Glastonbury is called by Fuller “the ground of God—the first ground
of the saints in England, and the rise and fountain of all religion
in Britain.” Because, “it was here,” says the tradition, “that
Christianity was first introduced into England.”
But the early history of the introduction of Christianity into these
islands, is veiled in considerable obscurity. We see the “Light of the
Word” shining here fully enough, but we see not they who kindled it.
The honour of first evangelizing England has, indeed, been confidently
ascribed to various individuals, and, amongst others, to Joseph of
Arimathea.
[Illustration]
The legend states, that when St. Philip, the Apostle, after the death
of our blessed Saviour, was in Gaul, he was informed of the heathenish
wickedness of this country. To England he therefore resolved to extend
the influence of his precepts and influence, over barbarous and bloody
rites, long exercised by bigoted and besotted Druids—to introduce the
meek and gentle system of Christianity. Accordingly he dispatched
twelve of his companions and followers, and appointed Joseph of
Arimathea, who had not long before taken his Saviour from the Cross, to
superintend the sacred embassy. Britain was wild and uncultivated—its
inhabitants rude and inimical to strangers—yet, withal, its King
Arviragus could foster a few itinerants, whom he knew not how to hate,
nor wished to love. In consideration of their long and laborious
journey, he disposed their habitation in a small island, then waste
and untilled, and surrounded by bogs and morasses, assigning to each of
the “twelve” a certain portion of land, called a “hide,” sufficient for
one family to live upon; and composing in all, a territory denominated,
to this day, “the twelve hides of Glaston,” and here, according to the
monastic annals, St. Joseph erected to the honour of the Blessed Virgin
Mary—of wattles and wreathed twigs—the first Christian Oratory in
England.
This legend, however, wants much of truthfulness, I fear. I don’t
see what connection there could be between Joseph of Arimathea and
Glastonbury. Be that as it may—a more substantial structure was erected
on the spot named above, in the year 180 after Christ, owing to the
exertions of some Christian Missionaries. In the year 439 we are told
that St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, visited this holy spot,
and collected together a body of clergy, being himself elected as the
first Abbot. About the year, 530, St. David, Archbishop of Manevia,
accompanied by seven bishops, took a journey to Avalon, and expended
large sums of money, in adding to the building of the church. St. David
was uncle to the renowned King Arthur, who, in his time (A.D. 543),
having been mortally wounded in battle, was carried to this abbey to be
interred, and, accordingly, on his death his body here found a grave.
In the reign of Henry II., 640 years after Arthur was buried, his grave
was opened, and the body of the king discovered interred in a coffin
made of oak, sixteen feet deep, and nine feet below a rude leaden
cross, on which the name and virtues of Arthur were described.
Such is one of the “stories” of Glastonbury—and I forgot to say that,
in the churchyard, still stands the celebrated “Glastonbury thorn,”
said to be derived from the rod of Joseph, of Arimathea, and which
always blossoms on Christmas Day.
[Illustration]
A few words about Soluble Glass.
It appears from ancient testimony, that there have been many successful
attempts at making glass mouldable in its cold state, or of so far
altering its state as to render it malleable. There is a tradition,
that a clever artist, in the time of Tiberius Cæsar, made glass both
elastic and malleable, for which he was rewarded by the loss of his
head. A similar discovery is said to have been made in France, in the
reign of Louis XIII. The inventor presented a bust, formed of malleable
glass, to the Cardinal Richelieu, and was rewarded for his ingenuity
by perpetual imprisonment, lest the French glass-makers should be
injured. In our day, a description of glass, perhaps more remarkable,
has been discovered by Mr. Fuchs, the curious properties and important
applications of which it will be proper to advert to in this place.
The preparation of soluble glass does not greatly differ in its early
stages from that of common glass. It is a union of silica and an
alkali, which has, in addition to some of the properties of common
glass, the property of dissolving in boiling water.
