Chapter I.

Harper’s

New Monthly Magazine

No. XXII.—March, 1852.—Vol. IV.

CONTENTS

Rodolphus.—A Franconia Story. By Jacob Abbott.

Recollections Of St. Petersburg.

A Love Affair At Cranford.

Anecdotes Of Monkeys.

The Mountain Torrent.

A Masked Ball At Vienna.

The Ornithologist.

A Child’s Toy.

“Rising Generation”-Ism.

A Taste Of Austrian Jails.

Who Knew Best?

My First Place.

The Point Of Honor.

Christmas In Germany.

The Miracle Of Life.

Personal Sketches And Reminiscences. By Mary Russell Mitford.

Recollections Of Childhood.

Married Poets.—Elizabeth Barrett Browning—Robert Browning.

Incidents Of A Visit At The House Of William Cobbett.

A Reminiscence Of The French Emigration.

The Dream Of The Weary Heart.

New Discoveries In Ghosts.

Keep Him Out!

Story Of Rembrandt.

The Viper.

Esther Hammond’s Wedding-Day.

My Novel; Or, Varieties In English Life.

A Brace Of Blunders By A Roving Englishman.

Public Executions In England.

What To Do In The Mean Time?

The Lost Ages.

Blighted Flowers.

Monthly Record of Current Events.

United States.

Mexico.

Great Britain.

France.

Austria And Hungary.

Editor’s Table.

Editor’s Easy Chair

Editor’s Drawer.

Literary Notices.

A Leaf from Punch.

Fashions for March.

Footnotes

RODOLPHUS.—A FRANCONIA STORY.(1) BY JACOB ABBOTT.

SCENE OF THE STORY.

Franconia, a village among the mountains at the North.

PRINCIPAL PERSONS.

RODOLPHUS.

ELLEN LINN: his sister, residing with her aunt up the glen.

ANNIE LINN, a younger sister.

ANTOINE BIANCHINETTE, a French boy, at service at Mrs. Henry’s, a short

distance from the village. He is called generally by grown people Antonio,

and by the children Beechnut.

MALLEVILLE, Mrs. Henry’s niece.

ALPHONZO, called commonly Phonny, her son.

MR. KEEP, a lawyer.

Chapter I.

The manner in which indulgence and caprice on the part of the parent, lead

to the demoralization and ruin of the child, is illustrated by the history

of Rodolphus.

I. Bad Training.

Rodolphus, whatever may have been his faults, was certainly a very

ingenious boy. When he was very young he made a dove-house in the end of

his father’s shed, all complete, with openings for the doves to go in and

out in front, and a door for himself behind. He made a ladder, also, by

which he could mount up to the door. He did all this with boards, which he

obtained from an old fence, for material, and an ax, and a wood saw, for

his only tools. His father, when he came to see the dove-house, was much

pleased with the ingenuity which Rodolphus had displayed in the

construction of it—though he found fault with him for taking away the

boards from the fence without permission. This, however, gave Rodolphus

very little concern.

[Illustration.]

The Rabbit House.

When the dove house was completed, Rodolphus obtained a pair of young

doves from a farmer who lived about a mile away, and put them into a nest

which he made for them in a box, inside.

At another time not long after this, he formed a plan for having some

rabbits, and accordingly he made a house for them in a corner of the yard

where he lived, a little below the village of Franconia. He made the house

out of an old barrel. He sawed a hole in one side of the barrel, near the

bottom of it, as it stood up upon one end—for a door, in order that the

rabbits might go in and out. He put a roof over the top of it, to keep out

the rain and snow. He also placed a _keg_ at the side of the barrel, by

way of wing into the building. There was a roof over this wing, too, as

well as over the main body of the house, or, rather, there was a board

placed over it, like a roof, though in respect to actual use this covering

was more properly a _lid_ than roof, for the keg was intended to be used

as a _store-room_, to keep the provisions in, which the rabbits were to

eat. The board, therefore, which formed the roof of the wing of the

building, was fastened at one edge, by leather hinges, and so could be

lifted up and let down again at pleasure.

Rodolphus’s mother was unwilling that he should have any rabbits. She

thought that such animals in Rodolphus’s possession would make her a great

deal of trouble. But Rodolphus said that he _would_ have some. At least,

he said, he would have _one_.

Rodolphus was standing in the path, in front of the door of his mother’s

house, when he said this. His mother was upon the great flat stone which

served for a step.

“But Beechnut asks a quarter of a dollar for his rabbits.” said his

mother, in an expostulating tone, “and you have not got any money.”

“Ah, but I know where I can get some money,” said Rodolphus.

“Where?” said his mother.

“Father will give it to me,” said Rodolphus.

“But I shall ask him not to give it to you,” said his mother.

“I don’t care,” said Rodolphus. “I can get it, if you do.”

“How?” asked his mother.

Rodolphus did not answer, but began to turn summersets and cut capers on

the grass, making all sorts of antic gestures and funny grimaces toward

his mother. Mrs. Linn, for that was his mother’s name, laughed, and then

went into the house, saying, as she went, “Oh, Rolf, Rolf, what a little

rogue you are!”

Rodolphus’s father was a workman, and he was away from home almost all the

day, though sometimes Rodolphus himself went to the place where he worked,

to see him. When Mr. Linn came home at night, sometimes he _played_ with

Rodolphus, and sometimes he quarreled with him: but he never really

_governed_ him.

For example, when Rodolphus was a very little boy, he would climb up into

his father’s lap, and begin to feel in his father’s waistcoat pockets for

money. If his father directed him not to do so, Rodolphus would pay no

regard to it. If he attempted to take Rodolphus’s hands away by force,

Rodolphus would scream, and struggle; and so his father, not wishing to

make a disturbance, would desist. If Mr. Linn frowned and spoke sternly,

Rodolphus would tickle him and make him laugh.

Finally, Rodolphus would succeed in getting a cent, perhaps, or some other

small coin, from his father’s pocket, and would then climb down and run

away. The father would go after him, and try all sorts of coaxings and

threatenings, to induce Rodolphus to bring the cent back—while Mrs. Linn

would look on, laughing, and saying, perhaps, “Ah; let him have the cent,

husband. It is not much.”

Being encouraged thus by his mother’s interposition, Rodolphus would of

course persevere, and the contest would end at last by his keeping the

money. Then he would insist the next day, on going into the little village

close by, and spending it for gingerbread. He would go, while eating his

gingerbread, to where his father was at work, and hold it up to his father

as in triumph—making it a sort of trophy, as it were, of victory. His

father would shake his finger at him, laughing at the same time, and

saying, “Ah, Rolf! Rolf! what a little rogue you are!”

Rodolphus, in fact, generally contrived to have his own way in almost

every thing. His mother did not attempt to govern him; she tried to

_manage_ him; but in the end it generally proved that he managed her. In

fact, whenever he was engaged in any contest with his mother, his father

would usually take the boy’s part, just as his mother had done in his

contests with his father.

For instance, one winter evening when he was quite a small boy, he was

sitting in a corner playing with some blocks. He was building a saw-mill.

His mother was at work in a little kitchen which opened into the room

where he was at play. His father was sitting on the settle, by the fire,

reading a newspaper. The door was open which led into the kitchen, and

Rodolphus, while he was at work upon his mill, watched his mother’s

motions, for he knew that when she had finished the work which she was

doing, and had swept up the room, she would come to put him to bed. So

Rodolphus went on building the mill, and the bridge, and the flume which

was to convey the water to his mill, listening all the time to the sounds

in the kitchen, and looking up from time to time, with a very watchful

eye, at the door.

At length he heard the sound of the sweeping, and a few minutes afterward

his mother appeared at the door, coming in. Rodolphus dropped his blocks,

sprang to his feet, and ran round behind the table—a round table which

stood out in the middle of the room.

“Now, Rodolphus,” said his mother, in a tone of remonstrance, looking at

the same time very seriously at him. “It is time for you to go to bed.”

Rodolphus said nothing, but began to dance about, looking at his mother

very intently all the time, and moving this way and that, as she moved, so

as to keep himself exactly on the opposite side of the table from her.

“Rodolphus!” said his mother, in a very stern and commanding tone. “Come

to me this minute.”

Rodolphus continued his dancing.

Rodolphus’s mother was a very beautiful young woman. Her dark glossy hair

hung in curls upon her neck.

When she found that it did no good to command Rodolphus, the stern

expression of her face changed into a smile, and she said,

“Well, if you won’t come, I shall have to catch you, that’s all.”

So saying, she ran round the table to catch him. Rodolphus ran too. His

mother turned first one way and then the other, but she could not get any

nearer to the fugitive. Rodolphus kept always on the farthest side of the

table from her. Presently Mr. Linn himself looked up and began to cheer

Rodolphus, and encourage him to run; and once when Mrs. Linn nearly caught

him and he yet escaped, Mr. Linn clapped his hands in token of his joy.

Mrs. Linn was now discouraged: so she stopped, and looking sternly at

Rodolphus again, she said,

“Now, Rodolphus, you _must_ come to me. Come this minute. If you don’t

come, I shall certainly punish you.” She spoke these words with a great

deal of force and emphasis, in order to make Rodolphus think that she was

really in earnest. But Rodolphus did not believe that she was in earnest,

and so it was evident that he had no intention to obey.

Mrs. Linn then thought of another plan for catching the fugitive, which

was to push the table along to one side of the room, or up into a corner,

and get Rodolphus out from behind it in that way. So she began to push.

Rodolphus immediately began to resist her attempt, by pushing against the

table himself, on the other side. His mother was the strongest, however,

and she succeeded in gradually working the table, with Rodolphus before

it, over to the further side of the room, notwithstanding all the efforts

that he made to prevent it. When he found at last that he was likely to be

caught, he left the table and ran behind the settle where his father was

reading. His mother ran after him and caught him in the corner.

She attempted to take him, but Rodolphus began to struggle and scream, and

to shake his shoulders when she took hold of them, evincing his

determination not to go with her. At the same time he called out, “Father!

father!”

His father looked around at the end of the settle to see what was the

matter.

“He won’t let me put him to bed,” said Mrs. Linn, “and it was time half an

hour ago.”

“Oh, let him sit up a little while longer if he likes,” said Mr. Linn.

