I could tell you a great deal more about the Indians, especially of
the Cherokees, Creeks, Chickasaws, and other tribes, which have been
removed by the government of the United States to a fine country
northwest of Louisiana, where they have schools and churches, and
cultivate their lands, and live much like white people. But I am
afraid I am making too long a story. I shall, therefore, tell you
something of certain queer tribes that seem to be a mixture of the
American Indian and Esquimaux, and then proceed to other countries.
NOOTKA SOUND.
Let us cross to the western side of the continent of America. Here,
far to the northwest, we find Nootka Sound, which is a bay in the
Pacific Ocean, discovered by captain Cook, in 1778. Around this bay
live a set of people, who in some respects differ from the North
American Indians, though they have many traits in common with them.
On board one of the vessels which first entered Nootka Sound, in 1778,
was John Ledyard, one of our own countrymen. He resided in Hartford
some time after his return, where he wrote an account of his voyage.
That account I have seen, and in it he speaks of the inhabitants who
live round the Sound.
He says that the people there resemble the Indians on this side of the
Rocky Mountains. They are tall, robust, and well made; but in this
last respect, they do not equal the Indians farther east. Some of the
women, however, appeared quite handsome.
They have large and full faces, high and prominent cheek bones, small
and black eyes, broad and flat noses, thick lips, and teeth of the
most brilliant whiteness. They fill their hair with oil, paint, and
the down of birds. They also paint their faces with red, blue, and
white colors. They look odd enough.
Some accounts represent them to be a quiet, peaceable people; but
others say that they are bold and ferocious. They give some evidence
of being rather a wise people,――they do not talk much; but, perhaps,
it is because they have not many ideas. This last, I think, is true,
for they have no books, and no means of knowing much.
I am sorry to add, that they are said to be cannibals; that is, they
eat human flesh. Ledyard saw, when he was there, not only human skulls
and bones for sale; but, also, human flesh ready cooked. This made the
sailors shudder, and well it might.
The only inhabited parts of the Sound are two villages, containing
about two thousand people. Their houses are made of very long and
broad plank, resting upon the edges of each other, fastened together
by means of withes, and supported by posts.
As you enter one of their houses, you find benches raised on the sides
of the room. These are covered with mats, upon which the family sit
and sleep. The fireplace is in the middle of the floor, but they have
neither hearth nor chimney.
They have very fine furs; and when Captain Cook was there, he
purchased some, not thinking they were very valuable, but when he
arrived in China, he sold skins, which cost but sixpence, for a
hundred dollars. Since Captain Cook’s time, many vessels have been to
Nootka Sound after furs, and made their voyages very profitable.
I will only add, that Nootka Sound lies west of Boston, about three
thousand miles. But should any of my readers over go thither, they
will probably go by water. In this case, if they sail from New York,
they will proceed south along the American coast, round Cape Horn, and
then north to the Sound. The voyage will take them about five months,
and they will sail not less than fifteen thousand miles.
ONALASKA.
Before we return to the eastern side of the continent, we must notice
the people who inhabit the Fox Islands, the largest of which is called
Onalaska. This island lies in the Pacific Ocean, at some distance from
the peninsula of Alaska, as you may perceive by looking on a map.
This island, also, was first discovered by Captain Cook, in 1778. The
inhabitants here are described as being in stature about middle size,
with full round faces, flat noses, black eyes and hair, but no beard;
for this they pluck out by the roots as soon as it begins to grow.
Their skin is quite dark, but is rendered still more so by the manner
in which they live.
The inhabitants appear to be good-natured and benevolent; but if their
anger is once roused, it is not easily allayed. Their common dress, in
rainy weather, is a garment, made of the entrails of the sea-dog. This
secures them against the rain. In dry and cold weather, they wear a
garment made of feathers, curiously sewed together, and which costs a
person sometimes a whole year’s labor. Their hats are made of wood,
and very much resemble an umbrella.
They are quite fond of ornaments, particularly beads, and small ivory
figures cut from the teeth of the sea-cow, and with the bristles of
the sea-lion’s beard――all of which they put upon their hats. The women
ornament themselves with rings upon their fingers, and with belts of
glass beads upon their wrists and ankles.
The houses in which they dwell are large holes, dug in the ground, and
covered with a roof, over which earth is thrown, and grass grows upon
it. In the centre of the roof a hole is cut. This is all the door,
window, and chimney which they have. They enter the house, and go out
of it, by means of an upright post, with pins in it. Their habitations
are generally filthy places. They are filled with the smoke of burnt
oil, which they use for light and cooking. They live principally upon
fish and sea-dogs.
The canoes of these people are very ingenious. They build a wooden
frame, which they cover with sea-dogs’ skins. They are light, and are
pushed forward in the water with amazing rapidity.