To form this compound, carbonate of potash and stone sand, are taken
in the proportion of two, to three, or four parts of charcoal, and
added to every ten parts of potash, and fifteen of sand. The charcoal
accellerates the fushion of the glass, and separates from it all the
carbonic acid, a small quantity of which would otherwise remain and be
injurious. The materials must first be well mixed, then fritted and
finally melted at a high heat, until a liquid and homogenous mass be
obtained. This is removed by means of an iron ladle, and the glass-pot
filled with fresh grit.
The crude glass thus obtained is usually full of bubbles; it is as hard
as common glass—it is of a blackish gray, and more or less transparent
at the edges. In order to prepare it for solution in water, it must be
reduced to powder by pounding. One part of this glass requires from
four to five of water for its solution. The water is first boiled in an
open vessel; the powdered glass is added gradually, and is continually
stirred to prevent adhesion. The boiling is continued for three or four
hours, until no more glass is dissolved. If the boiling be checked
before the liquor has thus attained the proper degree of concentration,
carbonic acid will be absorbed by the potash from the air, which
will produce an injurious effect. When the solution has acquired the
consistency of syrup, and a density of 1·24, it is fit for use, and
will keep for any length of time.
The solution of soluble glass is viscid, and when concentrated,
becomes turbid or opalescent. The solution unites with water in all
proportions. At a density of 1·28 it contains nearly twenty-eight per
cent. of glass, and if the concentration be carried beyond that point,
it becomes so viscid that it may be drawn out in threads like molten
glass. When the solution is applied to other bodies it dries rapidly
in the air, and forms a coat like varnish, and possesses the quality
of not being affected by cold water, and it is applied as a durable
coating to a vast variety of articles.
None of the methods hitherto proposed for making cloth fire-proof
appear so advantageous as the application of soluble glass, for it does
not act upon the vegetable matter, and completely closes the spaces
between the threads. It can also be applied to clothes; but one of its
most useful properties is its application as a cement; and, for this
purpose, it is superior to all those that have hitherto been employed
for cementing broken glass, porcelain, &c., and may be used instead of
glue or isinglass in applying colors.
[Illustration]
Something about Boiling Springs.
In various parts of the world, we have “Springs,” possessing curious
properties. Some spout up “mud,” some throw up a kind of “pitch,”
others give forth waters strongly impregnated with “copper,” and
some again, bubble with water full of “iron,” then we have “salt”
springs, and even “quicksilver” springs—but the most remarkable, are
the “boiling” springs, and of these, the most celebrated are those
of Iceland. One of the most enrapturing scenes I ever witnessed, was
that of these Boiling springs; which I first saw on the morning of the
30th of July, while on my visit to Iceland, in Captain Cox’s yacht. We
walked for some time over a barren district, but at last were arrested
by the roaring of Stockr, which threw up a great quantity of steam, and
while we stood gazing and wondering what would come next—a crash took
place as if the earth had burst, which was instantaneously succeeded
by jets of water and steam, rising in a perpendicular column, to the
height of sixty-feet. But Stockr had not been in action above twenty
minutes, when the Great Geyser, apparently jealous of the reputation,
and indignant at our bestowing so much of our time and applause on her
rival, began to thunder tremendously, and emitted such quantities of
water and steam, that we could not be satisfied with a distant view—but
hastened to the mound with as much curiosity as if it had been the
first eruption we had beheld. However, if she was more interesting
in point of magnitude, she gave the less satisfaction in point of
duration, having again become tranquil in the course of five minutes,
whereas, her less grand, but more steady companion continued to play
till within four minutes of six o’clock.
[Illustration]
My attention was so much taken up with these two powerful fountains,
that we had little time or inclination to watch the numerous inferior
springs with which the country abounds. The little Geyser erupted,
perhaps, twelve times in the twenty-four hours, but none of its jets
rose higher than eighteen or twenty feet, and, generally, they were
about ten or twelve. The pipe of this spring opens into a beautiful
circular basin, about twelve feet in diameter, the surface of which
exhibits encrustations equally beautiful with those of the great
Geyser. At the depth of a few feet, the pipe which is scarcely three
feet wide, becomes very irregular, yet its depth has been ascertained
to be thirty-eight feet. There is a large steam hole at a short
distance to the north-west of the little Geyser, which roars and
becomes quiescent with the operations of that spring.