“It’s of no use to make him cry.”

Mrs. Linn reluctantly left Rodolphus, murmuring to herself that he ought

to go to bed. Very soon, she said, he would be asleep upon the floor. “I

would _make_ him go,” she added, “only if he cries and makes a noise, it

will wake Annie.”

In fact Annie was beginning to move a little in the cradle then. The

cradle in which Annie was sleeping was by the side of the fire, opposite

to the settle. Mrs. Linn went to it, to rock it, so that Annie might go to

sleep again, and Rodolphus returned victorious to his mill.

These are specimens of the ways in which Rodolphus used to manage his

father and mother, while he was quite young. He became more and more

accomplished and capable in attaining his ends as he grew older, and

finally succeeded in establishing the ascendency of his own will over that

of his father and mother, almost entirely.

He was about four years old when the incidents occurred which have been

just described. When he was about five years old, he used to begin to go

and play alone down by the water. His father’s house was near the water,

just below the bridge. There were some high rocks near the shore, and a

large flat rock rising out of the water. Rodolphus liked very much to go

down to this flat rock and play upon it. His mother was very much afraid

to have him go upon this rock, for the water was deep near it, and she was

afraid that he might fall in. But Rodolphus would go.

The road which led to Mr. Linn’s from the village, passed round the rocks

above, at some distance above the bank of the stream. There was a fence

along upon the outer side of the road, with a little gate where Rodolphus

used to come through. From the gate there was a path, with steps, which

led down to the water. At one time, in order to prevent Rodolphus from

going down there, Mr. Linn fastened up the gate. Then Rodolphus would

climb over the fence. So his father, finding that it did no good to fasten

up the gate, opened it again.

Not content with going down to the flat stone contrary to his mother’s

command, Rodolphus would sometimes threaten to go there and jump off, by

way of terrifying her, when his mother would not give him what he wanted.

This would frighten Mrs. Linn very much, and she would usually yield at

once to his demands, in order to avert the danger. Finally she persuaded

her husband to wheel several loads of stones there and fill up the deep

place, after which she was less uneasy about Rodolphus’s jumping in.

Rodolphus was about ten years old when he made his rabbit house. Annie,

his sister, had grown up too. She was two years younger than Rodolphus,

and of course was eight. She was beautiful like her mother. She had blue

eyes, and her dark hair hung in curls about her neck. She was a gentle and

docile girl, and was often much distressed to see how disobedient and

rebellious Rodolphus was toward his father and mother.

She went out to see the rabbit house which Rodolphus had made, and she

liked it very much See wished that her mother would allow them to have a

rabbit to put into it, and she said so, as she stood looking at it, with

her hands behind her.

“I am sorry, that mother is not willing that you should have a rabbit,”

said she.

“Oh, never mind that,” said Rodolphus, “I’ll have one for all that, you

may depend.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

That evening when Mr. Linn came home from his work, he took a seat near

the door, where he could look out upon the little garden. His mother was

busy setting the table for tea.

“Father,” said Rodolphus, “I wish you would give me a quarter of a

dollar.”

“What for,” said Mr. Linn.

“To buy a rabbit,” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said his mother, “I wish you would not give him any money. I have

told him that I don’t wish him to have any rabbits.”

“Yes,” said Rodolphus, speaking to his father. “Do, it only costs a

quarter of a dollar to get one, and I have got the house all ready for

him.”

“Oh, no, Rolfy,” said his father. “I would not have any rabbits. They are

good for nothing but to gnaw off all the bark and buds in the garden.”

Here there followed a long argument between Rodolphus on the one side, and

his father and mother on the other, they endeavoring in every possible way

to persuade him that a rabbit would be a trouble and not a pleasure. Of

course, Rodolphus was not to be convinced. His father however, refused to

give him any money, and Rodolphus ceased to ask for it. His mother thought

that he submitted to his disappointment with very extraordinary

good-humor. But the fact was, he was not submitting to disappointment at

all. He had formed another plan.

He began playing with Annie about the yard and garden, saying no more, and

apparently thinking no more about his rabbit, for some time. At last he

came up to his father’s side and said,

“Father, will you lend me your keys?”

“What do you want my keys for?” asked his father.

“I want to whistle with them,” said Rodolphus. “Annie is my dog, and I

want to whistle to her.”

“No,” said his father, “you will lose them. You must whistle with your

mouth.”

“But I can’t whistle with my mouth, Annie makes me laugh so much. I must

have the keys.”

So saying, Rodolphus began to feel in his father’s pockets for the keys.

Mr. Linn resisted his efforts a little, remonstrating with him all the

time, and saying that he could not let his keys go. Rodolphus, however,

persevered, and finally succeeded in getting the keys, and running away

with them.

His father called him to come back, but he would not come.

Rodolphus whistled in one of the keys a few minutes, playing with Annie,

and then, after a little while, he said to her, in a whisper, and in a

very mysterious manner,

“Annie, come with me!”

So saying, he went round the corner of the house, and there entering the

house by means of a door which led into the kitchen, he passed through

into the room where his father was sitting, without being seen by his

father. He walked very softly as he went, too, and so the sound of his

footsteps was not heard. Annie remained at the door when Rodolphus went

in. She asked him as he went in what he was going to do, but Rodolphus

only answered by saying in a whisper, “Hush! Wait here till I come back.”

Rodolphus crept slowly up to a bureau which stood behind a door. There was

a certain drawer in this bureau where he knew that his father kept his

money. He was going to open this drawer and see if he could not find a

quarter of a dollar. He succeeded in putting the key into the key-hole,

and in unlocking the drawer without making much noise. He made a little

noise, it is true, and though his father heard it as he sat at the door

looking out toward the garden, his attention was not attracted by it. He

thought, perhaps, that it was Rodolphus’s mother, doing something in that

corner of the room.

Rodolphus pulled the drawer open as gently and noiselessly as he could. In

a corner of the drawer he saw a bag. He knew that it was his father’s

money-bag. He pulled it open and put his hand in, looking round at the

same time stealthily, to see whether his father was observing him.

Just at that instant, Mr. Linn looked round.

“Rolf, you rogue,” said he, “what are you doing’”

Rodolphus did not answer, but seized a small handful of money and ran. His

father started up and pursued him. Among the coins which Rodolphus had

seized there was a quarter of a dollar, and there were besides this

several smaller silver coins, and two or three cents. Rodolphus took the

quarter of a dollar in one hand, as he ran, and threw the other money down

upon the kitchen floor. His father stopped to pick up this money, and by

this means Rodolphus gained distance. He ran out from the kitchen into the

yard, and from the yard into the road—his father pursuing him. Rodolphus

went on at the top of his speed, filling the air with shouts of laughter.

He scrambled up a steep path which led to the top of the rocks; his father

stopped below.

“Ah, Rolfy!” said his father, in an entreating sort of tone. “Give me back

that money; that’s a good boy.”

Rolfy did not answer, but stood upon a pinnacle of the rock, holding one

of his hands behind him.

“Did you throw down all the money that you took,” said his father.

“No,” said Rodolphus.

“How much have you got now?” said his father.

“A quarter of a dollar,” said the boy.

“Come down, then, and give it to me,” said his father. “Come down this

minute.”

“No,” said Rodolphus, “I want it to buy my rabbit.”

Mr. Linn paused a moment, looking perplexed, as if uncertain what to do.

At length he said,

“Yes, bring back the money, Rolfy, that’s a good boy, and to-morrow I’ll

go and buy you a rabbit myself.”

Rodolphus knew that he could not trust to such a promise, and so he would

not come. Mr. Linn seemed more perplexed than ever. He began to be

seriously angry with the boy, and he resolved, that as soon as he could

catch him, he would punish him severely: but he saw that it was useless to

attempt to pursue him.

Rodolphus looked toward the house, and there he saw his mother standing at

the kitchen-door, laughing. He held up the quarter of a dollar toward her,

between his thumb and finger, and laughed too.

“If you don’t come down, I shall come up there after you,” said Mr. Linn.

“You can’t catch me, if you do,” said Rodolphus.

Mr. Linn began to ascend the rocks. Rodolphus, however, who was, of

course, more nimble than his father, went on faster than his father could

follow. He passed over the highest portion, of the hill, and then

clambered down upon the other side, to the road. He crossed the road, and

then began climbing down the bank, toward the shore. He had often been up

and down that path before, and he accordingly descended very quick and

very easily.

When he reached the shore, he went out to the flat rock, and there stopped

and turned round to look at his father. Mr. Linn was standing on the brink

of the cliff, preparing to come down.

“Stop,” said Rodolphus to his father. “If you come down, I will throw the

quarter of a dollar into the water.”

So saying, Rodolphus extended his hand as if he were about to throw the

money off, into the stream.

[Illustration.]

The Pursuit.

Mrs. Linn and Annie had come out from the house, to see how Mr. Linn’s

pursuit of the fugitive would end; but instead of following Rodolphus and

his father over the rocks, they had come across the road to the little

gate, where they could see the flat rock on which Rodolphus was standing,

and his father on the cliffs above. Mrs. Linn stood in the gateway. Annie

had come forward, and was standing in the path, at the head of the steps.

When she saw Rodolphus threatening to throw the money into the river, she

seemed very much concerned and distressed. She called out to her brother,

in a very earnest manner.

“Rodolphus! Rodolphus! That is my father’s quarter of a dollar. You _must

not_ throw it away.”

“I _will_ throw it away,” said Rodolphus, “and I’ll jump into the water

myself, in the deepest place that I can find, if he won’t let me have it

to buy my rabbit with.”

“I would let him have it, husband,” said Mrs. Linn, “if he wants it so

very much. I don’t care much about it, on the whole. I don’t think the

rabbit will be any great trouble.”

When Rodolphus heard his mother say this, he considered the case as

decided, and he walked off from the flat rock to the shore, and from the

shore up the path to his mother. There was some further conversation

between Rodolphus and his parents in respect to the rabbit, but it was

finally concluded that the rabbit should be bought, and Rodolphus was

allowed to keep the quarter of a dollar accordingly.

Such was the way in which Rodolphus was brought up in his childhood. It is

not surprising that he came in the end to be a very bad boy.