CANADA.
It is a long distance from the island of Onalaska to Canada; but as
_we_ travel, we are soon there. Canada now belongs to Great Britain,
and there are many English, Scotch and Irish people resident there;
but it was first settled by the French, and there are more French than
there are English. Some Americans, also, have settled there, for the
purpose of trade.
The English and American inhabitants of Canada are intelligent and
polished people, resembling the higher classes in England and America.
These live principally in the large towns and cities.
The common people, or true Canadians, are French. They speak the
French language; but it has lost much of its purity. Few among them
know how either to read or write. They are, however, quite an honest,
hospitable, and inoffensive people. They are very poor; and no wonder
they are so, for they are a very lazy people. They seem to have few
wants, and to be quite happy, and contented with their condition.
Within a few years they have improved somewhat; but it will be a long
time before they make much advance.
At an early period of life, the Canadian is healthy and robust; but he
soon looks old and sallow, owing to his exposure to the weather, and
the toils of the field. This is also true of the women, many of whom
are quite handsome when young; but they soon fade. Both men and women
frequently live, however, to advanced age.
Canada is a cold country. The winters are long and severe. The
inhabitants protect themselves when they go abroad, by means of furs,
in which they envelop themselves. They travel, during the cold season,
in a kind of sledge, or open carriage, called a cariole. In these,
they glide over deep snows and frozen rivers, with surprising
celerity.
At the beginning of winter, the farmers, who are called _habitants_,
kill hogs, cattle, and poultry, sufficient to serve them till spring,
as well as to supply the markets. The carcasses they store in their
garrets, where they soon become frozen, and keep without injury; or
they bury them, and dig them out as wanted. Vegetables are preserved
in a similar manner. The French Canadians are chiefly Roman Catholics;
the other inhabitants are of various sects.
――――
I DON’T WANT TO GO!――A curious incident occurred near Paris, not long
since, in consequence of a balloon starting on its own hook, without
the consent of the proprietor. A large concourse of people had
assembled to see an æronaut take flight for the regions of upper air,
but, unfortunately, before he took his seat in the car, the ærostat
got loose, and the grappling-hook, which was dangling from the
machine, hitched into the indescribables of a boy, who was gazing,
open-mouthed, at the ascending mass, and carried him up willy-nilly.
The women screamed and fainted, but the lad, who seemed to have been a
hero in his way, clasped the rope tightly with his hands and his feet,
and, with an awful rent in his aforesaids, was introduced by his
inflated companion into the _upper circles_. After a short voyage, the
balloon descended, and deposited the little fellow safe and sound on
the firm earth.
[Illustration]
A Chinese Dandy.
The following description of a Chinese exquisite, is from a new work
on China, by P. Dobel, formerly Russian Consul to China, and a
resident in that country for seven years:――
“His dress is composed of crapes and silks of great price, his feet
are covered with high-heeled boots of the most beautiful Nankin satin,
and his legs are encased in gaiters, richly embroidered, and reaching
to the knee. Add to this an acorn-shaped cap of the latest taste, an
elegant pipe, richly ornamented, in which burns the purest tobacco of
the Fokien, an English watch, a toothpick suspended to a button by a
string of pearls, a Nankin fan, exhaling the perfume of the tcholane,
(a Chinese flower,) and you will have an exact idea of a fashionable
Chinese.
“The Chinese dandy, like dandies of all times and all countries, is
seriously occupied with trifles. He belongs either to the Quail Club
or the Cricket Club. Like the ancient Romans, the Chinese train
quails, quarrelsome birds, intrepid duellists, whose combats form the
subject of senseless wagers. In imitation of the rich, the poorer
Chinese place at the bottom of an earthen basin, two field crickets.
These insects they excite and provoke, until they grow angry, attack
each other, and the narrow field of battle is soon strewed with their
claws, antennæ and corselets.
“There is between the Chinese and the old Romans as great a difference
as there is between the combats of the crickets and the terrible
combats of the gladiators.”
A Thrilling Narrative.
The town of St. Etienne, in the department of the Loire, has acquired,
by its manufactures of iron and silk, the appellation of the
Birmingham and Coventry of France. Though very far from contemptible,
it is however, at most, only a miniature likeness of the two
celebrated towns to which it is compared. For its prosperity, it is
indebted to the circumstance of iron oar and coal being abundant in
its vicinity. Among the coal mines in its immediate neighborhood, is
that of Bois Monzil, the scene of the event which is now to be
described.
