at all discomposed;

the news, she said, was more welcome than the summons which forced

her against her will to such an elevation. “In obedience to you, my

lord,” continued she, “and to my mother, I acted a violence on myself,

and have been guilty of a grievous offence; but the present is my own

act, and I willingly resign to correct another’s fault, if so great a

fault can be corrected by my resignation and sincere acknowledgment.”

From this interview, Suffolk proceeded to Tower Hill, where he

himself proclaimed Mary to be queen; and then going to the council,

set his name to an order to Northumberland, who was in command of

the troops raised by his partisans, to lay down his arms and submit.

That nobleman, upon receipt of the news, had retreated to Cambridge,

“with more sad thoughts within him than soldiers about him.” He there

proclaimed Queen Mary, “the beholders whereof more believing the grief

in his eyes, when they let down tears, than the joy professed by his

hands, when he threw up his cap.”

One of the first acts of the new council, was to issue an order for

the separation of Lady Jane from her husband, and the removal of both

from the royal apartments to those designed for prisoners of state.

The execution of the order was entrusted to Bishop Gardiner. We have

no historical record of the manner in which he executed the task,

which his zeal for popery made a work of pleasure; but we can readily

believe that Shakspere has truly delineated the scene.

_Gardiner._ Lieutenant of the Tower, take hence your prisoners;

Be it your care to see them kept apart;

That they hold no commerce with each other.

_Guilford._ Wilt thou part us?

_Gard._ I hold no speech with heretics and traitors.

Lieutenant, see my orders are obeyed.

_Guilf._ Inhuman, monstrous, unexampled cruelty!

O tyrant! but the task becomes thee well;

Thy savage temper joys to do death’s office,

To tear the sacred bonds of love asunder,

And part those hands which Heaven itself hath joined.

_Duchess._ To let us waste the little rest of life

Together, had been merciful.

_Guilf._ (_to Lady J._) Thou standest unmoved;

Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow;

Thy eyes, that flowed so fast for Edward’s loss,

Gaze unconcerned upon the ruin round thee,

As if thou hadst resolved to brave thy fate

And triumph in the midst of desolation.

_Lady Jane._ And dost thou think, my Guilford, I can see

My father, mother, and e’en thee, my husband,

Torn from my side, without a pang of sorrow?

How art thou thus unknowing in my heart?

Words cannot tell thee what I feel; there is

An agonizing softness busy here

That tugs the strings, that struggles to get loose,

And pour my soul in wailings out before thee.

_Guilf._ Give way, and let the gushing torrent come. * * *

_Lady J._ Guilford! no.

The time for tender thoughts and soft endearments

Is fled away and gone; joy has forsaken us;

Our hearts have now another part to play;

They must be steeled with some uncommon fortitude,

That fearless we may tread the paths of horrors,

And, in despite of fortune and our foes,

E’en in the hour of death be more than conquerors.

_Guilf._ O teach me! say, what energy divine

Inspires thy softer sex and tender years

With such unshaken courage?

_Lady J._ Truth and innocence; * * *

_Lieut._ My lords, my orders--

_Guilf._ See! we must--must part!

_Lady J._ Yet surely we shall meet again.

_Guilf._ Fain would I cheer my heart with hopes like these,

But my sad thoughts turn ever to the grave,

To that last dwelling whither now we haste.

_Lady J._ ’Tis true, by those dark paths our journey leads,

And through the vale of death we pass to life;

But what is there in death to blast our hopes?

Behold the universal works of nature,

Where life still springs from death.

Mark with what hopes upon the furrowed plain

The careful ploughman casts the pregnant grain;

There hid, as in a grave, awhile it lies,

Till the revolving season bids it rise;

Then large increase the buried treasures yield,

And with full harvest crown the plenteous field.

But to return to history. The conduct of Lady Jane in this sudden

transition was such as was to be expected from one so humble, gentle,

and pious. “She had,” says Bishop Burnet, “a mind wonderfully raised

above the world; and at the age wherein others are but imbibing

the notions of philosophy, she had attained to the practice of the

highest precepts of it; for she was neither lifted up with the hope

of a crown, nor cast down when she saw her palace made afterwards her

prison; but carried herself with an equal temper of mind in those great

inequalities of fortune that so suddenly exalted and depressed her.”

In the words of the quaint Fuller, “she made misery itself amiable by

her pious and patient behavior; adversity, her night clothes, becoming

her, as well as her day dressing, by reason of her pious disposition.”

On the 19th of November, Lady Jane and her husband were arraigned

for high treason. Conscious that a defence would be useless, they

each pleaded guilty. The description of the scene, as given by

contemporaries, has been well embodied by the poet already quoted.

Bishop Gardiner, in reply to the expostulations of one of the council

in favor of mercy, is represented as speaking thus:--

“These are romantic, light, vain-glorious dreams.

Have you considered well upon the danger?

How dear to the fond many, and how popular,

These are whom you would spare? Have you forgot

When at the bar, before the seat of judgment,

This Lady Jane, this beauteous traitress, stood,

With what command she charmed the whole assembly?

With silent grief the mournful audience sat,

Fixed on her face, and listening to her pleading:

Her very judges wrung their hands for pity;

Their old hearts melted in them as she spoke,

And tears ran down upon their silver beards.

E’en I myself was moved, and for a moment

Felt wrath suspended in my doubtful breast,

And questioned if the voice I heard was mortal.

But when her tale was done, what loud applause,

Like bursts of thunder, shook the spacious hall!

At last, when sore constrained, the unwilling lords

Pronounced the fatal sentence on her life;

A peal of groans ran through the crowded court

As every heart was broken, and the doom,

Like that which waits the world, were universal.”

It has been supposed that Mary had, at this moment, no sanguinary

purposes in view, but merely hoped by the terrors of a scaffold, and in

the seclusion of a prison, to recall the youthful pair from the path

of heresy. With this view, she caused the most solemn promises of life

and fortune to be made to Lady Jane, if she would recant; the most

learned divines of the Catholic faith were sent to reason with her, and

to endeavor to turn her from that faith which she had held from her

cradle; “each striving by art, by flattery, by threatening, by promise

of life, or whatever else might move most in the bosom of a weak woman,

who should become master of so great a prize; but all their labors were

bootless, for she had art to confound their art, wisdom to withstand

their flatteries, resolution above their menaces, and such a true

knowledge of life, that death was to her no other than a most familiar

acquaintance.”

Indeed, supported as she was by the almost unanimous voice of the

English people, Mary had little cause to fear her innocent rivals. She

seems to have felt thus, for many little indulgences were granted to

them; though not permitted to see one another, they were allowed such

freedom within the walls of the Tower, as was not inconsistent with

their safe-keeping.

But whatever hopes they might have entertained were quickly taken

away by an unhappy event, which it was impossible for them to

foresee, and in which it is not so much as pretended that they were

parties. The cruelty and bigotry of Philip of Spain had made his very

name detestable in England; when, therefore, the queen announced

her determination to marry him, the whole kingdom was thrown into

consternation. The most strenuous efforts were made to dissuade her

from her purpose; but, these failing, a general insurrection was

concerted, having for its object the substitution of the protestant

Elizabeth for Mary upon the throne.

Their plans were not yet fully matured, when the arrest of some of

those concerned, though for some entirely distinct cause, alarmed Sir

Thomas Wyatt, the leader, and drove him into premature rebellion. The

queen, when she heard of his rising, sent a herald to command him to

dismiss his followers. The herald found the moat about Sir Thomas’

house filled with water, and the drawbridge up; at one spot a ford

seemed to offer a safe passage. “On the inside thereof walked the

proper case of a man well habited, and his face carrying no despair

of wisdom therein. The herald asked him, ‘whether he might safely go

over there?’ To whom the other slily replied, ‘Yea, yea;’ but had not

the strength of his horse been more than ordinary, he either had been

drowned in the water, or buried in the mud.” The herald, on arriving

at the house, made loud complaints of the deceit practised upon him;

when Sir Thomas summoned all his household to answer the charge. “The

herald challengeth the party at the first sight of him. ‘Alas!’ said

Sir Thomas, ‘he is a mere natural, as will appear, if you will please

to examine him.’ ‘Why, sirrah,’ said the herald, ‘did you direct me to

come over where it was almost impossible to pass without drowning?’ To

whom the other answered, ‘The ducks came over not long before you,

whose legs were shorter than your horse’s.’ Hereat the herald smiled

out his anger, adding withal, ‘Sir Thomas, hereafter let your fool wear

his motley, that he may deceive no more in this kind.’”

The infatuation of Suffolk sealed his daughter’s fate. No sooner did he

hear of Wyatt’s being in arms than he hastened down into Leicestershire

and summoned the people to join him in rebellion; but his own tenants

disregarded the call; he was seized by the queen’s officers and carried

to London. The father’s treason was imputed to the daughter, and one

of the first acts of the queen and her council, after the suppression

of the rebellion, was to order the execution of the sentence which had

been hanging over the head of Lady Jane and her husband. Jane heard

the annunciation with gladness; she was prepared for death, which she

looked upon as the termination of her miseries and her entrance into

eternal happiness. But she was not suffered to pass the four days of

life which were allowed her, in quiet; her devotions were disturbed

by the priests who, by the queen’s command, sought, by perpetual

disputations, to bring about what they called a timely conversion. But

their efforts, though renewed on each day, were unsuccessful; “her

faith, being built on the rock of Christ, was by no worldly persuasion

or comfort to be either moved or shaken; so that after the expense of

time, and the loss of much speech, they left her, a lost and forsaken

member; but she prayed for them, and with a most charitable patience

endured their worst censures.”

It had been the original intention of the queen that the youthful

couple should suffer together on Tower-hill, but the council, dreading

the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, and innocence,

changed the orders, and gave directions that Lord Guilford should

suffer on the Hill, but that Lady Jane should be executed within the

walls of the Tower. On the morning of the fatal day, Lord Guilford

desired permission to see his wife. The queen granted the permission,

but Lady Jane refused to permit the interview; sending him word,

that the tenderness of their parting would overcome the fortitude of

both, and would too much unbend their minds from the constancy which

was required of them. She added, that their separation would be but

for a moment; and that they would soon rejoin each other in a scene

where their affections would forever be united, and where death and

disappointment could no longer have access to them to disturb their

happiness.

On his way to the gate, Lord Guilford passed directly under the window

of his wife, and from thence she took one last parting look in the

world, giving him a signal of remembrance; and when he was no more to

be seen she sat down with apparent tranquillity, and waited the arrival

of her own appointed hour. When she heard the rumbling of the cart

which brought back the lifeless remains of her husband, she rose, and

walked to the window under which it passed. Her attendants would have

prevented her, but she declared that the constancy of his end had given

a confirmation to her mind adequate to counterbalance the shock of this

sad spectacle; and she is then said to have exclaimed, “O Guilford!

Guilford! the antepast is not so bitter that you have tasted, and that

I shall soon taste, as to make my flesh tremble; but that is nothing

compared to the feast that you and I shall this day partake of in

heaven!”

When the officer appeared to summon her to the scaffold, she

followed him with the most perfect calmness; there was no change of

countenance, nor any evidence of discomposure. She mounted the steps

without hesitation, and waited quietly till silence was procured,

and then addressed a few simple words to the spectators; avowing her

steadfastness in the Protestant faith. The executioner, on his knees,

besought her forgiveness, which she sweetly and willingly accorded to

him. She then bound the handkerchief over her eyes, and feeling for

the block, said, “What shall I do? Where is it!” At these questions

one of the persons on the scaffold guided her towards the block, on

which she instantly laid her head, and then stretching forth her body,

exclaimed,--“Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit!” A pause of

one moment ensued, the axe fell,--and the lovely and pious victim to

ambition and bigotry rejoined her husband in heaven!

* * * * *

ANA are maxims, anecdotes, and original fragments of eminent men. The

French have a multitude of such works. In England there are Walpoliana,

Addisonia, Swiftiana, and Knoxiana and Londoniana.

* * * * *

SIR ISAAC NEWTON, on being asked his opinion of poetry, replied, that

it was a kind of ingenious nonsense.

[Illustration: elaborately decorated carriage]

Lord Mayor’s Show.

The chief officer of the city of London is called the Lord Mayor. He is

chosen by the citizens of that metropolis, and on the day in which he

assumes his office, he rides about the streets of London in a splendid

gilt coach, attended by other coaches, and men dressed up in military

hats, with tall feathers. Their coats and pantaloons are almost covered

with gold lace. The heads of the horses and the harnesses are decorated

with gilt stars and bouquets of ribbons.

The driver of the Lord Mayor’s coach looks almost smothered with his

big hat, and the immense mass of gilt lace upon the collar of his coat.

The Lord Mayor himself is very gaily dressed. I once saw this show, and

it appeared to me that the Lord Mayor and all his attendants looked

more like images or idols, bedizened with finery, than like human

beings.

The Lord Mayor goes to Black Friar’s bridge, where he and his

attendants enter a splendid barge. They are then rowed to Westminster

bridge, where they land and proceed to the Westminster Hall, where the

Lord Mayor takes the oath of office. He then returns to his barge,

lands at Black Friar’s bridge, and reënters his coach. The grand

procession is attended by the banners of the city companies, and, after

marching about the principal streets, they proceed to Guildhall, where

they have a sumptuous dinner.

Wherever the Lord Mayor goes on this occasion, there are crowds of

boys and other persons following him. When he is on the river, he is

surrounded by a multitude of boats, with flags waving in the air, and

when he passes along the streets, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs

from the windows.

The people of London seem very much delighted with this exhibition.

Indeed, they seem to think that he who gives them the best show is the

best mayor.

These spectacles are of very ancient date. Formerly the kings and

queens used to parade the streets of the city, dressed up in gaudy

finery, and all the young people admired these things, for it was

always a holiday, when such a spectacle took place. In modern times,

kings and queens are not so fond of showing themselves. The present

queen, Victoria, seems to have partially restored the old custom, for

she may be frequently seen travelling about the country. She has the

good sense, however, to dress modestly, and like other ladies.

But as the pageantry of kings and queens has grown into disuse, the

people of London seem to think more of Lord Mayor’s day. In 1837,

the Lord Mayor’s procession was attended by two gigantic figures

on horseback, called Gog and Magog. In 1841, the procession was

accompanied by a model of a full-rigged ship; she was manned by

boys from the naval school, who performed all the evolutions like

thorough-bred sailors. It was placed in a car, drawn by six horses.

The Lord Mayor’s coach was built in the year 1757, almost one hundred

years ago. It cost about five thousand dollars, and its pannels were

decorated with paintings by Cipriani, a celebrated artist of that day.

The engraving at the head of this article gives a good idea of this

famous vehicle.

Joan of Arc.

CHAPTER I.

The village of Domremi, near Vaucouleurs, on the borders of Lorraine,

is distinguished as the birth-place of the celebrated Joan of Arc, in

the year 1402. Born in a humble sphere of life, her education was

limited. Her parents, James D’Arc and Isabella Romé, were poor, and

not being able to educate Joan, sent her, when still young, to take

the situation of servant in a small inn. Having a robust frame, and an

active temper, she employed herself in a manner rather unsuited to her

sex, in currying the horses of the people who frequented the inn, and

riding them to water. In short, she took pleasure in all the active

occupations attending the situation, at the same time that her conduct

and manners were entirely free from reproach.