II. Ellen.

The next morning after Rodolphus had obtained his quarter of a dollar in

the manner we have described, he proposed to Annie to go with him to buy

his rabbit. It would not be very far, he said.

“I should like to go very much,” said Annie, “if my mother will let me.”

“O, she will let you,” said Rodolphus, “_I_ can get her to let you.”

Rodolphus waited till his father had gone away after breakfast, before

asking his mother to let Annie go with him. He was afraid that his father

might make some objection to the plan. After his father had gone, he went

to ask his mother.

At first she said very decidedly that Annie could not go.

“Why not?” asked Rodolphus.

“Oh, I could not trust her with you so far,” replied his mother, “she is

too little.”

There followed a long and earnest debate between Rodolphus and his mother,

which ended at last in her consent that Annie should go.

Rodolphus found a basket in the shed, which he took to bring his rabbit

home in. He put a cloth into the basket, and also a long piece of twine.

The cloth was to spread over the top of the basket, and the twine to tie

round it, in order to keep the rabbit in.

When Rodolphus was ready to go, his mother told him that she was afraid

that he might lose his quarter of a dollar on the way, and in order to

make it more secure, she proposed to tie it up for him in the corner of a

pocket handkerchief.

“Why, that would not do any good, mother,” said Rodolphus, “for then I

should only lose handkerchief and all.”

“No,” replied his mother. “You would not be so likely to lose the

handkerchief. The handkerchief could not be shaken out of your pocket so

easily, nor get out through any small hole. Besides, if you should by any

chance lose the money, you could find it again much more readily if it was

tied up in a handkerchief, that being so large and easily seen.”

So Mrs. Linn tied the money in the corner of a pocket handkerchief, and

then put the handkerchief itself in Rodolphus’s pocket.

The place where Rodolphus lived was in Franconia, just below the village.

There was a bridge in the middle of the village with a dam across the

stream just above it. There were mills near the dam. Just below the dam

the water was very rapid.

Rodolphus walked along with Annie till he came to the bridge. On the way,

as soon as he got out of sight of the house, he pulled the handkerchief

out of his pocket, and began untying the knot.

“What are you going to do?” asked Annie.

“I am going to take the money out of this pocket handkerchief,” said

Rodolphus.

So saying he untied the knot, and when he had got the money out he put the

money itself in one pocket and the handkerchief in the other, and then

walked along again.

When Rodolphus reached the bridge he turned to go over it. Annie was at

first afraid to go over it. She wanted to go some other way.

“There _is_ no other way,” said Rodolphus.

“Where is it that you are going to get the rabbit?” asked Annie.

“To Beechnut’s,” said Rodolphus.

“Beechnut’s,” repeated Annie, “that’s a funny name.”

“Why, his real name is Antonio,” said Rodolphus. “But, come, walk along;

there is no danger in going over the bridge.”

Notwithstanding her brother’s assurances that there was no danger, Annie

was very much afraid of the bridge. She however walked along, but she kept

as near the middle of the roadway as she could. Sometimes she came to wide

cracks in the floor of the bridge, through which she could see the water

foaming and tumbling over the rocks far below. There was a sort of

balustrade or railing each side of the bridge, but it was very open.

Rodolphus went to this railing and putting his head between the bars of

it, looked down.

Annie begged him to come back. But he said he wished to look and see if

there were any fishes down there in the water. In the mean time Annie

walked along very carefully, taking long steps over the cracks, and

choosing her way with great caution. Presently she heard a noise behind

her, and looking round she saw a wagon coming. This frightened her more

than ever. So she began to run as fast as she could run, and very soon she

got safely across the bridge. When she reached the land, she went out to

the side of the road to let the wagon go by, and sat down there to wait

for her brother.

Presently Rodolphus came. Annie left her seat and went back into the road

to meet him, and so they walked along together.

“If his name is truly Antonio,” said Annie, “why don’t you call him

Antonio?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rodolphus, “the boys always call him Beechnut.”

“_I_ mean to call him Antonio,” said Annie, “if I see him.”

“Well, you _will_ see him,” said Rodolphus, “for we go right where he

lives.”

“Where does he live?” asked Annie.

“He lives at Phonny’s,” said Rodolphus.

“And where is Phonny’s?” asked Annie.

“Oh, it is a house up here by the valley. Didn’t you ever go there?”

“No,” said Annie.

“It is a very pleasant house,” said Rodolphus. “There is a river in front

of it, and a pier, and a boat. There is a boat-house, too. There used to

be a little girl there, too—just about as big as you.”

“What was her name?” asked Annie.

“Malleville,” replied Rodolphus.

“I have heard about Malleville,” said Annie.

“How did you hear about her?” asked Rodolphus.

“My sister Ellen told me about her,” said Annie.

“We can go and see Ellen,” said Rodolphus, “after we have got the rabbit.”

“Well,” said Annie, “I should like to go and see her very much.”

Rodolphus and Annie had a sister Ellen. She was two years older than

Rodolphus. Rodolphus was at this time about ten. Ellen was twelve. Antonio

was fourteen. Ellen did not live at home. She lived with her aunt. She

went to live with her aunt when she was about eight years old. Her aunt

lived in a small farm-house among the mountains, and when Ellen was about

eight years old, she was taken sick, and so Ellen went to the house to

help take care of her.

Ellen was a very quiet and still, and at the same time a very diligent and

capable girl. She was very useful to her aunt in her sickness. She took

care of the fire, and kept the room in order; and she set a little table

very neatly at the bedside, when her aunt got well enough to take food.

It was a long time before her aunt was well enough to leave her bed, and

then she could not sit up much, and she could not walk about at all. She

could only lie upon a sort of sofa, which her husband made for her in his

shop. So Ellen remained to take care of her from week to week, until at

last her aunt’s house became her home altogether.

Ellen liked to live at her aunt’s very much, for the house was quiet, and

orderly, and well-managed, and every thing went smoothly and pleasantly

there. At home, on the other hand, every thing was always in confusion,

and Rodolphus made so much noise and uproar, and encroached so much on the

peace and comfort of the family by his self-will and his domineering

temper, that Ellen was always uneasy and unhappy when she was at her

mother’s. She liked to be at her aunt’s, therefore, better; and as her

aunt liked _her_, she gradually came to make that her home. Rodolphus used

frequently to go and see her, and even Annie went sometimes.

Annie was very much pleased with the plan of going now to make Ellen a

visit. They walked quietly along the road, talking of this plan, when

Annie suddenly called out;

“Oh, Rodolphus, look there!”

Rodolphus looked, and saw a drove of cattle coming along the road. It was

a very large drove, and it filled up the road almost entirely.

“Who cares for that?” said Rodolphus.

Annie seemed to care for it very much. She ran out to the side of the

road.

Rodolphus walked quietly after her, saying, “Don’t be afraid, Annie. You

can climb up on the fence, if you like, till they get by.”

There was a large stump by the side of the fence, at the place where

Rodolphus and Annie approached it, and Rodolphus, running to it, said,

“Quick, Annie, quick! climb up on this stump.”

Rodolphus climbed up on the stump, and then helped Annie up after him.

They had, however, but just got their footing upon it, when Rodolphus

looked down at his feet and saw a hornet crawling out of a crevice in the

side of the stump. “Ah, Annie, Annie! a hornet’s nest! a hornet’s nest!”

exclaimed Rodolphus; “we must run.”

So saying, Rodolphus climbed down from the stump, on the side opposite to

where he had seen the hornet come out, and then helped Annie down.

“We must run across to the other side of the road,” said he.

So saying, he hurried back into the road again, leading Annie by the hand.

They found, however, that they were too late to gain the fence on the

other side, for several of the cattle had advanced along by the green bank

on that side so far that the fence was lined with them, and Rodolphus saw

at a glance, that he could not get near it.

“Never mind, Annie,” said Rodolphus, “we will stay here, right in the

middle of the road. Stand behind me, and I will keep the cattle off with

my basket.”

So Annie took her stand behind Rodolphus, in the middle of the road, while

Rodolphus, by swinging his basket to and fro, toward the cattle as they

came on, made them separate to the right and left, and pass by on each

side. Rodolphus, besides waving his basket at the cattle, shouted to them

in a very stern and authoritative manner, saying, “Hie! Whoh! Hie-up,

there! Ho!” The cattle were slow to turn out—but they did turn out, just

before they came to where Rodolphus and Annie were standing—crowding and

jamming each other in great confusion. The herd closed together again as

soon as they had passed the children, so that for a time Rodolphus and

Annie stood in a little space in the road, with the monstrous oxen all

around them.

At length the herd all passed safely by, and then Rodolphus and Annie went

on. After walking along a little farther, they came to the bank of a

river. The road lay along the bank of this river. There was a smooth sandy

beach down by the water. Rodolphus and Annie went down there a few minutes

to ploy. There was an old raft there. It was floating in the water, but

was fastened by a rope to a stake in the sand.

“Ah, here is a raft, Annie,” said Rodolphus. “I’ll tell you what we will

do. We will go the rest of the way by water, on this raft. I’m tired of

walking so far.”

“Oh, no,” said Annie, “I’m afraid to go on that raft. It will sink.”

“O, no,” said Rodolphus, “it will not sink. See.” So saying, he stepped

upon the raft, to show Annie how stable it was.

“I’ll get a block,” he continued, “for you to sit on.”

Annie was very much afraid of the raft, though she was not quite so much

afraid of it as she had been of the bridge, because the bridge was very

high up above the water, and there was, consequently as she imagined,

danger of a fall. Besides the water where the raft was lying, was smooth

and still, while that beneath the bridge was a roaring torrent. Finally,

Annie allowed herself to be persuaded to get upon the raft. Rodolphus

found a block lying upon the shore, and he put that upon the raft for

Annie to sit upon. When Annie was seated, Rodolphus stepped upon the raft

himself, and with a long pole he pushed it out from the shore, while Annie

balanced herself as well as she could upon the block.

The water was not very deep, and Rodolphus could push the raft along very

easily, by setting the end of his pole against the bottom Annie sat upon

her block very still. It happened, however, unfortunately, that the place

where Antonio lived was up the stream, not down, and Rodolphus found that

though he could move his raft very easily round and round, and even back

and forth, he could not get forward much on his way, on account of the

force of the current, which was strong against him. He advanced a little

way, however, and then he began to be tired of so difficult a navigation.