On the brow of the hill, at the height of nearly two-hundred feet above
the level of the great Geyser, are several holes of burning clay,
some of which produce sulphur and the effervescence of alum; and, at
the base of the hill, on the opposite side, are not less than twenty
springs—which prove that its foundations are entirely perforated with
veins and cavities of hot water.
Such is a very brief account of a late visit to this phenomenon, which
was very interesting, for in some of the eruptions, the jets were
thrown to the height of at least a-hundred-and-fifty feet, and the
effect of sunlight on these columns of water is such as to leave an
indelible impression on the minds of those who witness it.
Story of the American Sea Serpent.
The Americans equal Mr. Jesse for story-telling. They are not
particularly nice as to data. Some of their tales are so preposterously
absurd as to puzzle us exceedingly, and we are obliged to confess that
Brother Jonathan is quizzing us. But still Jonathan is a brother, and
a warm-hearted, noble, faithful, brother too; and we must not be too
hard upon him concerning his funny stories. He sets us an example in
many things, and we Britons ought to feel that he is of our own flesh,
blood, bones, and sinews, and go the entirety of good things with him
at all times. But this is nothing to do with my story, and, therefore,
for a say about the “say sarpint,” as the Irish call him.
The Sea Serpent has been before us now for nearly thirty years. It has
been seen in every latitude, and of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes as
long as the longest yarn ever spun by a man-o’-war’s man; sometimes as
high as a purse-proud tradesman; at others its wriggle on the ocean was
fearful, and its beard—like that of our New Englanders—doubly terrible,
and what, with its length, and its height, its breadth, and its beard,
this wonderful animal has puzzled and perplexed the learned and the
unlearned.
[Illustration]
It was in the year 1817, that some “American” authorities reported that
an animal of very singular appearance had been repeatedly seen in the
Harbour of Gloucester, at Cape Anne, nearly thirty miles from Boston;
and Amos Story, of Gloucester, has deposed that he saw a strange marine
animal, like a serpent, in the Harbour of Gloucester. It was noon when
he first saw the animal, and it continued in sight for an hour and
a half. Story was sitting on the shore, about twenty rods from the
animal, whose head appeared shaped like the head of a sea-turtle, and
was raised from ten to twelve inches above the surface of the water.
At that distance it appeared larger than the head of any dog. From the
back part of the head to the next part that was visible was from three
to four feet. It moved very rapidly through the water—a mile in about
three minutes. On this day, Story did not see more than ten or twelve
feet of its body. Some days after this, he saw what he believed to be
the same animal, which then lay perfectly still, extended on the water.
He had a good telescope and continued looking at it for half-an-hour,
and it remained still and perfectly visible. He did not, however, see
its head nor tail. Its colour appeared a dark brown, and while the sun
shone upon it the reflection was bright. Story thought its body was the
size of a man’s.
Another ship-master, Solomon Allen deposed that on the 12th, 13th,
and 14th of August, 1817, he saw a strange marine animal, which he
believed to be a Serpent, in the Harbour of Gloucester. This animal
was between eighty and ninety feet in length, and about the size of a
half-barrel—apparently having joints from the head to the tail. Allen
was about one-hundred-and-fifty yards from it. The head was formed
something like a rattlesnake, but nearly as large as that of a horse.
Allen went round it in a boat several times. Its haunches appeared to
be about ten inches from the surface of the water. At times its head
was about ten feet in perpendicular height, and its mouth open.
James Ellary of Gloucester, shipmaster, also deposed that he saw the
Sea Serpent. He saw the upper part of its head, and about forty feet
of its body. It appeared to have joints about the size of a two-gallon
keg. W. H. Foster deposed to the animal being shaded in colour, and
also to the particulars above-mentioned; and further said, that as he
drew near to the place at which he was stationed to observe it, there
arose from its head a prong or spear, about twelve inches in height and
six inches in circumference, terminating in a point. Mathew Gaffrey,
of the same place, also deposed that he saw this strange “marine,”
and that its head appeared as large as a four-gallon keg, its body as
large as a barrel, and its length at least forty feet. The top of its
head was of a dark colour, the under part nearly white. He fired at it
with his gun, and thought he must have hit it. It turned towards him
immediately, and went directly under his boat, and made its appearance
at about a hundred yards from the place where it dived.