At this time, the situation of France was very interesting and

critical, roused the attention, and formed a constant theme for

conversation in all parts of the kingdom, and among all ranks of

people. The prince having been expelled from his throne, the kingdom

was of course in a state of division and anarchy. At the same time,

the English army were laying siege to Orleans, whose inhabitants were

making the greatest efforts to avert their probable fate. Joan listened

with interest to the news, as it was repeated by the changing guests

of the inn; all the “rumors of wars” reached her ears, and struck her

imagination. She listened with daily increasing interest to the story

of the unfortunate dauphin, till her bosom was filled with a sentiment

of loyal attachment to his cause. She pondered on the probable means

of his deliverance, and dwelt upon the miseries of her country till

her mind became disordered and bewildered, and she thought that she

was impelled, by supernatural voices, to expel the enemies of her

bleeding country. Her mind was filled with visions, her heart with

high hopes, and her habits of life and fearless temper urged her on to

the accomplishment of that which her youth and sanguine ardor led her

to deem possible.

Filled with these fancies, she could no longer remain in the inactive

sphere in which her parents had placed her; she was no longer content,

and, packing up her small wardrobe, she returned to her family,

and communicated to them her projects and her hopes. Touched by

her enthusiasm, her friends accompanied her to Vaucouleurs, where

the governor, whose name was Baudricourt, resided. Having obtained

admission, she imparted her mission, told him her high hopes, painted

to him in glowing colors the visions that had visited her from above,

and conjured him to aid her in effecting the great object she had at

heart. Above all, she warned him not to treat with neglect or contempt

the revelations of God. The governor at first deemed her insane and

unworthy of attention, but at length, impressed by her perseverance,

and by the representations of a gentleman by the name of Longport,

who had conceived a high idea of the character of Joan, he had her

conducted to the French court, which was then residing at Chinon.

It is pretended by those addicted to the marvellous, that Joan,

having offered in the name of the Supreme Being, to raise the siege

of Orleans, to conduct the dauphin to Rheims, and there to anoint him

king, she impressed him with a strong sense of her divine authority, by

confiding to him a secret which he supposed only known to himself. She

is said to have described minutely a sword which was kept in a certain

church, and which she had never seen. She also required this instrument

to aid her in the victories that she expected and promised to perform.

Hope and enthusiasm now combined to animate the drooping spirits of the

royalists. Heaven itself appeared to smile on their cause, and declare

itself in their favor. The affairs of the king were in too desperate

a state to reject any means, however insufficient or romantic, which

might flatter the hopes of his adherents, and faith and confidence

silenced the cold suggestions of reason.

After many debates in parliament, many scruples among the king and his

ministers, and various investigations by the divines of the pretensions

of the prophetess, her wishes were complied with, and, mounted on

horseback, and armed cap-a-pie, Joan exhibited herself to the admiring

populace. Her fine figure, animated face, and the graceful manner in

which she managed her pawing steed, added to the popular enthusiasm.

Shouts and acclamations rent the air; her former occupations were

forgotten; chivalry, religion and sentiment united to captivate the

fancy and influence the hearts of the multitude.

All things being now ready, preparations were made to put in execution

the plans of the heroine. A large convoy, escorted by ten thousand

men, and headed by Joan, were ordered to march to Orleans. Mounted

on a white horse, her head crowned with a helmet, she bore in her

hand a consecrated banner. In her prophetic character, she insisted

that the convoy should enter Orleans by the direct road from the side

of Beausse; but Dunois thought proper to differ from the maid, and

conducted his troops on the opposite side of the river, where the

enemy were less strongly entrenched. Previous to their march, Joan had

addressed a letter to the English generals, exhorting them to leave

the country, and not to resist the will of God, whose commission she

bore. The officers treated her pretensions with derision and scorn, and

ridiculed the desperate situation of the dauphin, who had recourse to

so absurd an expedient to improve his condition. The soldiers, however,

were affected with superstitious terror by the stories which had

reached their camp, and were many of them nearly deprived of courage

and confidence.

While the convoy approached the river, the inhabitants of Orleans

sent boats to receive the provisions, while Joan protected them with

her troops. The English did not venture to attack her, and after

accomplishing their purpose, the French returned in safety to Blois.

The complete success of this undertaking produced a corresponding

effect upon the minds of both parties. Joan made a triumphal entry into

Orleans, and was received as one sent from heaven by the enraptured

citizens.

The next convoy which was sent to Orleans, entered, as formerly

desired by Joan, on the other side of the river. Struck with panic,

the besiegers offered no resistance, but allowed the convoy to proceed

straight through their redoubts, in silence and consternation. The

English general saw himself placed in a most extraordinary and

perilous situation; the minds of his troops were unnerved by a fanatic

influence, against which valor had no effect, their spirits were

depressed, and thus everything conspired in favor of the besieged, and

led the way to further triumphs.

Joan, reading at a glance the situation of the English soldiers,

and profiting by the ardor inspired by this fortunate train of

circumstances, now addressed the garrison, and exhorted them to make a

sally upon the enemy. Waving her consecrated banner, she called upon

the generals to aid her, and the troops, thus assured of the assistance

of Heaven, poured with fury upon the English, whose forces, unnerved

by superstition, were cut to pieces, and many of them taken captive.

Such was the panic, that Sir John Talbot, who arrived at this time with

troops for the relief of the garrison, retired again, not daring to

attack the victorious and heaven-led army.

The maid and her followers, excited by success, and not doubting that

they could carry everything before them, now proposed to attack the

main body of the enemy. Dunois, who had more discretion, though equal

zeal, urged them rather to attack the English forts, which lay on the

opposite side of the river. To this Joan consented; the forts were

assailed, and, for a moment, the French were repulsed, but the inspired

maid, animating her troops by her voice, her gestures, and her lofty

bearing, rallied her recreant troops, led them back to the charge, and

was completely victorious. Having received a wound in the neck from an

arrow, she retired behind the troops, and extracting the weapon with

her own hands, she exclaimed, “It is glory, and not blood, which flows

from this wound.” After having it slightly dressed, she returned,

placed herself again at the head of her victorious troops, and

succeeded in planting her victorious standard on the enemy’s ramparts.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

The musical instrument called the trombone is the _sackbut_ of the

ancients. It was revived in 1790, after a model found at Pompeii.

It produced every semitone by sliding out and in, like a telescopic

tube.

Our Correspondence.

We have the pleasure to acknowledge the letter of a subscriber from

Holliston. The communication of J. Q. is also received. His curiosity

in respect to the tale of Dirk Heldriver will be satisfied in the

progress of the story. Our little friend, George G----, must have

patience. He shall know all about Dick Boldhero in good time. His

adventures will carry us through a number of chapters. The following

letter sufficiently explains itself:

_Point Shirley, August 21st._

MR. MERRY,--Although the weather is very hot in Boston, it

is very cool down here. To prove this, I send you answers

to two puzzles, which are to be found in your Museum. That

for the one in the June number, is B_u_onaparte. The true

spelling of this name is Bonaparte. Do you think it right,

Mr. Merry, to puzzle your readers with a false spelling?

The answer to the puzzle in the August number is Norwich, a

town in Connecticut; and a very pleasant town it is.

Now, Mr. Merry, I have answered the puzzles, and though

they were not very deep, yet I should hardly have done this

had I been spending the dog-days in Boston. But here I feel

as lively as if it were October. I walk along the sea-shore

every morning and evening, and sometimes I ramble as far as

Chelsea Beach. I love the blue sea, and I think I shall

make a voyage upon it as soon as I am old enough.

Yours, J. H.

_Cleveland, Ohio, August 4th._

MR. ROBERT MERRY,--Though we are eight hundred nines from

Boston, we get Merry’s Museum every month. Sometimes it

comes late, and this disappoints me; but I am glad to get

it after all. I see that some of your subscribers write you

letters; I venture to follow their example, and shall tell

you something about Cleveland.

It is quite a pleasant town--at least, I think so, for it

is my birth-place. It is situated on a bluff eighty feet

high, upon the south side of Lake Erie. The streets are

straight, and cross each other at right angles. You can

look out upon the lake from many of the streets, and as it

is seventy miles wide, on the north side you cannot see the

land.

The streets are very level, and many of the houses are

handsome. I was once at New Haven, in Connecticut, and I

think some of the streets in Cleveland look like some of

those in New Haven. We have, however, no mountains, like

East and West Rock. Indeed, the country is flat around

Cleveland, and, far as the eye can reach, you can see

nothing like a mountain.

The river Cayahogo empties into the lake west of the town.

At the mouth of this is our harbor, and here you see a

great many small vessels. Some of these come from Buffalo,

some from Detroit, some from Canada, some from Sandusky,

and some from other places. They often carry away four

or five thousand barrels of flour in a single day. Fine

steamboats come here every day, and at this season we see

many people in them from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia.

Thus you see, Mr. Merry, though we are so far from Boston,

we are not quite out of the world. The steamboats go almost

a thousand miles farther north and west than we are, and

I am told that some of the emigrants, when asked to what

place they are going, say, “to Sun Down.”

I have now filled my paper, though I ought to tell you that

this is a very cheap place to live in. You can buy a barrel

of flour for three dollars; a ton of excellent coal for two

dollars and fifty cents; eggs for six cents a dozen; and a

wild turkey for twenty-five cents. If any of your friends

can’t find room enough in Boston, let them come out here,

and we will take care of them. A letter of introduction

from you will ensure them a welcome.

Yours, S. P----T.

The Lark.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

[Illustration: Music]

1. I hear a pretty bird, but hark!

I cannot see it any-where,

Oh! it is a little lark

Singing in the morning air.

Little lark, do tell me why

You are singing in the sky.

Other little birds at rest

Have not yet begun to sing;

Every one is in its nest,

With its head behind its wing;

Little lark, then tell me why

You’re so early in the sky?

You look no bigger than a bee,

In the middle of the blue,

Up above the poplar tree,

I can hardly look at you.

Little lark, do tell me why

You are mounted up so high?

’Tis to watch the silver star

Sinking slowly in the skies,

And beyond the mountain far,

See the glorious sun arise.

Little lady, this is why

I am mounted up so high.

’Tis to sing a merry song

To the pleasant morning light;

Why stay in my nest so long

When the sun is shining bright?

Little lady, this is why

I sing so early in the sky.

To the little birds below

I do sing a merry tune;

And I let the ploughman know

He must come to labor soon.

Little lady, this is why

I am singing in the sky.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. OCTOBER, 1844. No. 4.

[Illustration: October]

It is October. The “sere and yellow leaf” is in the forest; the birds,

one by one, have departed, and stillness begins to settle over the

scenes where the ceaseless minstrelsy of the feathered tribes had

prevailed. Yet the landscape is still beautiful: the woods have put on

their “coat of many colors;” the nuts are beginning to fall, and the

squirrels have to dispute with the boys and girls the possession of

their first fruits.

Every season has its appropriate work to perform in the great household

of nature: the winds of October and November disseminate the seeds

which have been matured during the summer. The thistle down is now seen

emigrating on its noiseless wing, bearing its little seed to some

place where it may “settle.” A thousand other seeds are scattered by

the winds and the waters, and thus the face of nature is covered with

its variegated garments of vegetation.

We cannot do better than to close our notice of October, with an old

piece of wit, which, however common, will bear repeating.

ECHO GIVES A LESSON.

It is October; the winds have left the forest and the field; the

busy birds have ceased their labors, and have either departed, or

sit songless upon the trees. Stillness settles at noon-day over the

landscape. Step over into the valley, and see how your voice will be

repeated to the hills. I suppose you to speak in the character of a

glutton.

_Glutton._ My joy is a feast, my wish is wine!

_Echo_ replies,--catching the last sound,--swine!!!

Do you not feel rebuked? But go on

with the dialogue.

_Glutton._ We epicures are happy truly.

_Echo._ You lie.

_Glutton._ Will it hurt me if I drink too much?

_Echo._ Much.

_Glutton._ Thou mockest me! I’ll not believe it.

_Echo._ Believe it.

_Glutton._ Is it drink that brings infirmities?

_Echo._ It is.

_Glutton._ Then Temperance I’ll love thee.

_Echo._ I love thee.

_Glutton._ If that be true which thou dost tell,

Then Sensuality farewell.

_Echo._ Farewell!

Such is the lesson, which, according to an old book, Echo read to a

glutton, some two hundred years ago. It is worth learning now.

[Illustration: Chinchillas]

The Chinchilla.

This pretty little animal is six inches long, with small rounded ears,

large black eyes, and a tail of moderate length. It is a species of

field rat, found in the northern parts of Chili, in South America. It

lives in burrows, and feeds upon the roots of bulbous plants. Its fur

is in great esteem, being very fine and of an ash gray color. It is

very docile in temper, and extremely timid. If placed in the bosom, it

remains as still and quiet as if it were in its own nest. It is very

agile, and can leap to the height of several feet, its hind legs being

longer than the fore legs. It usually sits upon its haunches, and is

able to raise itself up and stand upon its hinder feet. It feeds in a

sitting posture, grasping its food in its fore paws, in the same manner

as the squirrel.

There is a variety of the chinchilla in Peru, but it is larger in size,

and the fur is not so fine as that of the Chilian animal. It is equally

good-tempered, and mild in its disposition, and, when domesticated, is

very tame and playful.

Great numbers of these animals are caught, by boys with dogs, and sold

to traders, who take them to Santiago. The extensive use of the fur

has occasioned great destruction of them. The ancient Peruvians made

coverlets for beds of this fur.

A Spanish writer, in 1591, thus mentions this animal: “The chinchilly

is a kind of small beasts, like squirrels; they have a wonderful smooth

and soft skin, which the people wear as a healthful thing to cover

those parts which have need of a moderate heat.”

A seaman, in 1593, also describes them: “In Peru, they have little

beastes, like unto a squirrel, but that hee is gray; his skinne is

the most delicate, soft, and curious furre that I have seene, and

of much estimation as is reason; few of them go into Spain, because

difficult to be come by, for that the princes and nobles laie waite

for them. They call this beast Chinchilla, and of them they have great

abundance.”

The Branch of Elder.

A FABLE.

A hunter was wandering along over the fields with his son, and a deep

brook flowed between them. The boy wished to go over to his father, but

was unable, for the brook was very wide. Immediately he cut a branch

from a bush, placed it in the brook, leaned fearlessly upon it, and

with all his force gave a sudden spring. But behold! it was the branch

of an elder-tree, and as the boy was swinging over the brook, the staff

broke in the middle, he fell into deep water, a splash was heard, and

the tide closed over him.

A shepherd saw what had happened, from a distance, and raising an

alarm, ran towards the brook. But the boy blew the water from him, and

swam, laughing, to the shore.

Then the shepherd said to the hunter, It appears that your son has been

well instructed, but one thing you have forgotten. Why have you not

taught him to examine within, before he opens his heart to confidence?

Had he discovered the weak pith that was concealed, he would not have

trusted the deceiving bark!

Friend, answered the hunter, I have sharpened his eye, and improved his

strength, and I can now trust him to experience. Time must teach him to

be suspicious. But he will persevere in the discovery, for his eye is

clear, and his strength is practised.