“I don’t think we shall go very far, on the raft,” said he, to Annie,

“there is such a strong tide.”

Just then Rodolphus began to look very intently into the water before him.

He thought he saw a pickerel. He was just going to attempt to spear him

with his pole, when his attention was arrested by hearing Annie call out,

“Oh, Rolfy! Rolfy! the raft is all coming to pieces”

[Illustration.]

The Raft.

Rodolphus looked round, and saw that the boards of which the raft had been

made, were separating from each other at the end of the raft where Annie

was sitting, and one of the boards was shooting out entirely.

“So it is,” said Rodolphus. “Why didn’t they nail it together? You sit

still, and I will push in to the shore.”

Rodolphus attempted to push in to the shore, but in the strenuous efforts

which he made for that purpose, he stepped about upon the raft irregularly

and in such a manner, as to make the boards separate more and more. At

length the water began to come up around Annie’s feet, and Rodolphus

alarmed at this, hurriedly directed her to stand up, on the block. Annie

tried to do so, but before she effected her purpose, the raft seemed

evidently about going to pieces. It had, however, by this time got very

near the shore, so Rodolphus changed his orders, and called out, “Jump,

Annie, jump!”

Annie jumped; but the part of the raft on which she was standing gave way

under her feet, and she came down into the water. The water was not very

deep. It came up, however, almost to Annie’s knees. Rodolphus himself had

leaped over to the shore, and so had, himself, escaped a wetting. He took

Annie by the hand, and led her also out to the dry land.

Annie began to cry. Rodolphus soothed and quieted her as well as he could.

He took off her stockings and shoes. He poured the water out of the shoes,

and wrung out the stockings. He also wrung out Annie’s dress as far as

possible. He told her not to mind it; her clothes would soon get dry. It

was all the fault of the boys, he said, who made the raft, for not nailing

it together.

Rodolphus had had presence of mind enough to seize his basket, when he

leaped ashore, so that that was safe. The raft, however, went all to

pieces, and the fragments of it floated away down the stream.

Rodolphus and Annie then resumed their journey. Rodolphus talked fast to

Annie, and told her a great many amusing stories, to divert her mind from

the misfortune which had happened to them. He charged her not to tell her

mother, when she got home, that she had been in the water, and made her

promise that she would not.

At length they came to a large house which stood back from the road a

little way, at the entrance to a valley. This was the house, Rodolphus

said, where Beechnut lived. Rodolphus opened a great gate, and he and

Annie went into the yard.

“I think that Beechnut is in some of the barns, or sheds, or somewhere,”

said Rodolphus.

So he and Annie went to the barns and sheds. There was a horse standing in

one of the sheds, harnessed to a wagon, but there were no signs of

Beechnut.

“Perhaps he is in the yard,” said Rodolphus.

So Rodolphus led the way through a shed to a sort of back-yard, where

there was a plank-walk, with lilac-bushes and other shrubbery on one side

of it. Rodolphus and Annie walked along upon the planks. Presently, they

came to a place where there was a ladder standing up against the house.

“Ah!” said Rodolphus, “he is upon the house. Here is the ladder. I think

he is doing something on the house. I mean to go and see.”

“No,” said Annie, “you must not go up on such a high place.”

“Oh, this is not a very high ladder,” said Rodolphus. So saying he began

to go up. Annie stood below, looking up to him as he ascended, and feeling

great apprehension lest he should fall.

The top of the ladder reached up considerably above the top of the house,

and Rodolphus told Annie that he was not going to the top of the ladder,

but only high enough to see if Beechnut was on the house. He told her,

too, that if she walked back toward the garden gate, perhaps _she_ could

see too. Annie accordingly walked back, and looking upward all the time,

she presently saw a young man who she supposed was Beechnut, doing

something to the top of one of the chimneys. By this time Rodolphus had

reached the eaves of the house, in climbing up the ladder, and he came in

sight of Beechnut, too.

[Illustration.]

Up The Ladder.

“Hie-yo! Dolphin!” said Beechnut, “is that you!”

Beechnut often called Rodolphus, Dolphin.

“May I come up where you are?” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said Beechnut.

When Rodolphus heard this answer, he remained quietly where he was upon

the ladder.

“What are you doing?” said Rodolphus.

“Putting a wire netting over the chimney,” said Beechnut.

“What for!” asked Rodolphus.

“To keep the chimney-swallows from getting in,” said Beechnut.

“Are you coming down pretty soon?” asked Rodolphus.

“Yes,” said Beechnut. “Go down the ladder and wait till I come.”

So Rodolphus went down the ladder again to Annie.

“What is the reason,” said Annie, “that you obey Beechnut so much better

than you do my father?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rodolphus. “He makes me, I suppose.”

It was true that Beechnut made Rodolphus obey him—that is, in all cases

where he was under any obligation to obey him. One day, when he first

became acquainted with Beechnut, he went out upon the pond in Beechnut’s

boat. He wished to row, but Beechnut preferred that some other boy should

row, and directed Rodolphus to sit down upon one of the thwarts. Rodolphus

would not do this, but was determined to row, and he attempted to take

away one of the oars by force. Beechnut immediately turned the head of the

boat toward the shore, and when he reached the shore he directed four of

the strongest boys to put Rodolphus out upon the sand, and then when they

had done this he sailed away in the boat again. Rodolphus took up clubs

and stones, and began to throw them at the boat. Beechnut came back again,

and seizing Rodolphus, he tied his hands behind him with a strong cord.

When he was thus secured Beechnut said to him,

“Now, you may have your choice of two things. You may stay here till we

come back from our excursion, and then, if you seem pretty peaceable, I

will untie you. Or you may go home now, as you are, with your hands tied

behind you in disgrace.”

Rodolphus concluded to remain where he was; for he was well aware that if

he were to go home through the village with his hands tied behind him,

every body would know that the tying was one of Beechnut’s punishments,

and that it had not been resorted to without good reason. Some of the boys

thought that after this occurrence Beechnut would not be willing to have

Rodolphus go with them again in the boat, but Beechnut said “Yes; he may

go with us whenever he pleases. I don’t mind having a rebel on board at

all. I know exactly what to do with rebels.”

“But it is a great trouble,” said one of the boys, “to have them on

board.”

“Not at all,” said Beechnut, “on the other hand it is a pleasure to me to

discipline them.”

Rodolphus very soon found that it was useless to resist Beechnut’s will,

in any case where Beechnut had the right to control; and so he soon formed

the habit of obeying him. He liked Beechnut too, very much. He liked him

in fact, all the better, on account of his firmness and decision.

When Beechnut came down from the housetop, Rodolphus told him he had come

to get a rabbit, and at the same time held out the quarter of a dollar to

view.

“Where did you get the money?” said Beechnut.

“My father gave it to me,” said Rodolphus.

“No,” said Annie, very earnestly, “my father did not give it to you. You

took it away from him.”

“But he gave it to me afterward,” said Rodolphus.

Beechnut inquired what this meant, and Annie explained to him, as well as

she could, the manner in which Rodolphus had obtained his money. Beechnut

then said, that he would not take the quarter of a dollar. The money was

not honestly come by, he said. It was not voluntarily given to Rodolphus,

and therefore was not honestly his. “The money was stolen,” said he, “and

I will not have any stolen money for my rabbits. I would rather give you a

rabbit for nothing.”

This, Beechnut said finally, he would do. “I will _give_ you a rabbit,”

said he, “for the present, and whenever you get a quarter of a dollar,

which is honestly your own, you may come and pay for it, if you please,

and if not, not. But don’t bring me any money which is not truly your own.

And carry that quarter of a dollar back and give it to your father.”

So saying, Beechnut led the way, and Rodolphus and Annie followed him,

into one of the barns. They walked along a narrow passageway, between a

hay-mow on one side, and a row of stalls for cattle on the other. Then

they turned and passed through an open room, and finally came to a place

which Beechnut called a bay. Here there was a little pen, with a house in

it, for the rabbits, and a hole at one side where the rabbits could run in

under the barn. Beechnut called “Benny! Benny! Benny!” and immediately

several rabbits came running out from the hole.

“There,” said Beechnut, “which one will you have?”

The children began immediately to examine the different rabbits, and to

talk very fast and very eagerly about them. Finally, Rodolphus decided in

favor of a gray one, though there was one which was perfectly white, that

Annie seemed to prefer. Beechnut said that he would give Rodolphus the

gray one.

“As to the white one,” said he, “I am going to let you take it, Annie, for

Ellen. I can’t give it to _you_. I give it to Ellen; but, perhaps, she

will let you carry it home with you, and take care of it for her, and so

keep it with Rodolphus’s.”

Annie seemed very much pleased with this plan, and so the two rabbits were

caught and put into the basket. The cloth was then tied over them, and

Rodolphus and Annie prepared to go away.

“But, stop,” said Beechnut, “I am going directly by your aunt’s in my

wagon, and I can give you a ride.”

“Well,” said Annie, dancing about and clapping her hands. It was very

seldom that Annie had an opportunity to take a ride. She ran to the wagon.

Rodolphus followed her slowly, carrying the basket. Beechnut helped in the

two children, and then got in himself, and took his seat between them.

Rodolphus held the basket between his knees, peeping in under the cloth,

now and then, to see if the rabbits were safe.

[Illustration.]

The Yard at Mr. Randon’s.

The party traveled on by a winding and very pleasant road among the

mountains, for about a mile, and at length they drove up to the door of a

pleasant little farm-house in a sort of dell. There was a high hill behind

it—overhung with forest trees. There was a spacious yard at the end of the

house, with ducks, and geese, and chickens, in the back part of it. There

was a large dog lying asleep on the great flat stone step when the wagon

came up, but when he heard the wagon coming, awoke, opened his eyes, got

up, and walked away. There was a well in the middle of the yard. Beechnut

rode round the well, and drove up to the door. Ellen was sitting at the

window. As soon as she saw the wagon, she got up and ran to the door.

“How do you do, Ellen!” said Beechnut.

“How do you do, Antonio!” said Ellen, “I am much obliged to you for

bringing my brother and sister to see me.”