On the 2d of February, 1831, about eight in the morning, when there
were twenty-six men at work, a sudden detonation was heard, instantly
followed by the roar of water, rushing from the adjoining pit. The cry
of alarm was quickly spread through the mine, but only ten of the
laborers were able to reach the entrance. One of them was driven
forward with such violence, by the condensed air and the torrent, that
his escape was miraculous; another was so terrified, that he hurried
forward, without thinking to disencumber himself of a sack of coals
which he had upon his shoulders; a third, who possessed both presence
of mind and humanity, snatched up a boy of eleven years old and bore
him away in his arms.
Eight individuals perished. Some of them were swept away by the
deluge――but at least one of them had to endure a lingering death. He
was heard for some hours knocking against the sides of his prison; at
the end of that time the knocking ceased――the flood had overwhelmed
him. The remaining eight workmen were fortunate enough to reach a
gallery on a higher level; but, as it had no other outlet than that by
which they entered, their fate was certain, unless the water should
recede, or their friends could open a passage through the rock beneath
them.
On hearing of the accident, the engineers of the mine hastened with
their assistants to the spot. Thirty hours elapsed before the miners
could penetrate into some of the lower galleries from which the water
had retired. They repeatedly called aloud to their lost companions,
but no voice was heard in reply. They then struck with their pickaxes
upon the roof, and after several fruitless trials, they were rejoiced
to hear an equal number of answering knocks.
Measures were immediately adopted for opening a communication with the
imprisoned men; the principal of them were the boring a hole through
the rock, in the supposed direction whence the sound came, and the
forming of an inclined tunnel. But there was much difficulty in
ascertaining the point to which they ought to direct their efforts;
for the sound of their blows on the roof, far from offering a certain
criterion, or at least a probable one, seemed each time to excite
fresh doubts. The rock, too, was so hard and thick, that the gunpowder
employed in blasting it produced but a trifling effect; nor could the
pumps be got to work, and they were therefore obliged to resort to the
slow and incompetent method of forming a line of men from the gallery
to the mouth of the mine, and passing the buckets from hand to hand.
The persons who were thus employed, had to work upon a rapid slope, in
a crouching posture, with the water dropping all round them, and
generally rising up to the middle of their bodies. They had to endure
that which was still worse to men not devoid of humanity. The wives of
the hapless miners had heard that all hope was not extinct, and they
hastened to the spot. With heart-rending cries, and shedding tears
alternately of despair and hope, they exclaimed, “Are they _all_
there? Where is the father of my children? Is _he_ amongst them, or
has he been swallowed up by the waters?”
When it became known at St. Etienne and its vicinity, that there was a
prospect of saving a part of the victims, the whole of the National
Guards, and several hundreds of miners and other persons, thronged to
lend their assistance. The pumps were now got to work, and the line of
men with buckets was consequently discontinued. Yet, notwithstanding
the number of additional hands, the work proceeded but slowly. Such
was the flinty hardness of the rock, that frequently the tools either
broke, or remained immovably fixed in the stone. The water also
filtered in rapidly through the perforation which they were making,
and seemed to threaten another irruption.
It was now Sunday, and the spirits of the workmen began to flag. On
the following day an alarming incident occurred which spread a general
panic. A terrific noise was heard, which was prolonged in echoes
throughout the mine. When their terror had sufficiently subsided to
allow of their investigating its cause, they found that an enormous
mass of rock had fallen into one of the draining wells. Though this
fall was attended by no bad consequences, the workmen were so much
disheartened by it, that it required much management to bring them
back to their labors, and revive their courage and perseverance.
By dint of persuasion and argument, the superintendents at length
prevailed on the men to make a vigorous effort. In a very short time,
that effort was crowned with success. The instrument of one of the
miners penetrated into the shut-up gallery, and was drawn from his
hands by the poor imprisoned miners. But the man who had thus been the
first to open a way into their dungeon, was still more unfortunate
than they were. At the moment when hope dawned to them, it set forever
to him. He was the father of one of the men who had disappeared in the
mine. His paternal feelings seemed to have endowed him with superhuman
strength. Night and day he quitted his work only for a few minutes to
return to it with redoubled vigor.
One absorbing thought occupied his whole soul; the idea that his son,
his _only_ son, was with those who were heard from within. In vain he
was solicited to retire; in vain they strove to force him from labors
too fatiguing for his age. “My son is among them,” said he; “I hear
him; nothing shall prevent me from hastening his release;” and from
time to time he called on his son, in accents that tore the hearts of
the bystanders. His first question, on the instrument being drawn from
his hand, was, “My child!” His Antoine was no more; he had been
drowned.