* * * * *

The Oak Tree does not attain its full growth until it is two hundred

years old.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was more than two months after my arrival at Maroontown, before

I was in a condition to depart. Finding that I should not be able

to return to Paramaribo in season to go back to Connecticut with my

vessel, I sent word to the captain, requesting him to see my mother and

sister, and tell them what detained me.

When I had sufficiently recovered to travel, I set out from Maroontown,

having taken leave of my kind friends there. The negro who had rescued

me, together with his family, had done everything in their power to

make me comfortable and happy. The neighbors too had shown the greatest

interest in my behalf; they were constantly sending me every sort of

delicacy, such as small game and the choicest fruits. Never have I

met with a people so little selfish, and to whom hospitality seemed

to be so natural. Some of them really shed tears as I departed, and

even offered to accompany me on my journey. I accepted the latter

proposition in part, and accordingly a young man set out to be my guide

for the first day.

I had heard at Maroontown something about the Englishman whom I was

going to visit. I learned that he was a coffee planter with a large

estate; but I had discovered that his residence, instead of being a

hundred miles from Paramaribo, was nearly double that distance. This

taught me a good lesson, which I recommend to the attention of my

readers; it is this--before setting out upon a journey, be sure to

ascertain how far you have to go.

It was now December--a time when the winter had already commenced in

New England, but it was very different in Guiana. I found the weather

very warm, and my strength was so impaired by my sickness, that the

first day I did not proceed more than eight miles. I slept at a small

plantation, and the next morning, having taken leave of my guide, I

proceeded alone upon my journey. For three days, nothing particular

occurred. The country was slightly undulating, and portions of it were

exceedingly fertile. Here and there was a plantation, but a large

part of the land was covered with forests. On the fourth day after my

departure, I met with a curious adventure. There is in this region a

species of wild hog called peccary. In some parts, they are numerous,

and I had frequently seen them crossing my path in the course of my

travels. They seemed not to be very shy, yet, as I approached them,

they would usually start off with a kind of grunt, or bark, and hide

themselves in the bushes.

On the occasion just referred to, I chanced to see a peccary, with

a litter of young ones, lying by the side of my path. When I came

near, they sprang up and ran away. I however gave chase, and soon

caught one of the little pigs. The fellow instantly set up the most

vociferous squealing--upon this, the mother turned back and came upon

me with savage ferocity. Her mouth was open, and she uttered a sort

of bellowing that was quite frightful. I was not disposed to yield

my prize at once, but holding on to the hind legs of the pig with

the left hand, and flourishing my club in the right, I faced the

infuriated dam. She hesitated a little, but kept up her cry. In a

few minutes, I saw issuing from the adjacent thickets several other

peccaries, apparently coming to the rescue. They immediately advanced,

and I was soon surrounded with more than forty of these raging beasts.

Affairs were now getting serious, and I thought it best to release the

little prisoner, hoping that this would pacify the tumult. But the

tempest was not so easily appeased. The bristly mob still encircled me,

grunting, squealing, barking, and bellowing, while, at the same time,

their tusks were displayed, ready to rend me in pieces. I was obliged

to keep wheeling round, brandishing my club, occasionally giving an

obtrusive snout a pretty hearty thump by way of caution. The storm,

however, seemed to thicken, and it was obvious that the whole troop

would soon rush upon me. In this extremity, discretion seemed the

better part of valor, and concluding that I had better risk my honor

than my life, I took advantage of an open space, sprang through the

circle, and leaped into the branches of a tree that was near by.

The disappointed assailants pursued me, and encircling the tree, vented

their rage in grunts and groans. Never did I see such a hubbub. Sitting

upon the limbs of the tree in perfect safety, I looked down and laughed

very heartily at the scene. There was one boar who seemed particularly

anxious to signalize himself. He had enormous long tusks, and in his

fury, he frothed at the mouth, and kept up a great outcry. He was

probably the captain of the troop, for he generally led the way, and a

party of a dozen supporters were always at his heels.

I could not forbear the pleasure of stirring up this Hector of the

field with an occasional poke across the back with my shillaleh. It

was amusing to see his indignation, blent with his courage. He rose

upon his hind legs, and looked defiance with all his might. There was

something about him which seemed to say--“Come down here, you coward;

come down, and we’ll give you a peeling.” I did not, however, accept

the challenge, though I would have been willing to have tried my hand

with him in single combat. Forty to one was rather too many, and so I

remained in my castle.

Rage, like everything else, must have its end; so, in the course

of half an hour, the chivalry of these pigs began to abate. Two or

three of them slipped off into the bushes, and their example was soon

followed by others. In the course of half an hour, they were all

dispersed except the commander-in-chief, and even he, at last, took

his departure, having expressed his contempt and defiance in a few

significant grunts. I waited till the whole troop had vanished. I then

cautiously descended, and proceeded with a light step upon my way. I

looked back several times, and scrutinized the thickets that lay along

my path. I travelled pretty rapidly for three or four miles, and I

may as well confess that I breathed much more freely when I found I

had distanced the enemy. It may seem ridiculous that one should be

seriously frightened at such an attack, yet the scene dwelt for some

time in my memory, and for several nights, my dreams were embellished

with images drawn from the swinish mob that had assailed me in the

woods.

I now continued my journey, and at the end of eight days, I reached the

place of my destination. I found the person whom I sought to be a fat,

burly Englishman, named Hartley, possessing about a hundred negroes,

all of whom were engaged in the cultivation of coffee. When I told him

my errand, he looked at me with surprise, and seemed at first to be in

doubt whether he should answer my inquiries. At last, having satisfied

himself that I had no sinister object in view, he told me the story

which shall be related in the next chapter.

CHAPTER IX.

“Your uncle,” said Mr. Hartley, “was directed to Surinam rather by

chance than choice. He fled from St. Domingo during the troubles

there. The vessel in which he came was the only one which offered

him an immediate chance of escape, and as his life was in danger, he

went on board of her. When he reached Paramaribo, he had considerable

property, and thinking that the place offered him fair prospects, he

invested his money in ships, and established himself as a merchant. He

was very enterprising, and for a time, successful. His manners were

pleasing, and he won the good will of every body around him. He paid

his addresses to the daughter of a rich planter, and soon married her.

“He thus became allied to one of the first families in Surinam. This

circumstance, added to others of a favorable character, soon gave him

an eligible standing in society. But suddenly a blight came over his

prospects, and his descent was even more rapid than his elevation.

“After he had been at Paramaribo about three years, he deemed it

necessary to go to Amsterdam. Having adjusted his business there, he

took passage in one of his own ships, to return. She was said to be

richly laden, and, according to his statement, had merchandize on board

to the amount of more than two hundred thousand dollars. Previous to

her departure, he sent to Surinam, and had insurance effected there to

the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars upon the ship and

cargo. He returned to Paramaribo, stating that his vessel was wrecked

upon one of the West India Islands in a gale, and that the ship and

cargo were entirely lost; he, with the captain and two hands only,

being saved by swimming to the shore.

“Under these circumstances, he claimed the insurance; but this was

refused by the company. Your uncle brought an action against them;

but an affidavit was produced in court, signed by the captain and the

two hands, declaring that the ship was run on shore by your uncle’s

orders; his purpose being to destroy the vessel and then claim the

insurance, which was said to be twice the amount of the real cost. The

astonishment that prevailed through the city of Paramaribo at these

disclosures cannot be described. Your uncle breasted the shock with

great courage, declared his innocence, and asked only for time and

opportunity to clear up the whole transaction; but the judgment of the

court was against him, and public opinion went with it. His popularity

vanished at once; his friends deserted him, and his creditors coming

upon him, he was unable to pay them, and was consequently thrown into

prison.

“Here he remained for two years, during which period his wife died,

leaving a daughter, who has since remained with her grandfather, M.

Scager, and is now grown up to be a beautiful black-eyed girl.”

At this point of Mr. Hartley’s story, my mind turned back to the place

where I spent the first night after my departure from Paramaribo, and

it seemed to me probable that the girl whom I had seen there was my

cousin. I therefore interrupted the narrative, and said, “Allow me

to inquire, sir, where the girl you speak of now lives.” “With her

grandfather,” was the reply, “about ten miles from Paramaribo.” “Then

I have seen her,” said I. “Indeed,” said the Englishman, “and how did

that happen?”

I then related my adventures at the plantation, giving a brief account

of my fright at the bat, the hospitality with which I was treated, and

the interest that had been excited in the black-eyed girl on learning

my name. When I had done, Mr. Hartley proceeded as follows:

It is a strange accident that should have brought you into an

acquaintance with your cousin Mirabel. However, to proceed with your

uncle’s story. As he continued in prison, no opportunity was afforded

for him even to make an attempt to clear up his character. His name,

therefore, passed into contempt and infamy. M. Scager, who was a proud

and haughty man, was sorely mortified at the disgrace which had fallen

upon his family, through the connection, and would permit no one even

to speak of his son-in-law.

“Time passed on, and the subject was nearly forgotten. Your uncle

seemed as completely lost to the world as if he had been dead and

buried; but at length a considerable excitement was produced by the

rumor that he had escaped from prison. On inquiry, it was found that

he was gone, but no one could tell how he had effected his liberation,

nor whither he had fled. This occurred about a dozen years ago. It

excited no little curiosity at the time, and various rumors were afloat

respecting it.

“There were a few persons who had always entertained the belief that

your uncle was the victim of a foul conspiracy between the insurance

company and the captain of the ship; that the loss of the vessel was

unavoidable; and that, in order to save the immense sum for which

insurance had been effected, the captain had been bribed to make oath

to a false statement. But these rumors gradually subsided, and for the

space of nearly a dozen years, your uncle’s name was hardly mentioned.

“But about a twelve-month ago there was occasion for new surprise.

I had known your uncle intimately, for during his residence in

Paramaribo, I also lived there. I had the greatest confidence in him,

and loved him as if he had been my brother. I never fully credited the

charges that were brought against him, and therefore made some efforts

in his behalf during his imprisonment, but it became necessary for me

to establish myself here, and I was able to render him no effectual

assistance. I had no communication from him after I left Paramaribo,

and had no better means of judging whither he had gone than any other

individual. His escape, however, seemed to be an argument against

him, and as nothing was heard from him, my mind gradually yielded to

the conviction that he had been guilty of the crime with which he was

charged.

“But about a year ago, I was astonished as well as delighted to receive

from Amsterdam a remittance amounting to sixty thousand dollars, with

directions to pay your uncle’s creditors the full amount due to them,

both principal and interest. No explanations whatever were given;

no clue was afforded as to the source from which the money came. I

proceeded to distribute it according to the directions, and paid every

one of the persons to whom your uncle was indebted, and had still a

balance of about two thousand dollars in my hands. I have written to

the persons at Amsterdam, through whom the money came to me, making

inquiries as to your uncle, and asking instructions respecting the

surplus that remains, and have had only the naked reply, that no

knowledge whatever of your uncle is in possession of the parties, and

that they have no directions but those given me in the first letter.

“I have not been able to obtain any precise information respecting your

uncle. Upon the payment of his debts, an entire revolution of public

opinion took place at Paramaribo, in regard to him. The belief became

general that he was what he seemed to be, a high-minded and honorable

man, and that he had suffered from a base conspiracy. The uneasiness

displayed by a certain lawyer who had been connected with the insurance

company, served to confirm these opinions.

“There was also another circumstance which contributed to the

same result, and this was, that the captain had never returned to

Paramaribo, although he had a wife and family there; and it was

reported that he had turned out a desperate character, and had been

engaged in several piratical expeditions.”

It may be well believed that I listened to this recital with the most

intense interest. Scarcely was it finished, when my determination was

formed to set about a search for my uncle. I soon communicated these

views to Mr. Hartley. At first he objected, urging my youth, the utter

want of a clue by which he could be traced, and my destitution of means

for sustaining the expense of the undertaking, as conclusive arguments

against it.

He considered the project indeed to be the hair-brained dream of a

sanguine boy; but as I persisted in my resolution, and suggested my

plan of operation, he began to listen, and in the end, gave me his

hearty support and efficient aid. He supplied me with letters to

several persons in Paramaribo, who might aid me in my researches,

furnished me with money for my immediate expenses, and gave me a letter

of credit for what I might farther need. Being thus provided, I soon

set out for Paramaribo, with high hopes of success in my proposed

search.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

The cow will eat 276 plants, and reject 218; the goat eats 449, and

rejects 126; the sheep, 387 and 341; the horse, 262 and 212; the hog,

72 and 171.

Joan of Arc.

(Continued from page 95.)

The English, driven by these successes from their entrenchments, lost,

with their spirit of confidence, more than six thousand men. Joan was

once more received by the city as a delivering angel; skepticism itself

yielded to these prodigies; the French, as if inspired by a celestial

energy, passed from despair to a sanguine enthusiasm, before which

obstacles melted away as mists in the sun’s ray.

The English generals, surprised and dismayed, sought to combat

fanaticism with its own weapons, by attributing their discomfiture

to the ascendancy of malignant demons, of whom they gravely declared

the maid to be the implement. To discover and weigh the operation

of motives on the human mind, was an effort too arduous for an

unenlightened age. The doctrine of demons did little towards raising

the drooping spirits of the besiegers, who sagely concluded a contest

with superior powers, whether of light or darkness, to be unequal and

hopeless. Unable to maintain his ground with a panic-struck army,

Suffolk prudently raised the siege, May 8th, 1429, and retreated.

The French, determined to pursue their advantage, allowed the enemy no

time to rally; a body of six thousand men were deputed by the Dauphin

to attack the English at Jergean, where a detachment had retired with

Suffolk. The place was obstinately defended during a siege of ten

days. Joan, in leading the attack, descended rapidly into the fosse,

where she received a blow on the head from a stone, which stunned her

and threw her down; but quickly recovering herself, the assault was

carried, and Suffolk was compelled to yield himself a prisoner. The

remains of the English army, solicitous only to effect a retreat,

sought for a place of safety; while the vanguard of the French,

attacking their rear, at the village of Patay, they were wholly routed;

two thousand men fell in the action, and two of their generals were

taken prisoners. The conduct of the troops, the military operations,

and even the decisions of the council, were poetically attributed to

Joan, to whose sagacity and promptitude, in availing herself of the

suggestions of more experienced commanders, no mean praise is due.

Having performed a part of her mission in raising the siege of Orleans,

the crowning of Charles at Rheims only remained to be effected, on

which enterprise she now insisted. Rheims, situated in a distant part

of the kingdom, was still in the hands of the enemy, whose garrisons

occupied the road which led to it; the idea of passing them would, a

few weeks before, have been deemed rash and impracticable; but the

spirit which now animated the French made them invincible.

To avail himself of the enthusiasm of his troops, and the consternation

of the English, for which the belief of a supernatural agency afforded

but a delicate and critical support, was undoubtedly the interest of

Charles; persuaded by his friends that the safety of the state depended

on his person, he had hitherto restrained his military ardor; he now

placed himself at the head of his troops, and under the auspices of

Heaven and fortune, inspired new zeal into his adherents. At the head

of twelve thousand men he began his career. Troye opened to him its

gates; Chalons followed the example, while, before his approach, Rheims

sent him a deputation with its keys; every obstacle thus overcome, the

ceremony of the coronation was performed, July 17th, with the holy oil,

brought from heaven by a pigeon to Clovis, on the first establishment

of the French monarchy.