Several others deposed to these particulars, and Sewell Toppon,
master of the schooner “Laura,” said that he saw the “marine” on the
eastern point of Cape Ann, being becalmed. Its head was the size of
a _ten_-gallon cask, and that it left a great “wake” behind. Robert
Bragg said he saw the “beast,” with its head six or seven inches out
of the water. He did not see its _eyes_, but when astern of the vessel
about fifteen feet, it threw out its _tongue_, which was about two
feet in length, and the end was like a harpoon. William Sowerby also
deposed that he saw its tongue, and one eye, which appeared large and
bright, like that of an ox. Its body moved up and down, and its head
wagged from side to side. The colour of its tongue was a light brown.
Elkanah Finney also deposed at length, and amongst other things,
declared that it appeared to him like a long string of bungs. He saw
thirty or forty of its “hunches” all in a line. The head appeared about
six feet long. Its _under-jaw_ had a white stripe. It appeared to be
at least 150 feet long. It often rose, and it appeared as if fishing
for its food. It seemed to move at the rate of twenty miles an hour.
Various other persons deposed to the same particulars—one that it had
a beard, which flowed down its venerable chops like sea-weed. Another
declared solemnly that it had a kind of “swivel eye,” which followed
the boat whichever way it turned. One said, that it suddenly rose up
into the form of a “steeple,” and that upon firing at it, the ball
must have passed through the inside of the “steeple” part of his body.
One declared that he saw the end of its tail, which had a kind of tuft
or fin, about four or five feet from its “cutter-cud,” and, at last,
a large kind of serpent was actually caught at “Prospect,” which was
exhibited at Boston as the progeny of some “old serpent”—but this, on
inspection, proved to be a “whopping” conger eel.
Since these “appearances” on the American side have taken place,
we have had many accounts of the greatest of all the “marines.”
It has been frequently seen in the Atlantic, once or twice in the
South Sea—sometimes computed at three hundred feet, sometimes at
seventy—sometimes with a beard, sometimes without. The last account of
it is taken from the log-book of the “Jesse Gleaner,” in which it is
depicted as resembling in the head, a “griffin;” in the body, a hundred
sugar hogs-_heads_ linked together by a rope; and in the tail, as one
of Peter Parley’s best. Whether my young friends will ever hear or know
more of it, will be left to the future concatenation of events. Perhaps
“Old Charley” may pick it up in the Baltic, or Keet lay hold of it at
the “fish ordinary” at Billingsgate.
* * * * *
Since the above was written, we have received the following, concerning
the capture of the “beast.” It is in a letter from Charles Seabury,
master of the whale ship “Monongatiela,” of New Bedford, and states as
follows,—On the morning of the 13th of January, when in latitude 3 deg.
10 min. S., and longitude 131 deg. 50 min. W., the man on the look-out
cried “white water.” I was aloft half-an-hour before I observed
anything like white water—then I presumed it was a shoal of porpoises.