For four days, medical men had been present in the mine, to be ready
to give their aid, as soon as a passage should be opened. They now
directed soup to be introduced through a tube, and air to be forced
into the gallery by means of bellows. Food was, however, by no means
the most urgent want of the captives; light was what they first and
most pressingly requested. A tinder-box was conveyed to them, but the
vitiated air of their dungeon rendered it of no use. At first, they
seemed to be strengthened by the soup, of which they had made their
oldest and weakest companions the earliest partakers; but afterwards
it had a contrary effect. They therefore for the present rejected the
nourishment which was occasionally supplied, and expressed but one
wish, which was that their friends would make haste. Yet one at least
there was, who had not lost all his gaiety. This was a man, named
Fereol. When he was asked what day he thought it was, be replied,
“Sunday;” and upon being told it was Monday, he rejoined, “Ah, I ought
to have known that――for yesterday we indulged ourselves by tippling
freely――of water.”
But though some of them retained their cheerfulness, the strength of
all was rapidly failing. Their utterance grew gradually more faint;
and about six in the evening, the last words that could be
distinguished were, “Brothers, make haste.” By ten in the evening,
they had broken through sixteen feet of solid rock, and liberated the
captives. Looking more like spectres than human beings, the miners,
one by one, slowly traversed the gallery, and emerged into open air,
which they had so recently almost despaired of ever breathing again.
From the mouth of the mine to the temporary residence allotted them,
the whole way was illuminated. The engineers, the pupils, and the
workmen, with the National Guard under arms, were drawn up in two
lines to form a passage; and thus, in the midst of a religious
silence, did these poor fellows traverse an attentive and sympathizing
crowd, who, as they passed along, inclined their heads, as a sort of
respect and honor to their sufferings.
――――
GENEROSITY is a pleasant, agreeable, fascinating virtue; justice is
more stern, but must be regarded as the higher virtue of the two.
[Illustration]
Demosthenes.
This greatest of the Grecian orators was born about 385 or 384 years
before Christ, when Athens had reached the zenith of her literary, and
had passed that of her political glory. Juvenal has represented him
slightingly as the son of a blacksmith, the fact being that the elder
Demosthenes was engaged in various branches of trade, and among others
was owner of a sword manufactory. His maternal grandmother was a
Thracian woman, a circumstance noticeable because it enabled his
enemies, in the spirit of exaggeration and ill-will, to taunt him as a
barbarian and hereditary enemy of his country――for the Greeks in
general regarded the admixture of barbarian, that is, other than Greek
blood, with the same sort of contempt and dislike as do the whites of
America the taint of African descent.
Being left an orphan when seven years old, Demosthenes fell into the
hands of dishonest guardians, who embezzled a large portion of the
property which his father had bequeathed to him. His constitution
appears to have been delicate, and it may have been on this account,
that he did not attend the gymnastic exercises, which formed a large
portion of the education of the youths in Greece; exercises really
important where neither birth nor wealth set aside the obligation to
military service common to all citizens; and where, therefore, skill
in the use of arms, strength, and the power to endure fatigue and
hardship, were essential to the rich as well as to the poor. It may
have been on this account that a nickname expressive of effeminacy was
bestowed on him, which was afterwards interpreted into a proof of
unmanly luxury and vicious habits; indeed, the reproach of wanting
physical strength stuck by him through life, and apparently not
undeservedly. Another nickname that he obtained was that of “Viper.”
In short, the extant anecdotes tend pretty uniformly to show that his
private character was harsh and unamiable.
His ambition to excel as an orator is said to have been kindled by
hearing a masterly and much admired speech of Callistratus. For
instruction, he resorted to Isæus, and, as some say, to Isocrates,
both eminent teachers of the art of rhetoric. He had a stimulus to
exertion in the resolution to prosecute his guardians for the abuse of
their trust; and having gained the cause, B. C. 364, in the conduct of
which he himself took an active part, recovered, it would seem, a
large part of his property. The orations against Aphobus and Onetor
profess to have been delivered in the course of the suit; but it has
been doubted, on internal evidence, whether they were really composed
by him so early in life.
Be this as it may, his success emboldened him to come forward as a
speaker in the assemblies of the people: on what occasion, and at what
time, does not appear. His reception was discouraging. He probably had
underrated, till taught by experience, the degree of training and
mechanical preparation requisite at all times to excellence, and most
essential in addressing an audience so alive to the ridiculous and so
fastidious as the Athenians. He labored also under physical defects,
which almost amounted to disqualifications. His voice was weak, his
breath short, his articulation defective; in addition to all this, his
style was thought strained, harsh, and involved.