The maid, clothed in armor, and displaying her sacred and victorious

banner, took her place, on this occasion, by the side of the king;

while the people hailed this combination of miracles with shouts and

acclamations, Joan, after the ceremony was completed, throwing herself

at the feet of the monarch, embraced his knees, and, shedding tears of

tenderness and joy, congratulated him and herself on the success of her

mission.

The mystical inauguration of Charles shed over him a kind of glory, and

gave him in the eyes of the nation new and divine rights; triumph and

success, the best proofs of inspiration, by flattering the inclination

of the people, gave support and stability to their faith; no one

presumed to doubt that, in all that had passed, the finger of Heaven

was evident and clear.

Lyons, Soissons, Chateau-Thierre, Provins, with various other towns

and fortresses, submitted to the summons of the king and that of the

prophetic maid; while the whole country disposed itself to testify its

loyalty and zeal. A medal was struck in honor of the heroine, bearing

on one side her portrait; on the other, a hand grasping a sword, with

this motto, “_Consilio confirmata Dei_,”--“_Sustained by the hand of

God_.”

The Duke of Bedford, firm, vigilant, and resolute, still preserved his

footing in France, where he employed every resource which circumstances

had yet left to him; his garrisons were held in postures of defence,

and a watchful eye kept over the French; while the Parisians were, by

alternate severity and caresses, yet retained in the English interest.

An alliance with the Duke of Burgundy, the most important to their

sinking credit, was, at the same time renewed and strengthened. The

supplies of money from the British parliament were tardy and scanty;

while the impression produced on the minds of the troops of the

wonderful power and resources of the maid, occasioned daily desertions

in the army.

In this perilous state of their affairs, their spirits were revived by

the arrival of Cardinal Winchester, who landed at Calais, with a body

of five thousand men, which had been levied originally for a crusade.

The Cardinal suffered himself to be prevailed upon by the Duke of

Bedford to lend hire these troops, for the purpose of opposing the

French king, who with his forces was advancing towards Paris.

Charles, having left Rheims, and taken St. Denis and Lagni, proceeded

to the capital, to which he laid siege. The barriers of the port of

St. Honoré were forced, when Joan, flushed with military ardor, and

animated by success, in attempting to pass the fosse, received a wound

in her thigh. Pressing forward, regardless of the blood which streamed

through her armor, she was at length perceived by the Duke of Alençon,

who observing her situation, carried her forcibly back to the camp.

The king was, however, compelled, by want of provisions, to raise the

siege, and to retreat from before Paris with his troops.

The mission of the maid having been thus accomplished, she expressed

a wish to be allowed to retire; but this request was overruled.

Charles, still solicitous to retain her in his service, conferred,

as a testimony of his gratitude, nobility upon her family and their

posterity, both in the male and female line. Armorial bearings were

accordingly assigned to her, and her name was changed from Arc to Lys.

Domremi, the city which gave her birth, received at the same time a

perpetual exemption from subsidies and taxes.

The Duke of Bedford, prudently declining a present engagement with a

victorious foe, chose his posts with wisdom and caution, attended the

French in all their movements, covered the towns and garrisons which

remained in his possession, and attentively watched the steps of the

enemy. The French army, consisting mostly of volunteers, were soon

after disbanded. The king, having made himself master of various towns

in the neighborhood of Paris, retired to Bourges, the place of his

ordinary residence.

The Duke of Bedford, with the hope of reviving the courage of the

troops, proposed that the young king of England should pass over to

France, be crowned at Paris, and receive from his vassals a new oath of

allegiance. This ceremony, however, politically planned, afforded but

a spiritless spectacle, when compared with the coronation at Rheims.

But an event soon after took place, which gave a different aspect to

affairs, while it reflected upon both nations lasting dishonor.

The English, supported by the Duke of Burgundy, laid siege to the town

of Compéigne, into which Joan threw herself. The garrison, who, with

her assistance, believed themselves invincible, received her with

transports of joy. On the day following her arrival, May 24th, 1430,

she headed a sally made on the quarters of John de Luxemberg. Having

thrice driven the enemy from their intrenchments, and finding their

numbers increasing every moment, she prudently ordered a retreat. But

the pursuers pressing hard upon her, she turned upon them and forced

them to recoil. The besieged, protected in the rear by Joan, had in

the mean time gained the city in safety, the gates of which were

instantly closed. Joan, thus deserted and alone, perceiving herself

excluded, surrounded by the enemy, suspecting treachery, and rendered

desperate, exerted herself with a courage, deserving a better fate. Her

horse at length falling under her, she was compelled, after performing

prodigies of valor, to surrender to the enemy. The Burgundians, into

whose hands she had fallen, carried their prisoner to Luxemburg, where,

for ten thousand livres, they basely sold her to the English. It is

believed that the French officers, jealous of the glory of the maid,

had designedly exposed her to this fatal catastrophe. Such is human

gratitude and the fate of merit, and such the recompense awarded to the

benefactors of their species.

The savage triumph of her enemies on her capture, was the unequivocal

eulogium of the heroine. _Te Deum_, a service so often profaned, was

celebrated at Paris on the event. The courage of the English, blasted

by the successes of Joan, began, on her imprisonment, to revive.

The Duke of Bedford, instigated by a policy alike barbarous and

disgraceful, commenced a prosecution against his magnanimous captive,

who, by the circumstances of her defeat, the gallantry of her conduct,

and her irreproachable life, was justly entitled to the privileges of a

prisoner of war. Her youth, her sex, whose appropriate decorum she had

strictly observed, her extraordinary qualities, added to the services

she had performed for her country, gave her novel and singular claims,

to which fanaticism alone could have remained insensible. Under the

sanction of religion, justice was outraged and humanity violated.

A petition against the maid was presented by the Bishop of Beauvais,

who was devoted to the cause of the English, under the pretence that

she was taken within the bounds of his diocese, he requested that she

might be delivered over to the ecclesiastical court, to be tried for

sorcery, impiety, and magic. The University of Paris covered itself

with infamy, by joining in this petition. The title of _Inquisitor of

the Faith_ was assumed on the occasion by the Bishop of Beauvais.

The court was held at Rouen, where the young king of England then

resided, and where Joan, loaded with irons, and clothed in her

military apparel, was produced before this prejudiced tribunal. She

had previously endeavored to procure her liberty by leaping from the

top of the tower in which she was confined; but, stunned by the fall,

had been discovered by the sentinel, and retaken. An accusation of

intending suicide, was, on this justifiable attempt, added to the

offences with which the prisoner was charged. Having requested of her

judges to be eased from her chains, she was reproached with her design

of escaping. She boldly avowed and justified the fact, declaring at the

same time, that if she hesitated to repeat her attempt, it was only

from despair of success. Throughout her trial, she discovered equal

firmness and courage. Being interrogated respecting the affairs of the

court of France, she refused to reply to the questions made to her,

alleging that where the secrets of the king were concerned, she owed no

obedience to the ecclesiastical powers.

Nearly four months she was continually harassed by questions and

persecutions the most ridiculous and absurd. Her enemies termed

her a “sorceress and a heretic.” The assembled university, having

pronounced her a schismatic, proceeded to threaten her with the stake.

She was repeatedly examined respecting her visions, revelations, and

intercourse with departed saints, and required to submit to the church

the truth of her inspirations. “To God,” she replied, “the fountain

of truth, I am willing to submit them.” By this answer, she drew upon

herself the charge of denying the authority of the church. She appealed

from her judges to the Pope, but her appeal was fruitless.

It was demanded whether she had not put her trust in a standard

consecrated by magical incantations? Whether, at the coronation of

Charles, she had not still displayed this mysterious standard? “Her

trust,” she replied, “was in the image of the Almighty impressed on

the banner, and that she, who had shared the danger of the field, was

entitled to partake of the glory at Rheims.” Accused of violating the

decorums of her sex, by assuming the habits and command over men, she

boldly avowed and justified the purpose of this violation--“the defeat

of the enemies of her country, and their expulsion from the kingdom.”

During these examinations, she betrayed no weakness, nor gave to her

persecutors any advantage; she disgraced not, when in the power of her

determined adversaries, the heroism she had displayed in the field.

Every species of imposition and baseness was practised upon her; she

was required to abjure the masculine habit, and a paper for this

purpose was tendered her to sign, to which a promise was subjoined

never more to bear arms. Having complied with this proposition, a new

deed was substituted in its place, in which she was made to criminate

herself by the most odious and false imputations. The malice of her

enemies, aggravated by superstition, led them to accuse her of various

crimes, particularly of a compact made with infernal spirits. After

having received judgment, she was delivered over for sentence to the

secular arm.

Harassed by injustice, exhausted by suffering, and subdued by cruelty,

the spirit of Joan at length gave way; browbeaten by men of superior

rank, condemned by those whose injunctions she had been accustomed

to regard as sacred, basely deserted by the monarch she had served,

sustained no longer by applause and success, her enthusiasm began to

subside; the dreams of inspiration were superseded by the feelings of

nature, while before the terrors of impending death, the visions of

a distempered fancy faded away. Recanting, she acknowledged that she

had been misled by illusions; which she solemnly engaged henceforward

to renounce, and prayed to be reconciled to the bosom of the church.

In consequence of this humiliation, her sentence was mitigated to

perpetual imprisonment.

No steps were taken by Charles to rescue from destruction the deliverer

of himself and the saviour of his dominions; nor, while he held in his

hands, as prisoners of war, English of the first distinction, were any

proposals offered to exchange them for the heroic Joan:--a memorable

example of the gratitude of princes.

Political vengeance might here have ceased; but the malignity

of the adversaries of the unfortunate Joan, was not yet fully

glutted--barbarous and insatiable, they thirsted for her blood! Having

consented to abjure the masculine habit, and to assume the habits

and attire of her sex, it was determined to tempt her to a violation

of her engagement. For that purpose a suit of men’s apparel was

placed in her room, and spies were appointed to observe her conduct.

Whether the sight of a dress associated with so many flattering, so

many glorious ideas, induced her to re-assume it, or whether, as has

been alleged, her own clothes were removed while she slept, and were

designedly withheld from her, is of little moment; certain it is, that

she was tempted in the solitude of her prison, to array herself in the

forbidden garb. Seized by her treacherous enemies in this situation,

and declared guilty of a relapse into heresy, she was excommunicated,

and all pardon, and all mercy refused to her. Crowned with a paper, on

which was inscribed the terms “apostate, heretic, and idolatress,” and

guarded by armed soldiers, she was soon after delivered over to the

stake, which had been erected for the purpose in the market-place of

Rouen.

On the right hand of the scaffold, on which she was exposed to the

savage fury of the people, were stationed the clergy, and on the left,

the secular officers. In this situation, she was with solemn mockery,

interrogated on the principles of her faith; principles, which in no

respect appeared to differ from those of her merciless persecutors. A

discourse was pronounced by Nicholas Midi, towards the conclusion of

the ceremony, in which the poor culprit was informed that “the meek

and merciful ministers of the Gospel had, for the execution of their

sentence, consigned her over to the secular powers.”

The bailli of Rouen, less firm than the preacher, could only say,

“Let it be.” The tears of Joan even softened the executioner, while

the theologians, incapable of the weakness of humanity, remained firm

and unmoved. “_Dieu soit bene!_”--“Blessed be God!” exclaimed the

sufferer, as she placed herself upon the pile. Her body was quickly

consumed, and her ashes were scattered to the winds. Thus perished this

admirable woman, June 14, 1431, to whom “the more liberal and generous

superstition of the ancients would have erected altars.” Thus were

the services rendered by Joan to her ungrateful prince and country

ultimately rewarded.

The following character of the maid of Orleans, from Fuller, is to be

found in the preface to Mr. Southey’s Joan of Arc. “People found out a

nest of miracles in her education, that so lion-like a spirit should

be bred among sheep like David. Even after she went in man’s clothing,

being armed cap-a-pie, and mounted on a brave steed; and which was a

wonder, when she was on horseback, none was more bold and daring; when

alighted, none more tame and meek; so that one could scarce see her for

herself, she was so changed and altered, as if her spirits dismounted

with her body.”

Some years after her decease, Joan was, by a bull of Pope Calixtus

III., declared a martyr to her religion, her country, and her king. She

is made by Chapelain the subject of a French epic poem, entitled _La

Pucelle_.

* * * * *

A BLACKSMITH’S SHOP IN THE WEST.--Some years ago a man was travelling

in the western country, when one of his horse’s shoes being loose, he

inquired of a person he met in the woods, if there was a blacksmith in

those parts. “Yes, stranger,” was the reply. “Will you direct me to his

shop?” said the traveller. “You are in it now!” said the other. “In it

now!” said the stranger; “but my friend--without joking--where shall I

find the blacksmith?” “Four miles off,” was the reply. “I do not

understand you,” said the horseman. “Well, stranger,” said the woodsman,

“I will tell you all about it. The blacksmith’s shop is all out of

doors, but his anvil is at the cross road, four miles ahead.”

[Illustration: Panthers]

The American Panther.

This animal has as many names as any other felon that ever figured in

history. He is called the “American Lion,” the “American Panther,” the

“Puma,” the “Cougar,” the “Catamount,” and the “Painter.” The real fact

is, that he is a creature peculiar to this continent, and is neither a

lion, nor a panther, nor anything indeed, but himself--an independent

member of the great family of cats, roaming over the woods of both

North and South America, and always doing business on his own hook.

He is a creature of great strength, being able to carry off a sheep

or deer at a gallop; but he prefers rather to live by his wit than

his power. He always creeps upon his victim with a sly and noiseless

step, and when at a proper distance, rushes upon it with a bound, and

grapples it with his formidable claws and teeth.

The panther was once common in New England, but he does not like

meeting-houses and taverns, so he has emigrated westward. The traveller

in the western wilds will often hear a noise that seems like the

wailing of a child; but after a little examination, he will find it to

proceed from a reddish gray animal in the top of a tree, looking down

at him with anxious eyes, and seeming to say, “If it’s all the same to

you, I should like to make a supper of you or your horse.”

A great many adventures have taken place with this creature in the

woods. Here are some of the stories told of it.

“Two hunters, accompanied by two dogs, went out in quest of game near

the Catskill mountains. At the foot of a large hill, they agreed to go

round it in opposite directions, and when either discharged his rifle,

the other was to hasten towards him to aid in securing the game. Soon

after parting, the report of a rifle was heard by one of them, who,

hastening towards the spot, after some search, found nothing but the

dog, dreadfully lacerated and dead. He now became much alarmed for

the fate of his companion, and while anxiously looking around, was

horror-struck by the harsh growl of a Cougar, which he perceived on

a large limb of a tree, crouching upon the body of his friend, and

apparently meditating an attack on himself. Instantly he levelled his

rifle at the beast, and was so fortunate as to wound it mortally, when

it fell to the ground along with the body of his slaughtered companion.

His dog then rushed upon the wounded Cougar, which with one blow of its

paw laid the poor animal dead by its side. The surviving hunter now

left the spot, and quickly returned with several other persons, when

they found the lifeless Cougar extended near the dead bodies of the

hunter and the faithful dogs.”