So saying, she came to the wagon and helped Annie out. Rodolphus, who was

on the other side of Beechnut, then handed her his basket, saying, “Here,

Ellen, take this very carefully. There are two rabbits in it, and one of

them is for you.”

“For me,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” said Annie, “only I am to take care of it for you.”

“Good-by,” said Beechnut. He was just beginning, as he said this, to drive

the wagon away.

“Good-by, Beechnut,” said Rodolphus.

“I am much obliged to you for my ride,” said Annie.

“Stop a minute, Antonio,” said Ellen, “I have got something for you.”

So saying, Ellen went into the house and brought out a small flat parcel,

neatly put up and addressed on the outside, ANTONIO.

She took it out to the wagon, and handed it up to Antonio, saying that

there were the last drawings that he had lent her. In fact, Ellen was one

of Beechnut’s pupils in drawing. He was accustomed to lend her models,

which, when she had copied them, she sent back to him. Ellen was one of

Antonio’s favorite pupils; she was so faithful, and patient, and

persevering. Besides, she was a very beautiful girl.

“I must not stop to see your copies now,” said Antonio, “but I shall come

again pretty soon. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” said Ellen: and then she went back to the door where Rodolphus

and Annie were standing.

Rodolphus lifted up the corner of the cloth, which covered the basket, and

let Ellen see the rabbits. Ellen was very much pleased to find that one of

them was hers. She said that she would put a collar on its neck, as a mark

that it was hers, and she asked Rodolphus and Annie to go in with her into

the house, where she said she would get the collar.

So they all went in. The room was a very pleasant room, indeed. It was

large and it was in perfect order. There was a very spacious fire-place in

it, but scarcely any fire. As it was summer, no fire was necessary. At one

side of the room, near a window, there was a table, which Ellen said was

_her_ table. There were two drawers in this table. These drawers contained

books, and papers, and various articles of apparatus for writing and

drawing. In one corner of one of the drawers there was a little paint box.

There was a small bedroom adjoining the room where the children were. They

all pretty soon heard a voice calling from this room, in a pleasant tone,

“Ellen, bring the children in here.”

“Yes; come Rolfy,” said Ellen—“and Annie—come and see aunt.” So all the

children went into their aunt’s room.

They found her half-sitting and half-lying upon her sofa, by a pleasant

window, which looked out upon a green yard and upon an orchard which was

beyond the yard. She was sewing. She looked pale, but she seemed contented

and happy—and she said that she was very glad to see Rodolphus and Annie.

She talked with them some time, and then asked Ellen to get them some

luncheon. Ellen accordingly went into the other room and set the table for

luncheon, by _her_ window as she called it. This window was a very

pleasant one, near her table. The luncheon consisted of a pie, some cake,

warm from the oven, and some baked apples, and cream. Ellen said that she

made the cake, and the pie, and baked the apples herself.

The children ate their luncheon together very happily, and then spent some

time in walking about the yards, the barns, and the garden, to see what

was to be seen. Rodolphus walked about quietly and behaved well. In fact,

he was always a good boy at his aunt’s, and obeyed all her directions—she

would not allow him to do otherwise.

At length Rodolphus and Annie set out on their return home. It was a long

walk, but in due time they reached home in safety. Rodolphus determined

not to give the money back to his father, and so he hid it in a crevice,

which he found in a part of the fence behind his rabbit house. He put the

rabbits in their house, and put a board up before the door to keep them

in.

That night when Mrs. Linn took off Annie’s stockings by the kitchen fire,

when she was going to put her to bed, she found them very damp.

“Why, Annie,” she said, “what makes your stockings so damp? You must have

got into the water somewhere to-day.”

Annie did not answer. Rodolphus had enjoined it upon her not to tell their

mother of their adventure on the raft, and so she did not know what to

say.

“Damp?” said Rodolphus. “Are they damp? Let me feel.” So he began to feel

of Annie’s stockings.

“No,” said he, “they are not damp. _I_ can’t feel that they are damp.”

“They certainly are,” said his mother. “They are very damp indeed.”

“Then,” said Rodolphus, “we must have spilled some water into them when we

were getting a drink, Annie, at the well.” Annie said nothing, and Mrs.

Linn hung the stockings up to dry.

III. Sickness.

Ellen’s aunt was the sister of Mr. Linn, Ellen’s father; and her name was

Anne. Ellen used to call her Aunt Anne. Her husband’s name was Randon, so

that sometimes Ellen called her Aunt Randon.

Though Mr. Randon’s house appeared rather small, as seen from the road by

any one riding by, it was pretty spacious and very comfortable within. Mr.

Randon owned several farms in different places, and he was away from home

a great deal attending to his other farms and to the flocks of sheep and

herds of cattle which he had upon them. During these absences Mrs. Randon

of course remained at home with Ellen. There was a girl named Martha who

lived at the house to do the work of the family, and also a young man

named Hugh. Hugh was employed in the mornings and evenings in taking care

of the barns and the cattle, and in the day-time, especially in the

winter, he hauled wood—sometimes to the house for the family to burn, and

sometimes to the village for sale.

The family lived thus very happily together, whether Mr. Randon was at

home or away. Mrs. Randon could not walk about the house at all, but was,

on the other hand, confined all day to her bed or her sofa; but she knew

every thing that was done; and gave directions about every thing. Ellen

was employed as messenger to carry her aunt’s directions out, and to bring

back intelligence and answers. Mrs. Randon knew exactly what was in every

room, and where it was in the room. She knew what was in every drawer, and

what was on every shelf in every closet, and what and how much was in

every bin in the cellar. So that if she wanted any thing she could direct

Ellen where to go to get it with a certainty that it would be exactly

there. The house was very full of furniture, stores, and supplies, and all

was so well arranged and in such an orderly and complete condition, that

in going over it every room that the visitor entered seemed pleasanter

than the one seen before.

On one occasion, Rodolphus himself had proof of this admirable order. He

had cut his finger, in the shed, and when he came in, Mrs. Randon, after

binding it up very nicely, turned to Ellen, and said,

“Now, Ellen, we must have a cot. Go up into the garret, and open the third

trunk, counting from the west window. In the right-hand front corner of

this trunk you will find a small box. In the box you will find three cots.

Bring the smallest one to me.”

Ellen went and found every thing as Mrs. Randon had described it.

There was a room in the front part of the house called the Front Room,

which was usually kept shut up. It was furnished as a parlor very

prettily. It had very full curtains to the windows, a soft carpet on the

floor, and a rug before the fire-place. There was a bookcase in this room,

with a desk below. Mr. Randon kept his valuable papers in this desk, and

the book-case above was filled with interesting books. There were several

very pretty pictures on the walls of this room, and some curious ornaments

on the mantle shelf. The blinds of the windows in this apartment were

generally closed and the curtains drawn, and Ellen seldom went into it,

except to get a new book to read to her aunt, out of the secretary.

The room which the family generally used, was a back room. It was quite

large, and it had a very spacious fire-place in it. Being larger than any

other room in the house it was generally called the Great Room. The

windows of this room looked out upon a pretty green yard, with a garden

and an orchard beyond. There was a door too at one end of the room opening

to a porch. In this porch was an outer door, which led to a large yard at

the end of the house. This was the door that Antonio had driven up to,

when he brought Rodolphus and Annie to see Ellen. On the other side of the

kitchen from the porch-door, was a door leading to Mrs. Randon’s bed-room.

The situation of these rooms, and of the other apartments of the house as

well as of the principal articles of furniture hereafter to be described,

may be perfectly understood by the means of the following plan.

[Illustration.]

Plan of Mrs. Randon’s House. B: Bed in Mrs Randon’s bed-room. W: The

closed windows. B. E.: Back entry. pl: Back Platform. P: Porch. C: Mrs.

Randon’s couch or sofa. ff: Fire-places. H: Hugh’s seat. S: Settle. L:

Lutie’s bed.

Mrs. Randon was accustomed to remain in her bedroom almost all the time in

the summer, but in the winter she had her sofa or couch brought out and

placed by the side of the fire-place in the great room, as represented in

the plan. Here, in the long stormy evenings of winter, the family would

live together very happily. Mrs. Randon would lie reclining upon her sofa,

knitting, and talking to Martha and Ellen while they were getting supper

ready. Ellen would set the table, while Martha would bake the cakes and

bring up the milk out of the cellar, and make the tea; and then when all

was ready, they would move the table up close to Mrs. Randon’s sofa, and

after lifting her up and supporting her with pillows at her back, they

would themselves sit down on the other side of the table, and all eat

their supper together in a very happy manner.

[Illustration.]

The Great Room.

Then, after supper, when the table had been put away, and a fresh fire had

been made on the great stone hearth, Ellen would sit in a little

rocking-chair by her aunt’s side, and read aloud some interesting story,

while Martha sat knitting on the settle, at the other side of the fire,

and Hugh, on a bench in the corner, occupied himself with making

clothes-pins, or shaping teeth for rakes, or fitting handles into tools,

or some other work of that kind. Hugh found that unless he had such work

to do, he always fell asleep while Ellen was reading.

Ellen found that her aunt, instead of growing better, rather grew worse.

She was very pale, though very delicate and beautiful. Her fingers were

very long, and white, and tapering. Ellen thought that they grew longer

and more tapering every day. At last, one winter evening, just after tea,

and before Hugh and Martha had come in to sit down, Ellen went up to the

sofa, and kneeling down upon a little bear-skin rug which was there, and

which had been put there to look warm and comfortable, although the poor

invalid could never put her feet upon it, she bent down over her aunt and

said,

“It seems to me Aunt Anne, that you don’t get better very fast.”

The patient, putting her arm over Ellen’s neck, and drawing Ellen down

closely to her, kissed her, but did not answer.

“Do you think you shall ever get well, aunty?” said Ellen.

“No,” said her aunt, “I do not think that I shall. I think that before a

great while I shall die.”

“Why, aunty!” said Ellen. She was much shocked to hear such a declaration.

“I _hope_ you will not die,” she continued presently, speaking in a very

low and solemn manner. “What shall I do if you should die!—What makes you

think that you will die?”

“There are two reasons why I think that I shall die,” said her aunt. “One

is, that I feel that I am growing weaker and weaker all the time. I have

grown a great deal weaker within a few days.”

“Have you?” said Ellen, in a tone of great anxiety and concern.