Though disheartened by his ill success, he felt, as Sheridan is
reported to have expressed himself on a similar occasion, that it was
in him, and it should come out; beside, he was encouraged by a few
discerning spirits. One aged man, who had heard Pericles, cheered him
with the assurance that he reminded him of that unequalled orator; and
the actor Satyrus pointed out the faults of his delivery, and
instructed him to amend them. He now set himself in earnest to realize
his notions of excellence; and the singular and irksome method which
he adopted, denoting certainly no common energy and strength of will,
are too celebrated and too remarkable to be omitted, though the
authority on which they rest is not free from doubt. He built a room
under ground, where he might practise gesture and delivery without
molestation, and there he spent two or three months together, shaving
his head that the oddity of his appearance might render it impossible
for him to go abroad, even if his resolution should fail. The defect
in his articulation he cured by reciting with small pebbles in his
mouth. His lungs he strengthened by practising running up hill, while
reciting verses. Nor was he less diligent in cultivating mental, than
bodily requisites, applying himself earnestly to study the theory of
the art, as explained in books, and the examples of the greatest
masters of eloquence. Thucydides is said to have been his favorite
model, insomuch that he copied out his history eight times, and had it
almost by heart.
Meanwhile, his pen was continually employed in rhetorical exercises;
every question suggested to him by passing events served him for a
topic of discussion, which called forth the application of his
attainments to the real business of life. It was perhaps as much for
the sake of such practice, as with a view to reputation, or the
increase of his fortune, that he accepted employment as an advocate,
which, until he began to take an active part in public affairs, was
offered to him in abundance.
Such was the process by which he became confessedly the greatest
orator among the people by whom eloquence was cultivated, as it has
never been since by any nation upon earth. He brought it to its
highest state of perfection, as did Sophocles the tragic drama, by the
harmonious union of excellences which had before only existed apart.
The quality in his writings which excited the highest admiration of
the most intelligent critics among his countrymen, in the later
critical age, was the Protean versatility with which he adapted his
style to every theme, so as to furnish the most perfect examples of
every order and kind of eloquence.
Demosthenes, like Pericles, never willingly appeared before his
audience with any but the ripest fruits of his private studies, though
he was quite capable of speaking on the impulse of the moment in a
manner worthy of his reputation. He continued to the end of his career
to cultivate the art with unabated diligence, and even in the midst of
public business, his habits were known to be those of a severe
student.
The first manifestation of that just jealousy of Philip, the ambitious
king of Macedon, which became the leading principle of his life, was
made B. C. 352, when the orator delivered the first of those
celebrated speeches called Philippics. The word has been naturalized
in Latin and most European languages, as a concise term to signify
indignant invective.
From this time forward, it was the main object of Demosthenes to
inspire and keep alive in the minds of the Athenians a constant
jealousy of Philip’s power and intentions, and to unite the other
states of Greece in confederacy against him. The policy and the
disinterestedness of his conduct have both been questioned; the
former, by those who have judged, from the event, that resistance to
the power of Macedonia was rashly to accelerate a certain and
inevitable evil; the latter, by those, both of his contemporaries and
among posterity, who believe that he received bribes from Persia, as
the price of finding employment in Greece for an enemy, whose ambition
threatened the monarch of the East. With respect to the former,
however, it was at least the most generous policy, and that of the
elder Athenians in their most illustrious days, not to await the ruin
of their independence submissively, until every means had been tried
for averting it; for the latter, such charges are hard either to be
proved or refuted. The character of Demosthenes certainly does not
stand above the suspicion of pecuniary corruption, but it has not been
shown, nor is it necessary or probable to suppose, that his jealousy
of Philip of Macedon was not in the first instance far-sighted and
patriotic. During fourteen years, from 352 to 338, he exhausted every
resource of eloquence and diplomatic skill to check the progress of
that aspiring monarch; and whatever may be thought of his moral worth,
none can undervalue the genius and energy, which have made his name
illustrious, and raised a memorial of him far more enduring than
sepulchral brass.
In 339, B. C., Philip’s appointment to be general of the Amphyctionic
League gave him a more direct influence than he had yet possessed; and
in the same year, the decisive victory of Cheronea, won over the
combined forces of Thebes, Athens, &c., made him master of Greece.
Demosthenes served in this engagement, but joined early in the flight,
with circumstances, according to report, of marked cowardice and
disgrace. He retired for a time from Athens, but the cloud upon his
character was but transient; for shortly after he was entrusted with
the charge of putting the city in a state of defence, and was
appointed to pronounce the funeral oration over those who had been
slain. After the battle of Cheronea, Philip, contrary to expectation,
did not prosecute hostilities against Athens; on the contrary, he used
his best endeavors to conciliate the affections of the people, but
without success; the party hostile to Macedon soon regained the
superiority, and Demosthenes was proceeding with his usual vigor in
the prosecution of his political schemes, when news arrived of the
murder of Philip, in July, 336.
The daughter of Demosthenes had then lately died; nevertheless, in
violation of national usage, he put off his mourning, and appeared in
public crowned with flowers, and with other tokens of festive
rejoicing. This act, a strong expression of triumph over the fall of a
most dangerous enemy, has been censured with needless asperity; the
accusation of having been privy to the plot for Philip’s murder
beforehand, founded on his own declaration of the event some time
before intelligence of it came from any other quarter, and the
manifest falsehood as to the source of the information, which he
professed to derive from a divine revelation, involves, if it be
judged to be well founded, a far blacker imputation.