“About the close of the last war, a merchant of Piqua, named Herse,

received a considerable sum of money in small bills, which made it

appear of still greater magnitude to several suspicious looking persons

who were present when it was received. Mr. Herse, being unarmed, was

apprehensive that an attempt would be made to rob him at the camping

ground, and expressed his apprehensions to a single fellow-traveller,

who was also unprovided with arms. In consequence, they resolved

not to go to the camping ground, but to pass the night in the woods

without fire; there, turning their horses loose, they lay down in their

blankets on the leaves. In the night they were aroused by hearing the

horses snort as they are apt to do on the approach of Indians, and

shortly after they were heard to make several bounds through the

woods, as if some one had unsuccessfully attempted to catch them.

“After some time had elapsed, they both distinctly heard what they

supposed to be a man crawling towards them on his hands and feet, as

they could hear first one hand cautiously extended and pressed very

gently on the leaves to avoid making a noise, then the other, and

finally the other limbs in like manner and with equal care. When they

believed that this felonious visitor was within about ten feet of them,

they touched each other, sprang up simultaneously, and rushed to some

distance through the woods, where they crouched and remained without

further disturbance. A short time after they heard the horses snorting

and bounding furiously through the woods, but they did not venture to

arise until broad daylight, being still ignorant of the character of

their enemy.

“When sufficiently light to see, by climbing a sapling they discovered

the horses at a considerable distance on the prairie. On approaching

them, it was at once evident that their disturber had been nothing less

than a Cougar. It had sprung upon the horses, and so lacerated with

its claws and teeth their flanks and buttocks, that with the greatest

difficulty were they able to drive the poor creatures before them

to Shane’s. Several other instances of annoyance to travellers had

happened at the same place, and Shane believed by the same Cougar.”

Notwithstanding the ferocious disposition and bad reputation of the

panther in his wild and natural state, he can be taught better

manners, and it is by no means uncommon to see them around the

houses in South America, quite gentle and well-behaved--a fact which

strikingly displays the power of education. I have known boys almost

as wild as panthers, rendered tame and dutiful by a little birch and

a great deal of kindness. Recommending this moral to schoolmasters,

parents, and guardians, we bid good-bye to the panther, only adding

that the history of great rascals may sometimes teach us a good lesson.

Lovewell’s War.

(Continued from page 76.)

Troops were raised and enlisted for two years’ service, and the

government had no scruples in offering a bounty of forty pounds

sterling for every Indian scalp. This war obtained the name of

“Lovewell’s War,” from Captain John Lovewell, of Dunstable, in New

Hampshire, who was the most prominent commander in the enterprise

against the enemy, and was killed in a severe engagement. Various

incursions were made upon the settlements by the Indians during the

year 1723, and several of the inhabitants were killed and carried into

captivity. On the 10th of June, 1724, a farmer and his son, being at

work on Oyster River, planting corn, went to a brook to drink, and

discovered three Indian packs. They immediately ran to give information

to a company of volunteers, which had lately been raised in the

neighborhood, for the defence of the frontier. The company marched

towards the spot, but were fired upon from an ambush, and the farmer

and his son, who acted as guides, were both killed. The company then

fired and killed one of the Indians, and wounded two others who made

their escape, though they were pursued and tracked by their blood to a

considerable distance. The slain Indian was a person of distinction,

and wore a species of coronet, made of fur, dyed scarlet, with an

appendage of four small bells, by the sound of which the others might

follow him through the thickets. His hair, contrary to what is almost

universal among the natives, was remarkably soft and fine; and he had

about him a devotional book, and a muster-roll of one hundred and

eighty Indians. From these various circumstances, it was supposed that

he was a natural son of the Jesuit, Rasle, by an Indian woman, who

served him as a domestic.

Garrison-houses were built among the frontier settlements, to which the

inhabitants were warned to repair in time of danger. At Dover there

were many families of Quakers, who, doubting the lawfulness of war,

could not be persuaded to use any means for their defence, although the

Indians never spared them on that account. One of these, John Hanson,

lived remote from the garrison, and refused to take shelter in it with

his family, although he had a large number of children. A party of

thirteen Indians, called French Mohawks, had marked his house for their

prey, and lay several days in ambush, waiting for an opportunity to

attack it. On the 27th of June, while Hanson and his eldest daughter

were gone to attend the weekly meeting, and his two eldest sons were

at work in a meadow at some distance, the Indians entered the house,

killed and scalped two small children, and took his wife, with her

infant of fourteen days old, her nurse, two daughters, and a son, and,

after rifling the house, carried them off. This was done so suddenly

and secretly, that the first person who discovered it was the eldest

daughter, on her return from the meeting. Seeing the two children dead

at the door, she uttered a shriek of distress, which was distinctly

heard by her mother, then in the hands of the enemy among the bushes,

and by her brothers in the meadow. The people, being soon alarmed,

went in pursuit of the enemy; but the Indians, cautiously avoiding all

beaten paths, went off with their captives undiscovered. The mother,

though of a tender constitution, had a firm and vigorous mind, and

passed through the various hardships of an Indian captivity with much

resolution and patience. When her milk failed, she supported her

infant with water warmed in her mouth, till the squaws taught her to

beat the kernel of walnuts and boil it with bruised corn, which proved

a nourishing food for the babe. The prisoners were all sold to the

French in Canada. Hanson redeemed them the following year, one daughter

remaining behind.

These and other outrages of the enemy caused the government of

Massachusetts to resolve on an expedition against the Indian town of

Norridgewock. Two hundred men, under Captains Moulton and Harmon,

marched from York in August. They left forty of their men at Teconic

Falls, on the Kennebec, and, dividing the remainder into two bodies,

one of them, under Harmon, took a circuitous route, hoping to surprise

some of the enemy in their cornfields, while the other, under

Moulton, marched directly for the village of Norridgewock, which,

being surrounded by trees, could not be seen till they were close upon

it. All the Indians were in their wigwams, and the English advanced

cautiously and in perfect silence. When they had approached very near,

an Indian came out of his wigwam, and, discovering the English, set

up the war-whoop, ran in, and seized his gun. In a few minutes the

warriors were all in arms, and advanced to meet them. Moulton gave

orders not to fire till the Indians had made their first discharge.

This was done, and, as he expected, they overshot the English, who then

immediately fired with great execution. After another volley had been

exchanged, the savages fled with precipitation to the river. They were

pursued and slaughtered in every quarter, and their wigwams set on

fire. Moulton wished to take Rasle alive, and gave strict orders that

no one should kill him. But the Jesuit having shut himself up in his

house, from which he continued to fire upon the English, one of them

burst into it, and shot him through the head. They then set fire to

the church, which was a handsome structure, and brought away the plate

and furniture of the altar, with the devotional banner, as trophies of

their victory. Eighty of the Indians were killed in this attack, and

three English captives rescued.

The fate of Norridgewock struck great terror into the savages, and

they no longer thought themselves safe at any of their former places

of abode, but occupied them as resting-places only, when they were

scouting or hunting. This successful undertaking, and the large

premium offered for scalps, brought several volunteer companies into

the field. In December, Captain Lovewell, with thirty men, made an

excursion to the north of Lake Winnipiseogee. They discovered an Indian

wigwam, in which were a man and a boy. They killed and scalped the man,

and brought the boy alive to Boston, where they received the reward

promised by the government, and a considerable gratuity besides. This

company was soon increased to seventy, and Lovewell marched again,

early in 1725, toward the head of Salmon-Fall River. Their provision

falling short, thirty of them, selected by lot, were dismissed, and

returned home. The remaining forty continued their march till the

20th of February, when they discovered a track, which they followed

till they saw a smoke, just before sunset; from this they judged that

the enemy were encamped for the night. They kept themselves concealed

till after midnight, when they cautiously advanced, and discovered ten

Indians asleep round a fire, by the side of a frozen pond. Lovewell now

determined to make sure work, and, stationing his men conveniently,

ordered five of them to fire in rapid succession, and the remainder

to reserve their shot. He gave the signal by discharging his own gun,

which killed two Indians; and the men, firing according to order,

despatched five more on the spot. The remaining three started up from

their sleep, but two of them were immediately shot dead by the reserve,

and the other was wounded. He attempted to escape across the pond, but

was seized by a dog, who held him fast until the English came up and

dispatched him. Thus, in the space of a few minutes, the whole party

was destroyed, and an attempt against the frontiers of New Hampshire

prevented;--for these Indians were marching from Canada, well furnished

with new guns and plenty of ammunition for that object; they had also

a number of spare blankets, moccasons, and snow-shoes, for the use of

the prisoners whom they expected to take. The pond near which these

events transpired is now known as Lovewell’s Pond. The company, with

their ten scalps stretched on hoops, in the Indian fashion, marched to

Boston in great triumph, and received their bounty out of the public

treasury. The English spoke of this enterprise with great exultation,

and pronounced it a capital exploit. In the light of the present day,

the barbarity of giving a premium for scalps would be justly censured.

This brilliant success, as it was then termed, encouraged Lovewell

to his last and fatal undertaking. Early in March, he again took the

field, intending to attack the Indian villages of Piguacket, on the

upper part of the Saco, where a formidable tribe anciently had a

settled habitation, though at this period they only paid occasional

visits there. His company consisted of forty-six men, including a

chaplain and a surgeon. Two of them became lame, and returned. Another

falling sick, they halted, and built a stockade fort on the west side

of Great Ossipee Lake, partly for the accommodation of the sick man,

and partly for a stronghold in case of any reverse. Here the surgeon

was left with the invalid and eight of the company for a guard.

Lovewell, with his thirty-four men, advanced to the northward about

twenty-two miles, and encamped on the shore of a pond in the evening of

the 7th of May. Early the next morning, while the men were at prayer,

they heard the report of a gun, and discovered an Indian about a mile

distant, standing on a point of land jutting out into the water. They

had been alarmed during the night by noises round their camp, which

they imagined were made by Indians, and now suspected that the one whom

they saw was placed there to decoy them, and that a body of the enemy

was in their front. A council of war was held, and they decided to go

forward, and, by marching round the pond, to gain the spot where the

Indian stood. That they might be ready for action, they disencumbered

themselves of their packs, and left them, without any guard, in a pine

plain, where the trees were too thinly set to hide them.

Lovewell, on his march, had crossed a carrying-place, by which two

parties of Indians, consisting of forty-one warriors, commanded by

the noted chiefs Paugus and Wahwa, who had been on a scout down the

Saco, were returning to the lower village of Piguacket, about a mile

and a half from the pond. Having fallen on Lovewell’s track, they

followed it, and came at last to the baggage, which they carried off.

On counting the packs, they found the number of the English to be less

than that of their own force. They therefore placed themselves in

ambush to attack them on their return. The Indian who had stood on the

point, and was turning to the village by another path, met the English

and received their fire, which he returned, and wounded Lovewell and

another person with small shot. By a second fire the Indian was

killed, and they took his scalp. Seeing no other enemy, the company

returned toward their packs, and, while they were searching for them,

the Indians sprang from their ambush and ran towards them with a horrid

yell. A smart firing commenced on both sides, and Lovewell was speedily

slain, with eight others. Several of the Indians fell, but, being

superior in numbers, they were by no means daunted, and endeavored to

surround the English, who, perceiving their design, retreated, hoping

to gain a shelter behind a point of rocks and some large pine-trees on

the shore of the pond. Here they took their station, having on their

right the mouth of a brook, and on their left the rocky point,--their

front being partly covered by a deep bog, with the pond in the rear.

The battle now recommenced. The Indians poured in their fire from

front and flank, and had so much the advantage of position, that, by a

little skill, they might have shot down every man of the English, or

compelled them to surrender at discretion, as they were totally unable

to extricate themselves, and were entirely destitute of provisions.

Under the conduct of Lieutenant Wyman, the latter kept up their fire,

and maintained a resolute countenance the remainder of the day,--the

action having begun a little after ten in the morning. The chaplain

and three others were mortally wounded. The Indians invited them to

surrender by holding up ropes to them, and endeavored to intimidate

them by hideous yells; but they determined to die rather than to

yield, and, by their well-directed fire, the number of the savages

was reduced, and their cries became fainter, till, just before night,

they quitted their advantageous ground, carrying off their killed and

wounded, and leaving the dead bodies of Lovewell and his men unscalped.

The shattered remnants of this brave company, on coming together, found

three of their number unable to move from the spot, eleven wounded,

but able to march, and nine unhurt. It was melancholy to leave their

dying companions behind, but there was no possibility of removing them.

One of these, Ensign Robbins, desired them to lay his gun beside him

loaded, that, if the Indians should return before his death, he might

be able to kill one more.

After the rising of the moon, those who were able quitted the fatal

spot, and directed their march toward the fort where the surgeon and

guard had been left. To their great surprise, they found it abandoned.

In the beginning of the action, one man had deserted and fled to the

fort, where, in the style of Job’s messengers, he informed them of

Lovewell’s death and the defeat of the whole company, upon which they

made the best of their way home, leaving a quantity of provisions,

which proved a seasonable relief to the retreating survivors. From

this place they endeavored to get home. Lieutenant Farwell, and the

chaplain, who had the journal of the march in his pocket, and one

other, perished in the woods, for want of a dressing for their wounds.

The others, after enduring the most severe hardships, reached the

settlements, one after another. There were no white residents within

fifty miles of the scene of the battle.

A party from the New Hampshire frontier was ordered out to bury the

dead. Fourteen bodies were found, which were interred, and their names

carved on the trees. Three Indian graves were discovered and opened;

one of them contained the body of the warrior-chief, Paugus. Tracks of

blood were traced to a great distance from the scene of action, but the

exact loss of the enemy never was known. After this battle, the Indians

abandoned the neighborhood of Piguacket, and did not return till the

war was over.

A doggerel ballad, on the subject of “Lovewell’s Fight,” made its

appearance the same year that these events happened, and was for a

long time very popular in New England. As the reader may wish to see a

specimen of it, we quote the opening stanza, which is as follows:--

“Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing,

How valiantly he served his country and his king.

He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,

And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.”

We add the sixteenth stanza, as it notices a striking circumstance.

“Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die.

They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,

Who was our English chaplain; he many Indians slew,

And some of them he scalped, when bullets round him flew.”

The following winter, four chiefs came to Boston to ratify the treaty

which followed these hostilities. The government of the colonies

prohibited all private traffic with the Indians, as it had been the

cause of many troubles. Truckhouses were established in convenient

places, at which they were supplied with all the necessaries of life

on advantageous terms. Though the government was a loser by the trade,

this was deemed the most economical method of preserving peace, and it

seems fully to have accomplished its purpose.

The natives throughout the New England provinces, now thinned and

weakened, while the English had gained strength and extended their

settlements in every direction, made no more serious attempts upon the

peace of the country. In the French wars, even down to the period just

preceding the Revolution, it is true that incursions were occasionally

made, but they produced no lasting results.

There are few Indians now remaining in the New England States. A

small number of Mohegans still reside in the vicinity of Norwich,

Connecticut, where they have a neat little church, and a missionary has

labored among them with some success. A few Penobscot Indians, too, are

found in Maine, and here and there, in other places, may be met one or

more of the descendants of the aborigines; but they are like the last

scattered leaves of autumn,--withered, decaying, and frozen by the

wintry blasts; spring finds them not again.

* * * * *

Professor Olmsted says, that a pound of water, falling over Niagara

falls, acquires the force of 6000 pounds!

The Lion Fight.

A GERMAN FABLE.