“Yes,” said her aunt. “The other reason that makes me think that I am

going to die is greater still; and that is I begin to feel so _willing_ to

die.”

“I thought that you were always willing to die,” said Ellen. “I thought we

ought to be all willing to die, always.”

“No,” said her aunt, “or yes, in one sense we ought. We ought always to be

willing to submit to whatever God shall think best for us. But as to life

and death, we ought undoubtedly, when we are strong and well, to desire to

live.”

“God means,” she continued, “that we should desire to live, and that we

should do all that we can to prolong life. He has given us an instinct

impelling us to that feeling. But when sickness comes and death is nigh,

then the instinct changes. We do not _wish_ to live then—that is, if we

feel that we are prepared to die. It is a very kind and merciful

arrangement to have the instinct change, so that when we are well, we can

be happy in the thought of living, and when we are sick and about to die,

we can be happy in the thought of dying. Our instincts often change thus,

when the circumstances change.”

“Do they?” said Ellen, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” said her aunt. “For instance, when you were an infant, your

mother’s instinctive love for you led her to wish to have you always near

her, with your cheek upon her cheek, and your little hand in her bosom.

Mothers all have such an instinct as that, while their children are very

young. It is given to them so that they may love to have their children

very near them while they are so young and tender that they would not be

safe if they were away.

“But _now_,” she continued, “you have grown older, and the instinct has

changed. Your mother loves you just as much as she did when you were an

infant, but she loves you in a different way. She is willing to have you

absent from her, if you are only well provided for and happy.”

“And is it so with death?” asked Ellen.

“Yes,” replied her aunt; “when we are well, we love life, and we ought to

love it. It then seems terrible to die. God means that it should seem

terrible to us then. But when sickness comes and we are about to die, then

he changes the feeling. Death seems terrible no more. We become perfectly

willing to die.”

Here Mrs. Randon paused, and Ellen remained still, thinking of what she

had heard, but without speaking. After a few minutes her aunt continued.

“I have had a great change in my feelings within a short time, about

dying,” said she, “I have always, heretofore, desired to live and to get

well; and it has seemed to me a terrible thing to die;—to leave my

pleasant home, and my husband, and my dear Ellen, and to see them no more.

But somehow or other, lately, all this is changed. I feel now perfectly

willing to die. It does not seem terrible at all. I have been a great

sinner all my days, but I feel sure that my sins are forgiven for Christ’s

sake, and that if I die I shall be happy where I go, and that I shall see

my husband and you too there some day.”

Ellen laid her head down by the side of her aunt’s, with her face to the

pillow and her cheek against her aunt’s cheek, but said nothing.

“When I am gone,” continued her aunt, “you will go home and live with your

mother again.”

“Shall I?” said Ellen, faintly.

“Yes,” replied her aunt, “it will be better that you should. You can do a

great deal of good there. You can gradually get the house in order, taking

one thing at a time, and so not only help your mother, but make it more

pleasant and comfortable for your father. You can also teach Annie, and be

a great help to her as she grows up; and you can also perhaps do a great

deal of good to Rodolphus.”

“I don’t know what I shall do with Rodolphus,” said Ellen. “He troubles my

mother very much indeed.”

“I know he does,” said her aunt, “but then you will soon get a great

influence over him, and it is possible that you will succeed in making him

a good boy.”

As Mrs. Randon said this, Ellen heard the sound of a door opening in the

back entry, and a stamping of feet upon the floor, as if some one were

coming in out of the snow.

“There comes Hugh,” said Ellen, “and I think there is going to be a

storm.”

Signs of a gathering storm had in fact been appearing all that day. For

several days before, the weather had been very clear and cold, but that

morning the cold had diminished, and a thin haze had gradually extended

itself over the sky. At sunset the sky looked thick and murky toward the

southeast, and it became dark much sooner than usual. A moment after Ellen

had spoken, Hugh came in. He said that it was snowing, and that two or

three inches of snow had already fallen; and that if it snowed much during

the night he should not be able to go into the woods the next morning.

When Ellen rose the next morning and looked at the windows, she saw that

the snow was piled up against the panes of glass on the outside, and on

going to the window to look out, she found that it was snowing still, and

that all the old snow and all the roads and tracks upon it, were entirely

covered. Ellen went out into the great room, and there she found a blazing

fire in the fireplace, and Martha before it getting breakfast ready.

Pretty soon Hugh came in.

“What a great snow-storm,” said Ellen.

“No,” said Hugh, “it is not a very great snow-storm. It does not snow very

fast.”

“Can you go into the woods to-day?” said Ellen.

“Yes,” said Hugh, “I am going into the woods for a load of wood to haul to

the village. The snow is not very deep yet.”

Hugh went to the woods, got his load, hauled it to the village, and

returned to dinner. After dinner he went again. Ellen was almost afraid to

have him go away in the afternoon, for her aunt appeared to be more and

more unwell. She lay upon her sofa by the side of the fire, silent and

still, apparently without pain, but very faint and feeble. She spoke very

seldom, and then only in a whisper. At one time about the middle of the

afternoon, Ellen went and stood a moment at the window to see the snow

driving by—blown by the wind along the crests of the drifts, and over the

walls, down the road. When she turned round, she saw that her aunt was

beckoning to her with her white and slender finger. Ellen went immediately

to her.

“Is Hugh going to the village this afternoon?” she asked.

“Yes, aunt,” said Ellen, “I believe he is.”

“I wish you would ask him to call at my brother George’s, and tell him

that I am very sick, and ask him if he can not come up and see me this

evening.”

“Yes, aunt,” said Ellen, “I will.”

Ellen accordingly watched for Hugh when he came down the mountain-road

with the load of wood, on the way to the village. She gave him the

message, standing at the stoop-door. The wind howled mournfully over the

trees of the forest, and the air was thick with falling and driving snow.

Hugh said that he had almost concluded not to go to the village. The snow

had become so deep, and the storm was increasing so fast, that he doubted

very much whether he could get back if he should go. On receiving Ellen’s

message, however, he decided at once to go on. He could get _to_ the

village well enough, he said, for it was a descending road all the way;

but there would be more uncertainty about the return.

So he started his four oxen again, and they went wallowing on, followed by

the great loaded sled, with the runners buried in the drift. Hugh’s cap

and shaggy coat, and the handkerchief which he had tied about the collar

of his coat, after turning it up to cover his ears, were all whitened with

the snow, and from among all these various mufflings his face, reddened

with the cold, peeped out, though almost wholly concealed from view.

As soon as Hugh was gone, Ellen, who was by this time almost blinded by

the snow which the wind blew furiously into her face and eyes, came into

the house and shut the door.

Ellen watched very diligently all the afternoon for the coming of her

father. She hoped that he would bring her mother with him. She went to the

window again and again, and looked anxiously down the road, but nothing

was to be seen but the thick and murky atmosphere, the increasing drifts,

and the scudding wreaths of snow. The fences and the walls gradually

disappeared from view; the great wood pile in the yard was soon completely

covered and concealed; and a deep drift, of the form of a wave just

curling over to break upon the shore, slowly rose directly across the

entrance to the yard, until it was higher than the posts on each side of

the gateway, so that Ellen began to fear that if her father and mother

should come, they would not be able to get into the yard.

At length it gradually grew dark, and then, though Ellen went to the

window as often as before, and attempted to shade her eyes from the

reflection of the fire, by holding up her hands to the side of her face,

she could watch these changes no longer. Nothing was to be seen, but the

trickling of the flakes down the panes of glass on the outside, and a

small expanse of white immediately below the window.

In the mean time, within the room where Ellen’s aunt was reposing, all

seemed, at least in appearance, very bright and cheerful. A great log was

lying across the andirons, behind and beneath which there was a blazing

and glowing fire. There was a tin baker before this fire, with a pan of

large apples in it, which Martha was baking, to furnish the table with,

for the expected company. Martha herself was busy at a side-table too,

making cakes for supper. The tea-kettle was in a corner, with a column of

steam rising gently from the spout, and Ellen’s little gray kitten, Lutie,

was in the other corner asleep. Ellen herself was busy, here and there,

about the room. She went often to the window, even after it was too dark

to see, and she watched her aunt continually with a countenance expressive

of much affection and concern. Her aunt lay perfectly quiet and still, as

if she were asleep, only she would now and then open her eyes and smile

upon Ellen, if she saw Ellen looking at her, and then close them again.

The couch that she was lying upon had little wheels at the four corners of

it toward the floor, so that it could be moved to and fro. Ellen had been

accustomed, when the time arrived for her aunt to go to bed, to ask Martha

to help her move the couch into the bedroom, by the side of the bed, and

then assist her in moving the patient from one to the other. Ellen,

accordingly, about an hour after it became dark, went to her aunt’s couch,

and asked her in a gentle tone if she would not like to go to bed. But her

aunt said no. She would not be moved, she said, but would remain as she

was until her brother should come. She said, too, that Martha and Ellen

might eat their supper when it was ready, and leave her where she was.

Martha and Ellen finished their supper about seven o’clock. Martha then

took her place upon the settle with her knitting-work as usual, and Ellen

went and sat down upon the little bear-skin rug, and leaned her head

toward her aunt. Her aunt put out her hand toward Ellen’s cheek and

pressed her head gently down upon the pillow, by the side of her own, and

then very slowly and feebly moved her fingers, once or twice, down the

hair on Ellen’s temple, as if she were pleased to have her little niece

lying near her. Ellen shut her eyes, and for a few minutes enjoyed very

much the thought that she was such an object of affection to one whom she

loved so much; but after a few minutes, she began to lose her

consciousness, and soon fell fast asleep.

She slept more than an hour. It was in fact nearly half-past eight when

she awoke. She raised her head and looked up. She found that Martha had

fallen asleep too. Her knitting-work had dropped from her hand. Ellen did

not wish to disturb her, so she rose softly, went to the fire, and put up

a brand which had fallen down, and then crossed the room to the window,

parted the curtains, and putting her face close to the glass, attempted to

look out. Nothing was to be seen. She listened. Nothing was to be heard

but the dreadful roaring of the wind, and the clicking of the snow-flakes

against the windows.