Whether or not it were of his own procuring, the death of Philip was
hailed by Demosthenes as an event most fortunate for Athens, and
favorable to the liberty of Greece. Thinking lightly of the young
successor to the Macedonian crown, he busied himself the more in
stirring up opposition to Alexander, and succeeded in urging Thebes
into that revolt, which ended in the entire destruction of the city,
B. C. 335. This example, as it well might, struck terror into Athens.
Alexander demanded that Demosthenes, with nine others, should be given
up into his hands, as the authors of the battle of Cheronea, and of
the succeeding troubles of Greece; but finally contented himself with
requiring the banishment of Charidemus alone.
Opposition to Macedon was now effectually put down, and until the
death of Alexander we hear little more of Demosthenes as a public man.
During this period, however, one of the most memorable incidents of
his life occurred in that contest of oratory with Æschines, which has
been more celebrated than any strife of words since the world began.
The origin of it was as follows. About the time of the battle of
Cheronea, one Ctesiphon brought before the people a decree for
presenting Demosthenes with a crown for his distinguished services; a
complimentary motion, in its nature and effects very much like a vote
of parliament declaratory of confidence in the administration.
Æschines, the leading orator of the opposite party, arraigned this
motion, as being both untrue in substance and irregular in form; he
indicted Ctesiphon on these grounds, and laid the penalty at fifty
talents, equivalent to about $45,000. Why the prosecution was no long
delayed, does not clearly appear; but it was not brought to an issue
until the year 330, when Æschines pronounced his great oration
“against Ctesiphon.” Demosthenes defended him in the still more
celebrated speech “on the crown.” These, besides being the most
admirable specimens of rhetorical art, have the additional value, that
the rival orators, being much more anxious to uphold the merits of
their own past policy and conduct, than to convict or defend the
nominal object of prosecution, have gone largely into matters of
self-defence and mutual recrimination, from which much of our
knowledge of this obscure portion of history is derived. Æschines lost
the cause, and not having the votes of so much as a fifth part of the
judges, became liable, according to the laws of Athens, to fine and
banishment. He withdrew to Rhodes, where he established a school of
rhetoric.
Demosthenes roused the Athenians against Antipater the successor of
Alexander in Greece, but when that general triumphed, he fled to
Calmesia, and took refuge in a temple. He retired into the inner part
of the building, on pretence of writing a letter, where he took poison
and speedily died.
Such was the life of Demosthenes, the greatest orator Greece ever
produced, and one of the most famous that ever lived.
――――
Man is made to live on the earth, but to regard heaven as his resting
place. He must keep both objects in view: if he forgets heaven, he
imitates the brutes which perish; if he forgets the earth, he will
tumble into the first ditch that lies across his path.
Walking on Stilts.
In some countries the inhabitants walk on stilts from necessity. In
England, boys do so for fun; and it is astonishing with what agility,
after a very short practice, they do so. Any boy may make his own
stilts; nothing is required but a pair of poles, about six or seven
feet long, upon which some broad pieces of leather or iron hoop are
nailed for the feet, so as to leave the top of the stilt within a few
inches of the arm-pit. The boy may at first place his foot-holds very
low, till he can balance himself, and then raise them every few days,
till he obtains a complete command over them. I have known boys who
had great command over stilts, to wade through rivers three or four
feet deep; which would be of some importance in certain situations, to
which all are subject, as by such aids small rivers might at any time
be crossed, and life even saved in a case of necessity.
I once, however, knew a boy, who, having attained this art in great
perfection, was not content with amusing himself in a rational and
innocent manner, but set his wits to work to frighten two of his
playfellows, a little boy and girl, who lived in the neighborhood. He
had often heard foolish people talk of ghosts, and thought it would be
good fun to make one; so he got a large white tablecloth, and having
scraped out the inside of a turnip, so as to leave nothing but the
rind, he cut two holes for eyes, made an enormous mouth with gnashing
teeth; in this he put a lantern, and putting himself on his stilts,
which made him seven feet high, and fastening the turnip lantern to
his hat, he sallied forth into a by-lane, where he knew his
play-fellows were to pass.
After a while he heard their footsteps, and then he made himself ready
by pulling his white garment about him, and placing himself under the
shade of an old tree. Then he gave a loud, unearthly groan, and with a
slow and measured step came forth. It was nearly dark, and a little
girl and boy came gaily on, singing and dancing. But the moment the
little girl saw the supposed spectre, she gave a thrilling scream, and
dropped senseless on the ground. Her brother, poor fellow, who at once
saw the trick, ran towards the spectre, and with a blow of a stick
which he held in his hand, felled him to the ground. He then ran to
his sister, but she was insensible. After a while, assistance came;
but when they had taken the little girl home, and put her to bed, they
found that her senses had fled forever. The fright had turned her
brain, and she became an idiot, and did not live many years.