I ordered the mate to keep both eyes open, and went down, it being my
breakfast hour. Before I reached the deck, my attention was called to
the sudden cry of Annetu Vanjan, a Marquesan Islander. “Oh look! me
see! too much! no whale! too big! me ’fraid!” The native continued to
look with eagerness. I turned to leeward, and my eye rested on the
strangest creature I had ever seen in the ocean. I knew it was not a
whale. “It is a Sea Serpent!”—I exclaimed; “stand by the boats.” When
they had mustered, I said, “I do not order you to go into the boats—who
will volunteer?” Every American in the ship stepped out—we lowered—I
told the boat-steerer, James Whittermore, of Vermont, to stand up, who,
with calm intrepidity, laid hold of his harpoon; when I beckoned with
my hand, quick as thought both his weapons were buried to the socket in
the repulsive body before us; the head and tail of the monster rushed
to touch the wound; the frightfulness of the head filled the crew with
terror; he began to sound, and the line went out, in all, one thousand
fathoms. At four a.m., on the 14th inst., sixteen hours after it went
down, the line began to slack, and just before breakfast it rose; we
lanced the body repeatedly without any signs of life; at last it drew
itself up, and we pulled away, and then witnessed the terrific dying
struggles of the monster. The evolutions of the body were quick as
lightning, like the revolving of a thousand enormous black wheels,
and a sound was heard, so dead and unearthly, that a thrill of horror
ran through our veins. The convulsive effort lasted fifteen minutes,
when suddenly it ceased, turned up, and lay still. Our prey was dead!
I took off my hat, when nine terrific cheers broke from the crew. It
was a male, one hundred-and-three feet long, nineteen feet round the
neck, twenty-five feet round the shoulders, and forty-nine feet round
the largest part of the body. The head was long and flat, with ridges,
the end of the tongue was like a heart, the back black, sides brown,
under the belly yellow, with a white streak. The body was covered with
blubber, and the oil was as clear as water, and burnt like spirits of
turpentine. One of his lungs was three feet longer than the other.
[Illustration]
Something more about the Chinese.
To maintain the laws of China, and impress the people with
fear, a numerous standing army is kept up. There are at least,
five-hundred-thousand—Tartar troops—such as we should term
“regulars,”—in this country. There are also about a million of what we
should call “the militia.” For courage they are not very remarkable,
but they have the word _brave_ stitched upon the back of their jackets,
and the word _retreat_ on the front. They wear also a peculiar cap, as
seen in the engraving, and carry a matchlock. Here is a picture of a
Chinese “Brave.”
The “Tartar troops” are enrolled under eight banners, which are
attached to certain lands or estates. The cavalry are not much better
equipped than the infantry; they have neither carbines nor pistols,
but are armed exclusively with swords and sabres. The weapons of the
foot consist of bows and arrows, pikes, matchlocks, swords, baskets,
shields, and iron cannon.
[Illustration: TIGER OF WAR.]
[Illustration: ELEUTH TARTAR.]
But the most famous of all the soldiers are, what we should term “life
guards;” they are called “tigers of war,” and are the members of the
Imperial Guard. They are covered from head to foot with a striped dress
of black and yellow, to resemble the tiger. The head of these “tigers”
is also covered with a close cap, and two horns or ears stick up from
each side. They carry a shield, with a sort of Gorgon face upon it,
like that of the fabled Minerva, which is said to have turned all it
looked upon into stone.
[Illustration]
Besides these military gentlemen, the Eleuth Tartars now form a part of
the military force of the Chinese, and are regarded as the handsomest
and finest-looking men of the Empire. They retain their national dress,
as you see it in the picture. They are a numerous people, divided into
various tribes, living in the north and west of the Chinese territory.
They had, for ages, been at war with the Chinese, and a long while ago
some of these tribes eventually gained a complete victory, and settled
the family of one of their chiefs upon the throne—so that the present
emperor is not a Chinese by descent, but a Tartar, and this is one of
the causes of the “Great Rebellion” now raging in China, the object
of which is to destroy idolatry, and to drive the Tartar race from the
Empire.
The naval force of the Chinese is very numerous, but, compared with
European ships, of little service. Their war vessels are little better
than trade junks, one thousand of which would not have the least effect
upon one of our frigates. The barges and boats of the Chinese are,
however, more useful; and the waterman is an important personage. The
engraving is a representation of one. The boatmen have a peculiar song.
One person repeats the sentences, which have a meaning, and the whole
join in chorus “Hee-o-noto-hee-o,” the import of which is, “Pull away,
my boys, heartily.” Near the head of the vessel or boat is suspended a
gong, which serves to regulate the motions of the boatmen.
[Illustration: WATERMAN.]
[Illustration: WATCHMAN.]