Ellen came back to the couch again, and looked at her aunt as she lay with

her cheek upon her pillow, apparently asleep. At first Ellen thought that

she was really asleep, but when she came near, she found that her eyes

were not entirely closed. She kneeled down by the side of the couch and

said gently, “Aunt Anne, Aunt Anne, how do you feel now?”

Ellen saw that her aunt moved a little, and she heard a faint whispering

sound, but there was no audible answer.

Ellen was now frightened. She feared that her aunt might be dying. She

went to Martha and woke her. Martha started up much alarmed. Ellen told

her that she was afraid that her aunt was dying. Martha went to the couch.

She thought so too.

“I must go,” said she, “to some of the neighbors and get them to come.”

“But you can not get to any of the neighbors,” said Ellen.

“Perhaps I can,” said Martha, “and at any rate I must try.”

So Martha began to prepare herself, as well as she could, to go out into

the storm, Ellen standing by, full of apprehension and anxiety, and

helping her so far as she was able to do so. There was a neighbor who

lived about a quarter of a mile from the house, by a road which lay

through the woods, and which was, therefore, ordinarily not very much

obstructed with the snow. It was to this house that Martha was going to

attempt to make her way. When she was ready, she went forth, leaving Ellen

with her aunt alone.

(To Be Continued.)

RECOLLECTIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG.

“To-morr punkt at ’leven wir schiff for St. Petersburg,” was the polyglot

announcement by which all of us, Swedes, Germans, English, and one

solitary American, were given to understand at what hour on the ensuing

day we were to commence our voyage from Stockholm for the Russian capital.

With praiseworthy punctuality the steam was up at the appointed hour of

eleven, and as our steamer shot out into the Baltic we took our farewell

view of Stockholm, the “City of Piles.” As we steamed northward we dashed

through archipelago after archipelago of islands, some with bold and rocky

shores, and others sloping greenly down to the tranquil sea. Having passed

the Aland Islands, one of which, not thirty miles from the coast of

Sweden, has been seized and strongly fortified by her powerful and

unscrupulous neighbor, we turned into a narrow inlet, and touched Russian

soil at Abo, the ancient capital of Finland.

Here we made our first acquaintance with those fascinating gentry, whom

his Imperial Majesty deputes to watch that nothing treasonable or

contraband finds entrance into his dominions. Our intercourse here was,

however, brief, our passports merely being demanded, and permission

granted us to go on shore while the steamer was detained. At Cronstadt and

St. Petersburg we formed a more intimate if not more agreeable

acquaintance with these functionaries. Setting out again we coasted

eastward up the Gulf of Finland, passing the grim fortress of Sveaborg,

with its eight hundred guns, and garrison of fifteen thousand men, and

shot up the beautiful bay to Helsingfors, one of the great naval stations

of Russia. Touching at Revel, on the opposite shore of the Gulf of

Finland, we ran due east up the Gulf, encountering the great Russian

summer fleet, which was performing its annual manœuvres, and on the

morning after leaving Helsingfors came in sight of the shipping and

fortifications of Cronstadt. As we crept slowly up the narrow and winding

channel, by which alone the harbor can be reached, and passed successively

the grim lines of batteries which command every portion of it, we were

forced to confess that it formed a fitting outpost to a great military

power.

Cronstadt is not only the chief naval dépôt of Russia, but is properly the

port of St. Petersburg, as the capital is inaccessible to vessels drawing

more than eight or nine feet of water. Hence Cronstadt is included in the

St. Petersburg customs-district, and vessels clear indifferently for

either, and are subject to only a single customs-house examination. It

forms the key to the capital, which would be entirely at the mercy of any

fleet which should once pass its batteries. It has therefore been

fortified so strongly as to be apparently impregnable to all the navies of

the world. We came to anchor under the guns of the fortress; and were soon

put under the charge of our amiable friends of the custom-house, who took

complete possession of the deck, while the passengers and officers of the

vessel were directed to repair to the cabin to give an account of

themselves, their occupations, pursuits, and designs to these rude and

filthy representatives of the Czar. It was well for us that we had been in

a measure hardened to these annoyances by our previous Continental

experiences. Police and custom-house functionaries are nowhere famous for

civility, but the rudest and most unendurable specimens of that class whom

it has ever been my fortune to encounter are the lower orders of the

Russian officials. We could, however, congratulate ourselves that the

infliction was light in comparison to what it would have been had we

proceeded by land from Abo. There trunks, pockets, and pocket-books are

liable to repeated searches at different stations along the route. We were

told of travelers who had their boxes of tooth-powder carefully emptied,

and their soap-balls cut in two, in quest of something treasonable or

contraband.

But there is an end to all things human, even to Russian

police-examinations. Our passports were luckily all in order, and as our

steamer was cleared for St. Petersburg we escaped the vexations attendant

upon an inspection of luggage and a change of vessel. Every thing was put

under seal, even to an ancient umbrella which had borne the brunt of many

a shower in half the countries of Europe, to say nothing of storms it had

weathered previous to its transatlantic voyage.

After our seven hours’ detention, we found ourselves at last steaming up

the transparent Neva, and straining our eyes to get a first view of the

City of Peter. After something more than an hour’s paddling against the

rapid current of the river, the gilt dome of the Cathedral first caught

the eye, followed by the sight of dome after dome, tower upon tower, spire

after spire, gilt and spangled with azure stars, long before the flat

roofs and walls of the city were visible.

No sooner had our steamer touched the granite _quai_ than it was taken

possession of by a horde of custom-house and police officers, a shade or

two less filthy and disgusting than their Cronstadt brethren; for it is a

noticeable fact, the higher you proceed in official grade, the more

endurable do the Russian officials become, till you reach the heads of the

departments, who are as civil and well-behaved a body of functionaries as

ever clasped fingers upon a bribe. A few copecks or rubles, as the case

may require, insinuated into the expectant palms of the searching

officials have a wonderful tendency to abate the rigor of the

examinations, which being completed, and a silver ruble paid to the

officer in attendance, the traveler is at liberty to go on shore in search

of a hotel or lodgings.

The instructed traveler will resist the seductions of the Russian hotels,

with their magnificent fronts, and Russian, German, and French signboards;

for once past the portals he will find that the noble staircases and broad

passages are filthy beyond all western imagination; and the damask

curtains and velvet sofas are perfect parks for all those “small deer” who

make day and night hideous. If he be wise, he will make his way to some

boarding-house upon the _Quai Anglais_, conducted by an emigrant from some

country where the primitive faith in the virtues of dusters and soap and

water is cherished.

No sooner is the stranger established than he must take an interpreter,

and make the best of his way to the police office, to get a permit of

residence. This he obtains after an interrogation from a very civil

functionary, to whom must be paid a proportionate fee. But this permit is

good only for the capital and its immediate vicinity. If the Russians are

slow to welcome the coming, they are none the more ready to speed the

parting guest. Mr. Smith and his friend Brown must not leave the capital

till they have published an advertisement announcing their intention in

three successive numbers of the Gazette, an operation which consumes a

space of from a week to ten days.

These preliminaries duly attended to, we were at liberty to commence our

examination of St. Petersburg. The traveler who first sees the city under

a summer sun is always struck with amazement. Its public places are so

vast, its monuments so numerous and imposing, its quays so magnificent,

and its edifices, public and private, so enormous, and constructed

apparently of materials so massive and enduring, that he is ready to

pronounce it the most magnificent city upon earth.

A century and a half ago the low marshy shores of the Neva, and the

islands formed by the branches into which it separates just before it

empties itself into the Gulf of Finland were inhabited only by a few

scattered Finnish fishermen. But commanding the entrance to Lake Ladoga,

it was a military position of some importance, and the Swedes had long

maintained there a fortress, the possession of which had been often

unavailingly contested by the Russians, up to 1703, when Peter the Great

made himself master of it. He determined to found upon this desolate spot

the future capital of his vast empire, and at once commenced the task,

without waiting for peace to confirm the possession of the site. He

assembled a vast number of the peasantry from every quarter of his empire,

and pushed forward the work with the energy of an iron will armed with

absolute power. The surrounding country, ravaged by long years of war,

could furnish no supplies for these enormous masses, and the convoys which

brought them across Lake Ladoga were frequently detained by contrary

winds. Ill fed and worse lodged, laboring in the cold and wet, multitudes

yielded to the hardships, and the foundations of the new metropolis were

laid at the cost of a hundred thousand lives, sacrificed in less than six

months.

With Peter to will was to perform; he willed that a capital city should be

built and inhabited, and built and inhabited it was. In April, 1714, a

ukase was issued directing that all buildings should be erected in a

particular manner; another, three months later, ordered a large number of

nobles and merchants to erect dwellings in the new city. In a few months

more another ukase prohibited the erection of any stone mansion in any

other portion of the empire, while the enterprise of the capital was in

progress; and that the lack of building materials should be no obstacle,

every vessel, whether large or small, and every peasant’s car which came

to the city, was ordered to bring a certain specified number of building

stones. The work undertaken with such rigid determination, and carried on

with such remorseless vigor by Peter, was continued in the same

unflinching spirit by his successors; and the result was the present St.

Petersburg, with its aspect more imposing than that of any other city on

the globe, but bearing in its bosom the elements of its own destruction,

the moment it is freed from the control of the iron will, which created

and now maintains it:—a fitting type and representative of the Russian

Empire.

The whole enterprise of founding and maintaining St. Petersburg was and is

a struggle against nature. The soil is a marsh so deep and spongy that a

solid foundation can be attained only by constructing a subterranean

scaffolding of piles. Were it not for these the city would sink into the

marsh like a stage ghost through the trap-door. Every building of any

magnitude rests on piles; the granite quays which line the Neva rest on

piles. The very foot-pavements can not be laid upon the ground, but must

be supported by piles. A great commercial city is maintained, the harbor

of which is as inaccessible to ships, for six months in the year, as the

centre of the desert of Sahara. In the neighboring country no part

produces any thing for human sustenance save the Neva, which furnishes ice

and fish. The severity of the climate is most destructive to the erections

of human hands; and St. Petersburg, notwithstanding its gay summer

appearance, when it emerges from the winter frosts, resembles a

superannuated belle at the close of the fashionable season; and can only

be put in proper visiting order by the assiduous services of hosts of

painters and plasterers. Leave the capital for a half century to the

unrepaired ravages of its wintry climate, and it would need a Layard to

unearth its monuments.