Be careful then, my young friends, never to play upon the fears or
feelings of your companions. It is not only very wicked, but cruel in
the extreme; and as the consequences may be serious, guard yourself
against every temptation of the kind. A sudden start at the word
“Boo,” has been known to produce severe illness; and it is by no means
an uncommon thing to hear of persons meeting with sudden death through
fright.
――――
It is pleasant to some persons to give; but if one gives only to
gratify himself, he is merely selfish, and can claim no praise.
[For Merry’s Museum.]
THE LITTLE SOLDIER.
(Concluded.)
MR. MERRY:
Your young readers will remember, I hope, that they left our
“little soldier” at the commencement of his journey
homewards. Weak and faint from his long confinement in the
hospital, without money, and with the sad prospect of two
hundred miles on foot before him, it seemed impossible to
him that he could ever accomplish the journey. But “home,”
that blessed word, at mention of which, “the _sailor_,
clinging to the dripping yard-arm,” feels a glow of rapture,
filled the heart of the _soldier_ with hope, and he
proceeded on. Children of the present day, cannot imagine
the change which has been made in the country since that
period. What was at that time a “wilderness,” has now become
a “fruitful field;” and where our tired soldiers at the
close of the day sheltered themselves beneath some large
tree, may now be seen the splendid hotel, inviting the
traveller to comfort and rest. Then, too, at the nightfall,
where _our_ two friends heard only the mournful note of the
“whip-poor-will,” may now be heard the shrill whistle of the
locomotive, as it scuds over mountain and valley with the
speed of thought. I cannot take time to give the details of
adventures which cheered and discouraged our friends from
day to day. They found great difficulty in supplying
themselves with food; and I think it was in some lonely
place, on this journey, that the sick soldier was fortunate
enough to catch a young woodpecker, and he said nothing
could be more delicious than the little bird. He pulled out
the feathers, and ate it _just as it was_! He said it was
meat and drink too, for the blood was warm! If I am not
mistaken, it was three or four weeks after they left New
York, that the two friends reached a village, called
Farmington, in the State of Connecticut. They had been a
long time coming a short distance, as the strength of the
little soldier had been gradually failing during the journey
thus far. Just at dark, after a day of great suffering from
exhaustion and fatigue, they came to a house which stood on
an eminence rather difficult of ascent. Here, the poor
fellow’s courage failed, and he said to his companion, “Let
me stop at the foot of this hill and _die_. I can never
reach the house,”――and he sank upon the ground, entirely
overcome. His companion, however, had strong confidence that
if he could have food and rest, he would soon be restored.
He accordingly went to the door of the house, which was
opened by a very respectable middle-aged woman. He proceeded
to an inner room, where an old man was sitting, reading the
Bible. He made as earnest an appeal as he could for the
friend he had left in the road; but the thought of having
such a burden upon them, (for they were rather poor,) seemed
more than they could bear. Now, whether the old gentleman
happened to be reading in Matthew, the passage, “Inasmuch as
ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto
me,” I cannot say; but he did not hesitate long. “Let him
come in,” said he; “we will do the best we can for him.”
Here, then, new courage came to him, and, with the utmost
exertion, he reached the door. The _table_ was spread for
the evening meal; and such a sight our “little soldier” had
not seen since he left his father’s house, where was “bread
enough and to spare.” He has been heard to say often, that
at no other period in his life, was he ever so much
overcome, as at the sight of that table! He wept and sobbed
like an infant. The utmost caution was needed, or he would
no doubt have sacrificed his life in the indulgence of his
appetite. At this house he remained several weeks,――and I
would to God that this account might fall into the hands of
some of the descendants of that pious family. The man was
named Thomas Cowles. A maiden daughter kept the house, and
took care of her father. They were unwearied in their
attentions to the invalid, and he began to recruit at once.
His companion came on to their native place, and a brother
of the sick soldier immediately started on horseback for
him, with money to remunerate the family who had shown him
so much kindness. When the young soldier came to take his
leave, which he did with many tears, the good people refused
all compensation. Now, I hope, Mr. Merry, some of your young
readers will know why this was. Our “little soldier” loved
and feared God. They had taken “sweet counsel together,” and
felt that they had their reward. Many years after these
events occurred, and after the little traveller had been in
the service of his Divine Master a long time, an opportunity
was given to send to this daughter, who had survived her
father several years. With deep emotion he took from his
library a handsome volume, and presented it to Miss Cowles,
with the simple quotation, “I was a stranger, and ye took me
in.”