The royal spouse of a powerful ruler of the East, came to him one day,

weeping with indignation, to seek revenge against a delinquent and

offender of her majesty. Behold, said she, the criminal brought me an

ornament of precious stones, but the jewel proved to be false. He is

already atoning for his deceit in a gloomy cell, but he shall pay for

his wickedness with his life, I swear it by myself! I demand, O king,

that you condemn him to a contest with a lion.

Oh, let us not judge in passion, replied the monarch. For how can

indignation decree justice? It becomes a prince of the nation to be

free from anger. Is he not the representative and vicegerent of the

Highest?

Does not God express his anger in the tempest? inquired the queen.

No, replied the king; he displays his benevolence even in the tempest.

Ah, my beloved, man is too apt to form his idea of the Eternal from

himself.

But the queen’s anger increased, and she said, God also hates and

punishes the delinquent, and he has not given the sword to kings

without a purpose. I only ask that justice be done the criminal. His

death has been announced to him. There is no alternative!

Well, said the king, be it so! To-morrow!

When, on the following day, the hour arrived, and the drums proclaimed

the bloody spectacle: the queen arose with a splendid train, and

rejoiced in her heart at the triumph of her indignation.

For revenge is like a cooling cordial to the burning mind.

The herald opened the lists, the delinquent stood there trembling, and

the drums beat again.

But behold, instead of a lion, came a white harmless lamb, and

familiarly approached the trembling man. The drums ceased, and the

sweet music of harps and flutes was heard; and the lamb cringed at the

feet of the victim, and looked mildly in his face.

Then the eyes of the queen rested on her spouse, and she blushed. But

the king said, That look, my beloved, is an evidence to me, that I have

exercised the right of retaliation. He who deceived you is deceived in

return, and to you will be given the noble instead of the base! The

blush on your cheeks, which appears to me more beautiful than the royal

purple that adorns you, is also my reward. For your countenance assures

me that I have acted like the representative and vicegerent of the

Highest!

Then the drums announced the termination of the spectacle, and the

people cried, All hail, our king and queen!

Bear and Child.

Leopold, Duke of Lorraine, had a bear called Marco, of the sagacity

and generosity of which we have the following remarkable instance.

During the winter of 1709, a Savoyard boy, ready to perish with cold,

in a barn in which he had been put by a woman with some more of his

companions, thought proper to enter Marco’s hut, without reflecting on

the danger he incurred in exposing himself to the mercy of the animal

which occupied it.

Marco, however, instead of doing any injury to the child, took him

between his paws, and warmed him by pressing him to his breast, until

the next morning, when he suffered him to depart and ramble about the

city. The boy returned in the evening to the hut, and was received

with the same affection. For several days he had no other retreat, and

it added not a little to his joy to perceive that the bear regularly

reserved a part of his food for him.

A number of days passed in this manner without the servants knowing

anything of the circumstance. At length, one day, when one of them came

to bring the bear his supper rather later than usual, he was astonished

to see the child quietly asleep, clasped in the paws of the bear. The

animal rolled its eyes in a furious manner, and seemed desirous that

he should make as little noise as possible, for fear of waking his

favorite. The bear, though ravenous, did not appear in the least moved

by the food which was placed before him.

The report of this extraordinary circumstance was soon spread at court,

and reached the ears of Leopold; who, with some of his courtiers, was

desirous of being satisfied of the truth of Marco’s generosity. Several

of them passed the night near his hut, and beheld with astonishment

that the bear never stirred so long as his guest showed any inclination

to sleep. At break of day, the child awoke, and was very much ashamed

to find himself discovered, and fearing that he should be punished

for his rashness, begged pardon. The bear, however, caressed him, and

endeavored to prevail on him to eat what had been brought him the

evening before, which he did at the request of the spectators who

conducted him to the prince.

Having learned the whole history of this singular alliance, and the

time which it had continued, Leopold ordered that the little Savoyard

should be taken care of; but unhappily the child died a short time

after.

[Illustration: man and child]

The Last Flower of the Season.

Marion and her father were walking in the fields. It was November,

and the sharp frosts had cut down the flowers. Even the asters were

withered and perished. But the little girl came at last to a single

blossom that had survived. It was a small and humble flower, and it

grew upon a barren spot. But it had found shelter between the stones,

and its very obscurity had been the means of its protection. The

gaudier blossoms around,--those that flourished in the richer soil and

in more elevated stations--had fallen before the breath of approaching

winter. Marion stooped and plucked the little blossom that seemed to

shine like a gem amid the desolation around, and her father made this

reflection. “See, Marion, how this blossom has withstood the frost

which has swept down its more stately companions. It was humble, and

therefore content with a lowly station. This humility has saved it from

destruction. It is with us, my child, as with the flowers. The humble

and obscure positions of life are often not only the most quiet, but

also the most safe from the temptations, sins, and sorrows, which sweep

down those who seek and obtain more ambitious situations.”

[Illustration: bear in a shelter]

The Cunning Bear.

A FABLE.

Among the bears that lived in the woods, there was one that thought

himself very wise. He was, in fact, very selfish, and cared for nobody

but himself. I am now going to tell you a story, which will show you

how the cunning beast overreached and ruined himself.

In the country of the bears of which I am speaking, there were a good

many Indians. These had set a trap so contrived that if a bear should

attempt to get the bait, a heavy stone would fall upon his back and

crush him.

The bait consisted of a nice leg of venison, and as one of the bears

came that way, its delicious flavor attracted his attention. He

approached cautiously, and perceived that the meat was only the bait

of a trap. He went and told what he had discovered to some of his

companions, and quite a company of bears assembled to take the subject

into consideration.

Among the rest was our cunning bear. He listened to the various

observations of his friends, and finally, assuming a grave and honest

look, he rose upon his hind legs, stretched forth his right paw, and

spoke as follows:

“My dear friends, allow me to address you: this piece of

meat is placed here to tempt you into the trap; be not

deceived, and risk not your lives for a momentary

gratification. What folly would it be for you, or any other

bear, to purchase pleasure at so high a price. Listen to the

words of wisdom: let us all depart, and disappoint the

schemes of our deceitful enemies!”

This counsel seemed very wise, and being uttered with a benignant

countenance and an air of great sincerity, made a deep impression.

Accordingly, the whole troop dispersed, and went their several ways

into the wood.

But the cunning bear had spoken for others rather than himself. No

sooner was the coast clear, than he turned a short corner, and went

slily back to the leg of venison. “Now,” said he, “that I have got rid

of my neighbors, I’ll have a feast all to myself. I’m not afraid of the

trap. I’ve cheated these Indians many a time. I know how to slip off

the meat without springing the trap. What fools there are in the world!

These savages catch the deer, and these silly bears leave it for the

wise ones. I know a thing or two. Fools kill, and the wise ones eat,

the venison.”

With these reflections, our hero stepped slily into the mouth of the

trap. He put up his nose very gently, and fixed his teeth in the haunch

of venison. He then gave it a gentle pull, and it was nearly free, when

the trap sprung, and the enormous stone came down upon Bruin’s back

with a tremendous crash!

The poor beast struggled, and groaned, and growled terribly, but all

in vain. At last he expired, making this reflection, “After all, I do

not see that we cunning people are any better off than anybody else.

Soon or late we overreach ourselves, and perish with the miserable

consciousness that we deserve our doom.”

* * * * *

RECENT experiments have shown the velocity of electricity to be

576,000 miles in a second. At this rate it would perform the circuit

of the earth _three times in the twinkling of an eye_!

The Tiger’s Cave.

AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

OF QUITO.

On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo’s

wide base; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us in clear

brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our

guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions

of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded.

The thunder began to roll, and resounded through the mountainous passes

with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning; flash

following flash--above, around, beneath,--everywhere a sea of fire. We

sought a momentary shelter in the cleft of the rocks, whilst one of

our guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short

time he returned and informed us that he had discovered a spacious

cavern, which would afford us sufficient protection from the elements.

We proceeded thither immediately, and with great difficulty and some

danger at last got into it.

When the storm had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out to

ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in

which we had taken refuge, was so extremely dark, that, if we moved

a few paces from the entrance, we could not see an inch before us;

and we were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before

the Indians came back, when we suddenly heard a singular groaning

or growling in the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed

all our attention. Wharton and myself listened anxiously, but our

inconsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept

about on their hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping,

whence the sound proceeded.

They had not advanced far into the cavern, before we heard them utter

an exclamation of surprise; and they returned to us, each carrying

in his arms, an animal singularly marked, about the size of a cat,

seemingly of great strength and power, and furnished with immense

fangs. The eyes were of a green color; strong claws were upon their

feet; and a blood red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had

scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed in consternation, “We

have come into the den of a ----.” He was interrupted by a fearful

cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards

us, calling out, “A tiger, a tiger!” and, at the same time, with

extraordinary rapidity, they climbed up a cedar tree which stood at the

entrance of the cave, and hid themselves among the branches.

After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me

motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my fire-arms. Wharton

had already regained his composure and self-possession; and he called

to us to assist in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an immense

stone which fortunately lay near it. The sense of imminent danger

augmented our strength; for we now distinctly heard the growl of the

ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption, if he reached

the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done we could

distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot, and stooping in

order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful

moment, our exertions were successful, and the great stone kept the

wild beast at bay.

There was a small open space, however, left between the top of the

entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the

animal, illuminated by his glowing eyes, which he rolled glaring with

fury upon us. His frightful roaring, too, penetrated to the depths of

the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs. Our

ferocious enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful

claws, and then to push it with his head from its place; and these

efforts proving abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered

a tremendous heart-piercing growl, and his flaming eyes darted light

into the darkness of our retreat.

“Now is the time to fire at him,” said Wharton, with his usual

calmness; “aim at his eyes; the ball will go through his brain, and we

shall then have a chance to get rid of him.”

Frank seized his double-barrelled gun and Lincoln his pistols. The

former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln

did the same. At Wharton’s command they both drew their triggers at the

same moment; but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the

flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the entrance,

but finding himself unhurt, immediately turned back, and stationed

himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was wet.

“All is now over,” said Wharton; “we have only now to choose whether we

shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along

with us, or open the entrance to the blood thirsty monster without, and

so make a quicker end of the matter.”

So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which for the

moment defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of

the tiger. Lincoln raved, and Frank took a piece of strong cord from

his pocket and hastened to the further end of the cave, I knew not

with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning; the

tiger, which had heard it also became more restless and disturbed than

ever. He went backwards and forwards, before the entrance of the cave,

in the most wild and impetuous manner; then stood still, and stretching

out his neck towards the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl.

Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity, to discharge

several arrows from the tree; but the light weapons bounded back

harmless from his thick skin. At length, however, one of them struck

him near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in the wound. He now

broke anew into the wildest fury, sprang at the tree and tore it with

his claws as if he would have dragged it to the ground. But having at

length succeeded in getting rid of the arrow, he became more calm, and

laid himself down, as before, in front of the cave.

Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed

us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of

a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them, and, before we

were aware what he intended, he threw them through the opening to the

tiger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earnestly

upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cautiously

from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he

uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow, that we were obliged to put our

hands to our ears.

The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale;

the songs of the birds were again heard in the neighboring forest,

and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We

saw, through the aperture, how all nature was reviving, after the wild

war of elements, which had so recently taken place; but the contrast

only made our situation the more horrible. The tiger had laid himself

down beside his whelps. He was a beautiful animal, of great size and

strength; and his limbs being stretched out at their full length,

displayed his immense power of muscle. A double row of great teeth

stood far enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the

white foam fell in large drops.

All at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger

immediately rose and answered it with a mournful howl. At the same

instant, our Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new

danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears; for

another tiger, not quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards

the spot where we were.

The howls which the tigress gave, when she had examined the bodies of

her cubs, surpassed everything of horrible that we had yet heard; and

the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring

was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out

her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she

were determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young.

Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward, with the

intention of penetrating our place of refuge. Perhaps she might have

been enabled, by her immense strength, to push away the stone, had we

not, with all our united power, held it against her.

When she found that all her efforts were fruitless, she approached the

tiger, who lay stretched out beside his cubs, and he rose and joined

in her hollow roarings. They stood together for a few moments, as

if in consultation, and then suddenly went off at a rapid pace, and

disappeared from our sight. Their howlings died away in the distance,

and then entirely ceased.

Our Indians descended from their tree, and called upon us to seize the

only possibility of yet saving ourselves, by instant flight, for that

the tigers had only gone round the height to seek another inlet into

the cave, with which they were no doubt acquainted. In the greatest

haste the stone was pushed aside, and we stepped forth from what we had

considered a living grave. We now heard once more the roaring of the

tigers, though at a distance, and, following the example of our guides,

we precipitately struck into a side path. From the number of roots and

branches of trees, with which the storm had strewed our way, and the

slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow and difficult.

We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found

that our way led along a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures. We had

just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us,

uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became aware

that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed

towards one of the breaks, or gulfs in our way, over which was thrown

a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be

trod with safety by the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the

hollow below rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed and

jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side.

Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself passed over the chasm in safety, but

Wharton was still in the middle of the waving bridge, and endeavoring

to steady himself, when both the tigers were seen to issue from the

adjoining forest; and the moment they descried us, they bounded towards

us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained the

safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering up the rocky cliff,

except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge, to assist his friend

to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were

close upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind. As soon as

he had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and with his sword

divided the fastenings by which the bridge was attached to the rock.

He expected that an effectual barrier would thus be put to the further

progress of our pursuers; but he was mistaken; for he had scarcely

accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment’s pause,

rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over it. It was a

fearful sight to see the mighty animal suspended for a moment in the

air, above the abyss; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning.

Her strength was not equal to the distance; she fell into the gulf,

and, before she reached the bottom, was torn into a thousand pieces by

the jagged points of the rocks.

Her fate did not in the least dismay her companion; he followed her

with an immense spring, and reached the opposite side, but only with

his fore claws; and thus he clung to the edge of the precipice,

endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered a wild shriek,

as if all hope had been lost.

But Wharton, who was nearest the edge of the rock, advanced

courageously towards the tiger, and struck his sword into the animal’s

breast. Enraged beyond all measure, the wild beast collected all his

strength, and, with a violent effort, fixing one of his hind legs

upon the cliff, he seized Wharton by the thigh. That heroic man still

preserved his fortitude; he grasped the trunk of a tree with his left

hand, to steady and support himself, while with his right hand he

wrenched and violently turned the sword, that was still in the breast

of the tiger. All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank,

and myself hastened to his assistance; but Lincoln, who was already at

his side, had seized Wharton’s gun, which lay near upon the ground, and

struck so powerful a blow with the butt-end upon the head of the tiger,

that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold and fell back

into the abyss.--_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

The Ingenious Cricket.

In the mountains of Malacca there is a species of cricket, which makes

a loud noise with its wings at certain seasons, probably to attract

its mate. Not content with the simple sound which it can produce by a

natural action, it is said to resort to an exceedingly curious acoustic

contrivance to increase it. In the sides of a hole which it forms in

the earth, large enough to contain its body, it hollows out seven small

tunnels, which, diverging from that common centre, and penetrating

towards the surface of the ground, at length open above in a circle of

a palm’s breadth in diameter. These cylindrical apertures, being made

quite smooth within, expand towards the top, where each may be half

an inch wide, like so many minute speaking-trumpets. The insect then

taking its stand in the central cavity which communicates with these,

and there exercising its fairy minstrelsy, the sound passes through

each tube; and, whatever be the use of this peculiar structure, the

tiny musician within makes hill-side and thicket ring with the chirping

din which he emits from it.--_Bennet and Tyerman._

The Power of Bees.