But sure as are the wasting inroads of time and the climate, St Petersburg

is in daily peril of an overthrow whose accomplishment would require but a

few hours. The Gulf of Finland forms a vast funnel pointing eastward, at

the extremity of which stands the city. No portion of the city is fifteen

feet above the ordinary level of the water. A strong westerly wind,

blowing directly into the mouth of the funnel, piles the water up so as to

lay the lower part of the city under water. Water is as much dreaded here,

and as many precautions are taken against it, as in the case of fire in

other cities. In other cities alarm-signals announce a conflagration; here

they give notice of an inundation. The firing of an alarm-gun from the

Admiralty, at intervals of an hour, denotes that the lower extremes of the

islands are under water, when flags are hung out from the steeples to give

warning of danger. When the water reaches the streets, alarm-guns are

fired every quarter of an hour. As the water rises the alarms grow more

and more frequent, until minute-guns summon boats to the assistance of the

drowning population.

So much for the lower jaw of the monster that lies in wait for the Russian

capital; now for the upper:—Lake Ladoga, which discharges its waters

through the Neva, is frozen over to an enormous thickness during the long

winter. The rapid northern spring raises its waters and loosens the ice

simultaneously; when the waters of the Gulf are at their usual level, the

accumulated ice and water find an easy outlet down the broad and rapid

Neva. But let a strong west wind heap up the waters of the Gulf just as

the breaking up of Lake Ladoga takes place, and the waters from above and

from below would suffice to inundate the whole city, while all its

palaces, monuments, and temples would be crushed between the masses of

ice, like “Captain Ahab’s” boat in the ivory jaws of “Moby Dick.” Nothing

is more probable than such a coincidence. It often blows from the west for

days together in the spring; and it is almost a matter of certainty that

the ice will break up between the middle and the end of April. Let but a

westerly storm arise on the fatal day of that brief fortnight, and

farewell to the City of the Czars. Any steamer that bridges the Atlantic

may be freighted with the tidings that St. Petersburg has sunk deeper than

plummet can sound in the Finnish marshes from which it has so magically

risen.

[Illustration.]

The Inundation of 1824.

Nor is this merely a matter of theory and speculation. Terrible

inundations, involving enormous destruction of life and property have

occurred. The most destructive of these took place on the 17th of

November, 1824. A strong west wind heaped the waters of the Gulf up into

the narrow funnel of the Neva, and poured them, slowly at first, along the

streets. As night began to close in the rise of the waters became more and

more rapid. Cataracts poured into doors, windows, and cellars. The sewers

spouted up columns, like whales in the death-agony. The streets were

filled with abandoned equipages, and deserted horses struggling in the

rising waters. The trees in the public squares were crowded with those who

had climbed them for refuge. During the night the wind abated, and the

waters receded. But the pecuniary damage of that one night is estimated at

twenty millions of dollars, and the loss of lives at eight thousand. All

through the city a painted line traced upon the walls designates the

height to which the waters reached. Were ever house-painters before

engaged upon a task so ghastly? But suppose that, instead of November,

April had been written as the date of this inundation, when the waters

from the Lake above had met those from the Gulf below; St. Petersburg

would have been numbered among the things that were—_Ilium fuit_.

Nothing of the kind can be more imposing than the view of St. Petersburg

from the tower of the Admiralty upon some bright June day, such as that on

which I first beheld it from that post. Under foot, as it seemed, from the

galleries, lay the Admiralty-yards, where great ships were in process of

erection, destined for no nobler service than to perform their three

months’ summer cruise in the Baltic, and to be frozen immovably in the

harbors for six months out of twelve. The will of the Czar can effect

much, but it can not convert Russia into a naval power until he can secure

a seacoast, and harbors which can not be shut up to him by a single

hostile fortification. Russia can not be a maritime power till she is

mistress of the entrance to the Baltic and the Black Sea.

To the right and the left of the Admiralty stretch the great squares upon

which stand the principal public edifices and monuments of the capital;

the Winter Palace, with its six thousand constant occupants; the _Hotel de

l’Etat Major_, whence go forth orders to a million of soldiers, the Senate

House, and the Palace of the Holy Synod, the centres of temporal and

spiritual law for the hundred nations blended into the Russian Empire; the

Church of St. Isaac, with its four porticoes, the lofty columns of which,

sixty feet in height, are each of a single block of granite, and the walls

of polished marble; its cupola covered with copper overlaid with gold,

gleaming like another sun, surmounted by a golden cross, and forming the

most conspicuous object to the approaching visitor, whether he comes up

the Gulf, or across the dreary Finnish marshes; yet, high as it rises in

the air, it sinks scarcely a less distance below the ground, so deep was

it necessary to drive into the marsh the forest of piles upon which it

rests, before a firm foundation could be secured. Here is the Statue of

Peter—the finest equestrian statue in the world—reining his steed upon the

brink of the precipice up which he has urged it, his hand stretched out in

benediction toward the Neva, the pride of his new-founded city. Here is

the triumphal column to Alexander, “the Restorer of Peace,” the whole

elevation of which is 150 feet, measuring to the head of the angel who—the

cross victorious over the crescent—bears the symbol of the Christian faith

above the capital cast from cannon captured from the Turks. The shaft is a

single block eighty-four feet in height—the largest single stone erected

in modern times; and it would have been still loftier had it not been for

the blind unreasoning obedience to orders, so characteristic of the

Russian. When the column had been determined upon, orders were dispatched

to the quarries to detach, if possible, a single block for the shaft of

the length of eighty-four feet, though with scarcely a hope that the

attempt would succeed. One day a dispatch was received by the Czar from

the superintendent, with the tidings that a block had been detached, free

from flaw, one hundred feet long; but that he was about to proceed to

reduce it to the required length. The sovereign mounted in hot haste to

save the block from mutilation, and to preserve a column so much exceeding

his hopes. But he was too late; and arrived just in time to see the

sixteen feet severed from the block, which would otherwise have been the

noblest shaft in the world.

The length of these public places, open and in full view, right and left,

from the Admiralty tower, is a full mile.

Stretching southward from the tower lies the “Great Side” of St.

Petersburg, cut into three concentric semicircular divisions, of which the

Admiralty is the centre, by three canals, and intersected by the three

main avenues or _Prospekts_ (Perspectives). These three Perspectives

diverge like the spokes of a wheel from the Admiralty and run straight

through the city, through the sumptuous quarters of the aristocracy, the

domains of commerce, and the suburbs of the poor; while the view is closed

by the mists rising from the swamps of Ingermanland.

Turning from the “Great Side,” and looking northward, the arms of the Neva

diverge from near the foot of the Admiralty tower, as the Perspectives do

from the southern side. The width of the Neva, its yielding bottom and

shores, and the masses of ice which it sweeps down, make the erection of

bridges so difficult that they are placed at very rare intervals, so that

a person might be obliged to go miles before reaching one. But the stream

is enlivened by boats and gondolas ready to convey passengers from one

bank to the other. We were never weary of watching with a glass from the

Admiralty tower, alternately, the river gay with boats and shipping, and

the Perspectives thronged with their brilliant and motley crowd. With a

somewhat different, but certainly no less absorbing interest, we gazed

down from the same elevation into the works of the citadel, upon

Petersburg Island, whose minutest details were clearly visible. This

citadel is useless as a defense of the city against a hostile attack; but

it furnishes a ready means of commanding the capital, and furnishes a

refuge for the government in case of an insurrection. Like the

fortifications of Paris, it is designed not so much to defend as to

control the city.

St. Petersburg is certainly the most imposing city, and Russia is the most

imposing nation in the world—at first sight. But the imposing aspect of

both is to a great extent an _imposition_. The city tries to pass itself

off for granite, when a great proportion is of wood or brick, covered with

paint and stucco, which peels off in masses before the frosts of every

winter, and needs a whole army of plasterers and painters every spring to

put it in presentable order. You pass what appears a Grecian temple, and

lo, it is only a screen of painted boards. A one-storied house assumes the

airs of a loftier building, in virtue of a front of another story bolted

and braced to its roof. And much even that is real is sadly out of place.

Long lines of balconies and pillars and porticoes, which would be

appropriate to Greece or Italy, are for the greater part of the year piled

with snow-drifts. St. Petersburg and Russian civilization are both of a

growth too hasty, and too much controlled from without, instead of

proceeding from a law of inward development, to be enduring.

The capital to be seen to advantage must be viewed during the few weeks of

early summer; or in the opening winter, when the snow forms a pavement

better than art can produce, and when the cold has built a continuous

bridge over the Neva, without having as yet become severe enough to drive

every body from the streets.

The Neva is the main artery through which pours the life-blood of St.

Petersburg. But the life-current is checked from the time when the ice is

too far weakened by the returning sun to be passable, and not yet

sufficiently broken up to float down to the Gulf. At that time all

intercourse between portions of the city on its opposite batiks is

suspended. Every body is anxious for the breaking-up of the ice. Luxuries

from more genial climes are waiting in the Baltic for the river to be

navigable. No sooner is the ice so far cleared as to afford a practicable

passage for a boat, than the glad news is announced by the artillery of

the citadel, and, no matter what the hour, the commandant and his suite

hurry into a gondola and push over to the Imperial palace, directly

opposite. The commandant fills a large goblet with the icy fluid, and

presents it to the Emperor, informing him that his gondola, the first

which has that year crossed the river, is the precursor of navigation. The

Czar drains the cup to the health of the capital, and returns it, filled

with ducats, to the commandant. Formerly it was observed, by some

mysterious law of natural science, that this goblet grew larger and

larger, year by year, so that the Czar who had swallowed Poland without

flinching, and stood ready to perform the same operation upon Turkey,

stood in danger of suffocation from his growing bumpers. Some wise man at

last suggested that this tendency to the enlargement of the goblet might

be counteracted, by limiting the number of ducats returned by way of

acknowledgment. The suggestion was acted upon, and, greatly to the comfort

of the Imperial purse and stomach, was found to be perfectly successful.

The sum now given is two hundred ducats. This goblet of Neva water is

surely the most costly draught ever quaffed since the time when

brown-fronted Cleopatra dissolved the pearl in honor of mad Mark Antony.