Should any one of the name meet with this account――a branch
of that family――“may the Lord bless them seven fold,” for
their father’s sake.
A SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER.
――――
To make room for the remainder of the story of “The Little Soldier,”
we are obliged to defer our Correspondence until the next number.
The Goldfinch.
THE MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEORGE J. WEBB.
[Music:] Vivace.
Goldfinch, pride of woodland glade,
In thy jet and gold ar-rayed;
Gentle bird, that lov’st to feed
On the thistle’s downy seed;
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.
Fickle bird, forever roaming,
Endless changes ever loving,
Now in orchards gaily sporting,
Now to flowery fields resorting;
Chasing now the thistle’s down,
By the gentle zephyr blown,
Lightly on thou wing’st thy way,
Always happy, always gay.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
Vol. VII. JUNE, 1844. No. 6.
[Illustration: (Farmers reaping crop)]
[Illustration: J]une, the first of the summer months, presents us with
many interesting things. The meadows are now covered with flowers in
full bloom: the forests have put on their beautiful garments of green:
the birds are busy in tending their young; the mornings are ushered in
with silvery dews, and the evenings come like a soft veil thrown over
the cradle of her children, by the gentle hand of nature, to make
their slumbers sweet and secure.
The farmer is now busy in gathering his crop of hay,――though, as he
swings his scythe, he unhappily disturbs many a pretty nest of the
meadow lark, the sparrow, and the boblink. How the latter does sing
“Get out o’ the way old Dan Tucker,”――as the mowers intrude upon his
dominion! However, it is better that Bob should be disturbed now and
then, than that the cattle should starve, and every body go without
milk and meat.
But let us go to some field, where the mower has not yet appeared. Let
us stop and listen to Bob――with his white nightcap on. What a set of
names he has got――boblink――bob o’ lincoln――skunk black bird――and rice
bird. He seems to have as many names as those rascals who are sent to
the state’s prison, yet he has no other quality in common with
pick-pockets and counterfeiters. He is no thief, for what he takes he
takes in open day; he is no pick-pocket, for while the cat-bird
filches cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and grapes, Bob
is content with the waste seeds of the meadows. He is no
counterfeiter,――no, he is a downright fellow, and is never ashamed of
his name. Meet him where you will, he springs into the air, and seems
to give you a challenge in the following words――
“Jem Richardson, Jem Richardson,――get away――yet away: it’s very
disagreeable of you to trouble us: get away! get away!”
Different people fancy the boblink to say different things. A girl of
sixteen blushes at his open, impertinent calling out the name of her
lover, which she supposed a secret to every one but herself; the miser
thinks his song like the jingling of keys; a tory fancies that the
rogue calls him a whig; a whig, that he reviles him as a tory; a boy
going home from school, imagines that he is mocking him for spelling
the word _jingo_, with two gs――and a town-meeting orator, regards him
as a lecturer upon that species of eloquence which at town-meetings is
usually displayed――a succession of nasal, brassy sounds, with very
little sense.
But let us leave boblink to pursue his cheerful, happy life, and look
at that bird with long legs and a sly appearance, stealing through the
grass. He is a meadow lark,――and a magnificent bird, streaked with
gray and brown upon the back, with a breast of bright yellow. See! he
is very timid, and has already flown. Alas, his flesh is excellent,
and man has taught him that there is danger in his near approach. Yet
listen to his clear, shrill note, as he flies in the air. See! there
he lights on the topmost bough of yonder apple-tree. How plaintive,
yet how beautiful, his prolonged note! He is not, however, so sweet a
singer as the lark of Europe.
Let us take a stroll in yonder thicket. How still and secluded is this
little dell. Not a sound is to be heard. Hush! I heard a rustle among
the bushes! Oh, it is a brown thrush; there he sits, trying to hide
himself behind the oak leaves. He has a nest near, and being engaged
in important business, does not wish to be disturbed. He will not
speak to you till evening. If you are then within a quarter of a mile,
you will hear his song. It consists of imitations and variations that
might put Ole Bull to the blush. Some passages are exquisitely
beautiful, and would excite the envy of that conceited bird, the
English talk so much of,――the nightingale,――a bird, that is so
solicitous to be heard, that it will sing only in the night, when all
honest birds are asleep.
We will say no more of this month, after introducing to you the
following description of it, in the oldest English lay extant:
“Summer is yeomen in――
Loud sing cuckoo;
Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,
And springeth the weed new.”
――――
THE NEW KING.――The king of the Sandwich Islands has so much improved
in his condition since he signed the pledge, that the people call him
THE NEW KING.
[Illustration (hawk with rabbit)]
Inquisitive Jack.