The following incident is related in an English paper. One day, a

horse belonging to a farmer strayed from his yard into an adjoining

garden belonging to a Mrs. Cox, and kicked down a hive of bees, which

instantly attacked him with great fierceness. The poor horse kicked

and plunged violently, and a man named Blunt, who happened to be in

Mrs. Cox’s house, went out to his rescue. He succeeded in getting hold

of the horse, but had scarcely done so, when the bees attacked him,

covering his head and face, and every exposed part of his body. It was

in vain he strove to beat them off. Wet cloths were thrown over him,

and other means were resorted to, but it was a long time before the

enemy left him. The unfortunate man was conveyed to his house, but died

on his way thither, within ten minutes of the attack. The horse died

the next evening. The deceased left several children to lament his

untimely end.

HYMN.

I know, when I lie down to sleep,

That God is near my bed;

That angels watch by his command

Around my infant head.

I know, when I kneel down to pray,

That still my God is there;

He hears my words, he sees my thoughts,

And will accept my prayer.

I know when I go forth to play,

That God is by my side;

Through every hour, at every step,

He is my guard and guide.

I know his eye sees everything

In earth, and sea and air;

That he, in darkness as in light,

Can see me everywhere.

Then let me guard each thought, each word,

Lest he should chance to find

Evil within a heart that should

Be gentle, meek, and kind.

Our Correspondence.

We have this month to acknowledge the receipt of letters from M. G. D.;

J. B., of Princeton; S----, of Cambridge; and W. H. S., of Portsmouth.

The following, from the latter place, we insert with pleasure.

_Portsmouth, Sept. 3, 1844._

MR. MERRY:

DEAR SIR,--I have begun to take your books, and have just

received the back numbers, and thus far I feel a great

interest in them; and, as you have had but a few _puzzles_

in the late numbers, you would oblige me very much if you

would publish the following enigma. We are good hands down

here for _puzzles_, and would like to get hold of one that

would _stick_ us. If you can find one of this kind, we wish

you to publish it. I send you the following

PUZZLE.

I am composed of twenty letters.

My 12, 16 and 19, is part of the body.

My 15, 4, 20, 9, 3 and 17, is in every house.

My 10, 9, 6, 10, 8 and 18, has no particular home.

My 5, 4, 16 and 7, is part of a factory.

My 3, 15, 13 and 4, is a return.

My 5, 16, 11, 6, 4 and 18, is a city in Europe.

My 17, 8, 15, 4, 16 and 11, is an animal.

My 7, 8, 20, 15 and 13, comes every spring.

My 2, 8, 10 and is numbered.

My 1, 14, 8 and 17, is to take a part.

My whole is a part of the contents of Merry’s Museum.

H. R. B.

* * * * *

The following letter will probably elicit the thanks of our readers, as

it does ours. We shall certainly comply with the request, in our next

number.

_Natick, September 25th._

MR. MERRY:

There is a great deal said about Texas in the newspapers,

and both whigs and democrats are making a great many

speeches about it. I should like, myself, to know more

about it than I do; what sort of a country it is--how

large--how many people there are--how they live--what the

climate and productions are. If you could give us a short

account of these things, I think it would be acceptable to

your readers.

Yours, N. C.

November in London.

No sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon--

No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--

No sky--no earthly view--

No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--no t’other side the way--

No end to any row--

No indications where the crescents go--

No top to any steeple--

No recognitions of familiar people--

No courtesies for showing ’em--

No knowing ’em!

No travelling at all--no locomotion--

No inkling of the way--no motion--

“No go,” by land or ocean--

No mail--no post--

No news from any foreign coast--

No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--

No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease--

No comfortable feel in any member--

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--November!

The Moon.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEORGE J. WEBB.

[Illustration: Music]

Who am I that shine so bright,

With my pretty yellow light,

Peeping through your curtains grey?

Tell me, little child, I pray.

When the sun is gone I rise

In the very silent skies;

And a cloud or two doth skim

Round about my silver rim.

All the little stars do seem

Hidden by my brighter beam,

And among them I do ride,

Like a queen in all her pride.

Little child, consider well

Who this simple tale doth tell;

And I think you’ll guess it soon,

For I only am the Moon.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. NOVEMBER, 1844. No. 5.

[Illustration: November.]

The trees to the blast have surrendered their leaves,

The beauties of summer have fled;

The warblers departed for sunnier climes,

The herbage is withered and dead.

The chill wintry blast shall resound through the woods,

The skies with rude storms shall be rife;

But spring will return and again clothe the trees,

The landscape will glow with new life.

According to a French novelist, November is the gloomy month, in which

“the people of England hang and drown themselves.” There is something

rather sober in the departure of all those interesting charms that

have so attached us to summer and the early autumn, yet we can hardly

say that there is anything _gloomy_ about it. A pensive, yet pleasing

melancholy, is perhaps the predominant feeling in contemplating the

changes that take place as the autumn sullenly resigns the year to

winter. We have seen the fields stripped of their crops, and the woods

of their luxuriant foliage; and now that the great purposes of the

season are accomplished, it is not with repining or regret, that we

see exhausted nature about to take a short repose.

We have been delighted with the music of the fields and groves, we have

admired the springing plants and expanding flowers; now our enjoyments

are about to be somewhat of a different kind, though they may still

be closely connected with the mysterious operations of slumbering

nature; we may still study her work with scarce less interest than when

her utmost energies are put forth to the work of spring and summer

seasons. Let the Englishman hang or drown, if his fancy inclines that

way; for myself, there is much in the gloom of winter which I could

yet wish to enjoy for years to come. There are the hard frosts, which

show an autumn morning with every twig and every blade of grass,

every vegetable fibre, houses, rocks, and fences, coated with a thick

covering of alabaster, like ice, converting shrubs and thick-clustering

weeds into most gorgeous chandeliers; there are the winter sunshine

and storms, and the winter-evening fireside. There is the promise and

hope of the future year; and above all, there is the contemplation of

the power and goodness of Him who has furnished the earth in all the

beauty and riches of the seasons, for the comfort and happiness of his

creatures.

The sun, who seems to have the immediate control of these matters, has

for a few weeks been getting rapidly to the south, and the summer and

autumn follow him. His declination, by the middle of the month, is the

same, and the days are as short, as at the latter part of January:

but how different the two seasons. Now, we generally have our Indian

summer, and then, perhaps, is the coldest part of winter. When the

earth has become so thoroughly heated by the longer days and more

perpendicular sun of summer, it requires some time, after the sun has

attained its greatest southern declination, for it to cool again to the

lowest temperature of winter.

We are no great admirers of the mere poetry and sentimentality of

life, but, seeing it is November, suppose we indulge a little in the

pensive mood. Let us take one of those pure transparent days which are

only to be found at this season, and go to the southern declivity of

some gentle swell where we may have the woods in our rear. Now look

abroad to the south where the retiring summer seems yet to linger,

and the autumn lies slumbering over the landscape. Here is no bold

and abrupt coloring, no contrast of dark woods with yellow fields;

the different features and tints seem blended into one grand mass,

forming an extended and unbroken scene of quiet, calm serenity and

loveliness. Over head is that deep transparent blue which belongs

only to an autumn sky, with here and there a straggling white-edged

cloud, which sometimes passing before the sun, we see the shadow as it

travels over the plain, darkening successively for a moment the hills

and fields until lost in the distance, and giving a transient life and

motion to the sleeping scene before us. Now and then a single bird is

to be seen, who, as if loth to leave the happy scenes of his summer

joys, still lingers behind, long after his companions have departed for

southern climes. Occasionally we are startled by the squirrel, who,

with a cheek load of hickory nuts, rustles the leaves as he scampers

to his hiding place, to finish stocking his cellars with provisions

for the winter. For half an hour, not a breath of air is felt, or a

sound heard; till presently, the wind, scarcely heard at first, begins

to murmur among the trees in the distance; approaching, it increases

to a mournful howl, bringing with it a cloud of leaves, which, whirled

in eddies across the sky above us, afford us a lecture “more eloquent

than words,” on the end there _must_ be to all of the beautiful and

fascinating, to which we have set our hearts and engaged our affections

here. Now the wind dies away again in moaning sighs, the leaves settle

away in the distance, and presently all is again quiet, lonely and

silent.

At such times, we feel little inclined to conversation; deeply absorbed

in the contemplation of the scene before us, about us, and above us, we

find occasion for few words; conscious that each sees and deeply feels

the whole, the year going reluctantly on to its grave, we find all

comment unnecessary, and words superfluous; we want no communion with

anything save our own silent thoughts.

I know not how it is with others, but I have sometimes felt _English_

enough to think, were it proper to choose, that when I am called upon

to leave all the beautiful and interesting things that have so long

bound me to earth, I could choose this season, and leave them with less

regret amid such a scene, when all around is gone to decay, and the

earth itself seems to covet the repose of death.

* * * * *

_Say well_ is good, but _do well_ is better.

* * * * *

EXPERIENCE A TEACHER TO BIRDS.--There is much more intellect in birds

than people suppose. A curious instance of this once occurred at a

slate quarry. A thrush, not aware of the expansive properties of

gunpowder, thought proper to build her nest on the ridge of the quarry

in the very centre of which they were constantly blasting the rock. At

first, she was very much discomposed by the flying of stones in all

directions, but still she would not leave her nest. She soon observed

that a bell rang whenever a train was about to be fired, and that, at

the notice, the workmen retired to safe positions. In a few days, when

she heard the bell, she quitted her exposed situation, and flew down

to where the workmen sheltered themselves, dropping close to their

feet. There she would remain till the explosion had taken place and

then return to her nest.

* * * * *

LITIGATION.--Law is like a country dance; people are led up and down

till they are fairly tired out. It is like a book of surgery; there

are a great many terrible cases in it. It is like physic too; they

that take the least of it are best off. Law is like a new fashion;

people are bewitched to get into it; and like bad weather, most people

are glad to get out of it.

* * * * *

SCOTT.--It is related of Sir Walter Scott that when in health he never

refused to see any one, however humble, who called upon him; and that

he scarcely ever received a letter which he did not answer by his own

hand.

Bill and the Boys.

_The story of Dirk Heldriver, concluded._

M. Hielder having attained the summit of the pyramidal crag, to which

he had been invited, now looked around for Hieldover. He saw a fire

which had guided him to the spot, made of fagots burning upon the

rocks, and at a little distance, he discovered the mouth of a cave.

From this, Hieldover soon issued, and presented himself before his

visiter. The strong light of the blazing brands, reflected upon the

faces and forms of the two men, presented a striking picture. The

emaciated form, the haggard features and the torn garments of Hielder,

were strongly contrasted with the iron frame, the stern, flinty

countenance, and homely sailor’s dress of Hieldover.

The two men met, but no kindly greeting passed between them. They gazed

at each other for a moment, and Hieldover then broke the silence. “You

have come,” said he, “at my bidding, and I will fulfil my promise.

You shall see your daughter--but you must first listen to my story.”

Saying this, he pointed to a seat on the rock, and M. Hielder sat down.

Hieldover did the same, and then he spoke as follows.

“It is now twelve years since we parted at Amsterdam. I need not go

over the story of my father’s death--of his intrusting my fortune and

education to your care. I need not say how you discharged your trust,

by bringing me up in every species of folly and dissipation; of your

embezzlement of my property, and final retreat from the country to

parts unknown. The latter event, as you well know, occurred in my

absence from Amsterdam. When I returned to the city I found myself a

beggar, and what was worse, my character was ruined. You had enjoyed

a high reputation for integrity, and had taken advantage of this to

denounce me as a graceless wretch, unworthy of protection or sympathy.

You had also circulated the story that the vast estate bequeathed by my

father had been squandered by my profligacy.

“I was just twenty-one when I returned to Amsterdam, intending to

take possession of my estate, but instead of this, I found myself at

once ruined in fortune and fame. It is impossible for me to describe

the miseries that one after another overwhelmed me. I applied to

friends; but they received me with coldness or aversion. I resorted

to my companions, upon whom I had lavished favors; but they smiled

and put their fingers sneeringly to the side of the nose. I applied

to a lawyer; but he would not undertake my cause without a fee, and

this I could not give. At length, I bent all the energies of my soul

to one single purpose, and that was to pursue you, to traverse the

four quarters of the globe, if necessary, to find you, and at last to

inflict upon you some punishment adequate to your ingratitude and your

crimes.

“Entering upon this design with a fierce and feverish desire, I shipped

on board a vessel as a common sailor. I had reason to suppose that you

had gone to Surinam, and the vessel I entered was bound to that port.

I performed the duties of a sailor with alacrity. In the long and

tedious calm, or the raging of the tempest, whether upon the quiet deck

or aloft amid the shivering spars, I never for one moment forgot my

purpose. I arrived at the destined port, and made inquiries for you,

but without success. I engaged in the revels of my companions; but in

my maddest moments I thought of you. I shipped for Java, for I had been

led to conjecture that you might be there. We performed our long voyage

of alternate tempest and tranquillity. To all around me I seemed the

most thoughtless of the unthinking men with whom I was associated; yet

it was the burning hope of revenge that sustained me.

“You were not at Java. I set out for the Japan Isles, and reached

the rock of Nangasaki, to which the Dutch traders are confined. You

had been here, but had departed, leaving no clew by which you could

be traced. In a daring and reckless mood, I ventured with one of my

companions to enter into one of the Japanese towns. We had dressed

ourselves like the natives, and for a time were unsuspected. But at

last we were seized, severely beaten, put into an open boat and driven

out to sea. We were forced along the coast by winds and currents, and

at last, were wrecked upon a rocky shore. In a starving condition we

clambered up the cliffs, and made our way to a small village. Here we

were seized and conducted from post to post, till we reached Meaco,

the residence of the _dairi_ or king. Having been examined, we were

sentenced to perpetual slavery in the diamond mines. These belonged to

the king, and were situated in the mountains. For three years I wrought

in gloomy caverns, without once seeing the light of day. Even here I

did not forget my revenge, and had still in my bosom a conviction that

I should break the chains with which my body was bound, escape from my

rocky prison, and fulfil my purpose. My companion wasted away under his

toil and confinement, and expired before my eyes; but my body and soul

fed upon the hope which had so long animated my bosom.

“I began to meditate an escape. I laid my plans with deliberation,

and at the end of eleven months, they were completed. I effected my

deliverance, and lived for two years with the wild goats amid the

recesses of the mountains. I had learned the language and manners of

the country, and leaving my retreat, made my way without difficulty;

all suspicion having been lulled by the time which had elapsed since my

escape. I had concealed a number of diamonds and other gems of great

value, and carried them with me. I was now rich, but I regarded my

wealth only as the means by which I might traverse the world in pursuit

of you.

“I reached Nangasaki, and entered a vessel bound for Amsterdam. I

returned to my native city, and for a time engaged in the pleasures

of fashionable life. I was courted and flattered on every side; but I

became weary of blandishments, and the thirst of revenge, which had

been forgotten, again revived in my bosom. I came to New York, and

spent a year in search of you. At last, I discovered your place of

residence, and learned that you had exchanged the name of Brocken for

Hielder. I learned that you were married--that you lived aloof from

mankind, and that you were regarded as a strange and mysterious being.

I visited your abode by night--I hung around your path--I frequently

saw you, and was more than once on the point of thrusting my poniard

into your bosom.

“It is strange, that, when you were in my power, my hand seemed

withheld from striking the blow I had so long meditated. I hesitated--I

wavered. At last my desire of revenge returned in its full vigor--I

went, determined to fulfil my long meditated design. Concealed in the

shrubbery, I saw you approach. I drew my dirk, and stood ready. You

came near, but your lovely child was by your side. You paused--you sat

down--you embraced that flaxen-haired girl, and gazed in her sunny face

with the fond affection of a parent. I had only thought of you before

as a demon; but I now saw that you were a father, and possessed a

father’s feeling. It was a strange revelation, and it opened a new view

to my mind. I cast my poniard away with loathing, and another train of

thoughts took possession of my soul.

“I lay in wait, and seizing a favorable opportunity, I carried your

daughter away. She is here, and she is well. I have brought you hither;

I have told you my story--I have fulfilled my purpose. I have no other

revenge to bestow. Keep your ill-gotten wealth--for I know it cannot

bless you. I only hope that your innocent child may not share in the

misery which your crimes have inflicted upon me, and must continue to

inflict upon yourself. I see a fate worse than that of Cain, written on

your brow. There is a fire within your breast that consumes you. One

solace only is afforded you--your daughter; and even that is mingled

with a fear that is of itself torture. How mysterious are the ways of

Providence! When there is no other tribunal to inflict punishment, the

soul turns upon itself, and becomes an executioner. Dark and desolate

as is my lot, I envy not yours.”

Hieldover waited for no reply, but immediately brought out Katrina and

placed her in her father’s arms. After a short space, he led them down

the cliff, and conducted them to one of the avenues of the mountain. He

then spoke to Hielder as follows:

“Farewell--we part forever. You need not fear me--nay, forget me if you

can. I forgive the injuries you have done me--the wreck of my existence

which you have caused. I am unfit for the world, and I shall continue

to occupy this abode. I have lived a life of evil thoughts and wicked

passions. I will expiate my crimes by a life of penance in yonder cave.

Beware of seeking me--of naming me to others. I seek only oblivion and

repose. Adieu.”

The strange man departed, and Hielder saw him no more. Years passed

away, and a light was often seen on the mountains. Rumors were afloat

that the giant form of a man was sometimes seen upon the cliffs, or

gliding through the valley beneath. The light was at last extinguished,

and the legend became current that the bones of a man were many years

after found in the cave, and by their side a small sack of precious

gems. The glen had long the reputation of being haunted, and was

anciently known by the name of Heldriver’s castle.

[Illustration: _Head of a New Zealander._]

New Zealand.

New Zealand consists of two islands, but separated only by a strait,

and composing properly only one country, lying between 34° and 48°S

lat.; being thus about 1000 miles in length; but the average breadth

does not exceed 100 miles. The surface is estimated at 62,160 English

square miles. The northern island is known by the name, not very well

fitted for English organs, of Eaheinomauwe; the southern by that of

T’avai Poenammoo. The first is the smallest, but is distinguished by

the finest soil, and by natural features of the boldest and grandest

description. Chains of high mountains run through both islands, which,

in the former, rise to the height of 12,000 or 14,000 feet, and are

buried for two thirds of their height in perpetual snow; presenting

on the greatest scale all the Alpine phenomena. From these heights

numerous streams flow down, watering in their course the most fertile

and enchanting valleys. The huge glaciers and plains of snow which

cover their higher regions; the mighty torrents which pour down from

them, forming stupendous cataracts; the lofty woods which crown their

middle regions; the hills which wind along their feet, decked with the

brightest vegetation; the bold cliffs and promontories which breast the

might of the southern waves; the beautiful bays decked with numberless

villages and canoes--all conspire to present a scene, which even the

rude eye of the navigator cannot behold without rapture. The soil in

the valleys, and in the tracts of land at all level, is more fertile

than in New Holland, and, with due cultivation, would yield grain in

abundance. It produces, even spontaneously and plentifully, roots

fitted for human food, particularly those of a species of fern, which

covers almost the whole country.

The natives breed pigs, and cultivate some maize, yams and potatoes;

and there is a species of very strong flax, which serves not only for

clothing, but fishing-lines, and various other purposes. The mountains

are clothed with a profusion of fir trees, of a variety of species

unknown in other countries, and rising to a magnificent height, which

the tallest pines of Norway cannot rival.

The natives are of a different race from those of New Holland,

belonging to that Malay race which predominates in the South Sea

Islands. They are tall and well formed, with large black eyes; they

are intelligent, have made some progress in the arts of life, and are

united into a certain form of political society. These circumstances,

however, have only tended to develop in a still more frightful degree

those furious passions which agitate the breast of the savage. Each

little society is actuated by the deepest enmity against all their

neighbors; their daily and nightly thought is to surprise, to attack,

to exterminate them; and when they have gained that guilty triumph, it

is followed by devouring their victims.

Yet to the members of their own tribe, or those whom they regard as

friends, they are not only mild and courteous, but display the fondest

attachment and most tender sensibility. Families live together in great

harmony, and are seen assembled in pleasing and harmonious groups. On

the death of their relations, they exhibit the most impassioned and

affecting symptoms of grief, cutting their faces with pieces of shell

or bone, till the blood flows and mixes with their tears.

They have a great turn for oratory, the chiefs making speeches of two

or three hours, accompanied with vehement gestures, to which those of

the audience correspond. Their war-canoes are very large, adorned with

much curious and elaborate carving. Great diligence is also exercised,

and great pain endured, in bestowing upon their skins the ornament of

tattooing; and the visages of the chiefs are often entirely covered

over with various regular figures. This, however, is not effected

without severe pain, causing even attacks of fever; but to shrink in

any degree from the operation is considered as altogether derogatory

to a manly spirit. They have also a horrid art, by which the heads

of their enemies, being dried in an oven, and exposed to a stream of

fresh air, are maintained in a state of perfect preservation. Their

houses are by no means spacious; that of Korra-korra, a powerful chief,

measured only nine feet long, six feet wide, and four feet high. They

are placed in hippahs, or fortified villages, seated on high and steep

hills, ascended by pathways, narrow, winding, and often perpendicular,

so as to be most perilous to an European; but the New Zealander leaps

up as if it were level ground.

Their original arms consisted of clubs of stone and whalebone, of long

and pointed spears, and of the pattoo-pattoo, or wooden battle-axe;

but since the musket has been introduced to their knowledge, it has

absorbed all their warlike regard; and the strength of a chief is

counted, not by his men, but by his muskets. The report of fifty being

in the possession of Korra-korra spread the terror of his name for 200

miles round.

Dick Boldhero.

CHAPTER IX.

Mounted upon the back of a small but vigorous Dutch pony, I made

my way upon my return much more rapidly than I had done on foot in

proceeding into the country. At the end of about eight days, I reached

the city. During my ride I had revolved many schemes in my head, and

I had determined, not only to find out my uncle, but, if possible, to

vindicate his reputation. The scale of my operations was pretty large,

considering my youth; but through life our anticipations are very apt

to be extensive in proportion as our means are small.

Immediately upon arriving at Paramaribo, I set about my inquiries; but

a fortnight passed away, and nothing had transpired to give me the

least hope of success. But one night, as I was walking along the quay

of the city, a person muffled up in a cloak met me, handed me a letter,

and disappeared. I hastened to my room, opened the paper, and read as

follows. “Your uncle is an innocent and injured man. There are those in

this city who have participated in the means by which his character

was rendered infamous. The chief instrument by which the base plot was

executed, is the captain of the ship that was lost. He now lives in

a splendid villa near the city of Caraccas, under the name of Signor

Sevil.”

There was neither date nor signature to this paper, and whether to

consider it as a mere imposition, or as founded in truth and designed

to aid my researches, I could not determine. I submitted it to my

adviser, to whom I had been commended by Mr. Hartley, and he deemed

the communication of great importance. It was finally determined that

I should proceed to Caraccas, in the hope of ascertaining whether the

statement in the paper was true, and if so, how far the fact could be

made available to the clearing up of my uncle’s character. Before my

departure, I went to see my cousin Mirabel, and proffered my claim to

relationship. She received me kindly, and entered with enthusiasm into

my projects. I left her, and taking passage in a small coasting vessel,

set out for Caraccas.

This city is situated on the northern coast of South America, and

is the capital of the fine province of Venezuela. In about twenty

days we reached our destined port, and I set out immediately for the

city, which lies about fifteen miles from the sea. Our road lay over

mountainous ridges, but we were rapidly and safely carried by mules,

and reached Caraccas in the space of a few hours.

I found this place to contain some fifty thousand inhabitants, nearly

all of them Spaniards. The streets were built at right angles, and

were exceedingly narrow. The houses had a gloomy look, there being in

each but one or two windows towards the street, but in the rear they

had large courts, where there were often very pleasant gardens, with

walks and fountains. There were several public squares in the town,

among which the Plaça Mayor was the principal. This was about 320 feet

square, and here was the chief market of the city. The churches were

numerous, and the cathedral was very splendid.

I gave myself little time to survey the city, but immediately entered

upon the business that had brought me hither. I soon found that such

a person as Signor Sevil actually lived in a handsome edifice in the

suburbs of the city. Upon further inquiry I ascertained that he had

resided there but a few years, that he was a foreigner, and a degree

of doubt and mystery hung over his life and character. There were even

suspicions that he had been engaged in certain piratical expeditions;

but as all this was surmise, and he appeared to be in the possession of

wealth, the subject was little agitated.

I remained for several weeks, endeavoring to trace out the history of

this individual, and became satisfied that he was actually the captain

who had commanded the vessel in which my uncle’s property was lost, and

through whose villany he had been made to suffer so severely. Yet I

was unable to obtain any specific proofs that would answer my purpose.

I revolved a great many schemes, and finally determined to seek an

interview with the captain, tell him my object boldly, and take my

chance for the result. If I gained no advantage, I should at least lose

nothing.

Accordingly, I wrote a letter to the captain, who bore the name of

Signor Sevil, stating that a person from Paramaribo desired to see him

on important business. This I despatched to his house, and received

for answer that he would call upon me at the place designated, on

the morrow. At the time appointed he came, and seemed not a little

surprised at the youthfulness of the person with whom he was to have

an interview. I began by addressing him as Captain Pierce, remarking

that I was well acquainted with his history and character, and that my

name was Boldhero. He started to his feet as if he had been stung by

an adder, and then seemed about to rush upon me. I had provided myself

with a pistol, which I drew from my bosom, and presented to his face.

This seemed to have a cooling effect; he immediately forced a smile,

resumed his chair, and said, “Well, well, let us hear what you have to

say.”

I then stated that my object was to vindicate the reputation of my

uncle, and to recover also the large amount of money due from the

insurance company at Surinam. I assured him that my purpose was not to

bring him to justice, but only to obtain from him a solemn affidavit,

retracting his former perjury, with a confession of the means by which

he had been bribed to commit so foul a wrong.

When I had done, the man looked at me with a mixture of amazement and

mirth. The audacity of my proposition seemed at once to astonish and

amuse him. After looking me steadily in the face for a few moments,

he said, with great civility, “I will think of this proposition, and

when I am prepared to erect a gallows and twist a halter for my own

execution, I will perhaps comply with your very reasonable request.”

Saying this, the man rose from his seat, saluted me with great

politeness, and was about to depart.

Stung with disappointment and indignation, I placed my back to the

door, determined to oppose his departure. While I stood a moment in

this position, facing the captain, my feet seemed jerked from under me,

and I fell to the floor. At the same instant I saw that he was thrown

forcibly in an opposite direction, and laid prostrate. I arose, but was

instantly thrown down again. I could now perceive that the room was

rocking backward and forward; at the same time, my ears were filled

with the most terrific sounds I ever heard. With a powerful effort, I

arose and rushed down the stairs, into the street.

The earth trembled beneath my feet, and the buildings around seemed

to be rushing into a mass of ruins. On every side, I could hear the

crash of buildings falling to the earth; the screams of men, women,

and children, filled with despair or crushed beneath the falling

fragments; together with the heavy and portentous sound, like the deep

bellowing of thunder, smothered in the bowels of the earth. Completely

bewildered, I rushed along the street, escaping as if by miracle from

the bricks and stones and timbers that fell around me. At length I

reached the Plaça Mayor, where I had an extended view of the scene.

The whole space was nearly covered with people; priests with their

crosses; women with their children; aged men and women, tottering with

years; the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the young and

the old; some silent and some wailing; some prostrate on the earth;

others kneeling and telling their beads; others standing erect, and

spreading upward their beseeching hands to Heaven. While such was

the spectacle before the eye, the ear was stunned with strange and

appalling sounds, and at the same time, the earth trembled as if the

very stones were filled with fear at the awful visitation.

Around the square, most of the buildings were prostrate; the only

edifice that seemed to defy the shock, was the cathedral, which

occupied a portion of the open space. The agitation of the earth

continued for a few minutes, when it gradually subsided. The trembling

at last totally ceased, the air became still, and a deathlike silence

settled over the ruined city. It was evident that the earthquake had

passed, and the inhabitants by slow degrees began now to recover from

their panic.

The desolation that pervaded the place was, however, terrific.

Thousands of people had been killed, and many of the living were now

houseless and homeless. Endeavoring to shun the sights of misery that

presented themselves on every side, I wandered about, scarcely knowing

whither I went. At last I found myself near my lodgings. The building

was still standing, though considerably injured. While I stood before

it, surveying its aspect, I heard a deep groan near at hand. On going

to the spot from whence the sound issued, I found the captain half

buried beneath a mass of bricks. I went to him, and he instantly

recognized me. “For God’s sake give me help,” said he, “though it is

perhaps of little consequence, for I have but a few hours to live.”

Touched by the poor man’s sufferings, I immediately fell to work to

extricate him, but found the task beyond my strength. I ran for help,

which I obtained with some difficulty, and the sufferer was taken up,

and carried into the adjacent building, where I had lodged. “I am

dying,” said he to me. “I beg you to send for a priest. Be speedy, as

you would have mercy on the soul of a great sinner.”

I ran to the Plaça Mayor, and speedily brought a friar to the bedside

of the dying man. We were all required to leave the room, and the

captain proceeded to make his confession in the ear of the priest. The

holy father told him that his crimes were great, and he could only

offer him absolution upon condition that he would put his declaration

in writing, and in such a form as would enable the parties he had

injured to obtain justice.

After a violent struggle with his pride, the sufferer yielded, and

a magistrate was called to receive his dying affirmation. This was

executed in due form, and in my presence. It completely exculpated my

uncle from all blame. It declared that his ship was lost by stress of

weather, and that he, the captain, had been bribed to give perjured

evidence, in stating that the catastrophe had been brought about by my

uncle’s orders. Scarcely had he finished this declaration, and sworn

to it, when he was seized with spasms, his mind wandered, and with a

struggle that shook his whole frame, he expired.