In all the cities of China watchmen are regularly kept. The watch
is set at nine o’clock, and remains till five in the morning. The
watchman carries in his left hand a long bamboo tube, which he strikes
with a short thick stick in his right as many blows as there may be
half-hours elapsed since the watch was set. The sound of the instrument
is loud, but dull. Sometimes the bamboo, instead of being cylindrical,
is shaped like a fish, about two feet and a-half long, and six inches
in diameter. Each watchman is also furnished with a paper lanthorn,
on which is inscribed his name, and that of the division to which he
belongs.
[Illustration]
The Chinese laws are contained in the canonical books, which constitute
the laws and literature of the country. They have been compiled so as
to lay down with great exactness the various descriptions of offences,
with a suitable punishment for each. In China, the cane is the
grand instrument of punishment; and all China has been compared to a
school,—kept in awe by the rod of the master.
[Illustration]
Every city of the first, second, or third rank, has its proper courts
and judges, and when a person is charged with an offence, torture is
used to extort confession. The ordinary one, which is very acute and
painful, is a kind of engine in which the hands and feet of the culprit
are enclosed; and then, by means of a screw, compressed to such a
degree that the wrists and ancle-bones are broken and flattened, and
all the toes and fingers dislocated. Rebellion and treason are punished
by cutting the criminal into ten thousand pieces—which is literally
accomplished by the knife or sword. Murder is punished with death. For
disobedience to parents, the punishment is very severe. The criminal
is condemned to be cut into “ten thousand pieces,” and afterwards
burnt. Theft is punished by the Bastinado. In this punishment, the
offender lies with his face downwards, and the executioner, with a
cudgel, beats him severely. After he has been thus soundly beaten, the
offender arises, and, kneeling before the presiding magistrate, thanks
him for his kind correction. But bribery will soften the blows, or
it is not unfrequent for a substitute to be allowed, and many a poor
fellow, for the sake of a little money, will kneel down and receive
the punishment. The Chinese have also laws and punishments relating to
form, ceremony, and dress; the manner in which an inferior bows to a
superior; the terms of the card written to him, the mode in which it
is to be folded, the ceremonial of visiting, are all fixed by rules.
Whether a Chinese sits down or rises, whether he receives company at
home, or walks abroad, there is a rule fixed, and the cane is always
at hand to punish its violation. The Mandarins are the magistrates
in China, and here is a picture of one of them. His tunic is gray or
violet color, his trousers yellow, embroidered with gold. The Mandarins
are selected from all classes of the community, and their number is
said to amount to nearly 50,000. There are nine classes of Mandarins,
who are distinguished by the buttons in their caps. Sometimes the
Emperor confers a high and extraordinary honour on Mandarins who have
performed essential service to the state, namely—“the right of wearing
two peacock’s feathers in the cap, which is as great a mark of dignity
as the ”Garter“ of a ”Knight Companion of the Garter“ in England.”
[Illustration]
There are, in China, booksellers who keep shops as in England, but
the greater number of booksellers are hawkers, and one of these is
represented in the engraving. The books are arranged on a stall, and
boxes full of others stand beside them.
[Illustration]
The books of the vendor are usually covered with a kind of pasteboard
of a green or yellow colour. Those kept in shops are generally bound in
red brocade, adorned with flowers of gold and silver, and have their
titles in gold letters, not on their backs, but on the exterior surface
of the cover. Some works are splendidly illustrated, after the Chinese
manner, by designs in colours, and others by rude but very graphic
wood-cuts.
The paper which the Chinese use for printing, being extremely thin, is
printed only on one side. The sheets are so folded that the two open
edges go to the back when they are stitched. Thus the Chinese books
are cut in the back (not in the front like ours), and the sheets are
then held together by a silk lace, or merely a strip of paper twisted
between the fingers. The Chinese have a variety of books, and no nation
in the world can boast of such a mass of historical annals. The people
are amused with a variety of the vilest trash, and there are published
in quick succession, dramas, poems, and tales, some serious and some
comic, but none of any great merit. They have also plays, and strange
representations of various kinds, but, for the most part, of a gross or
whimsical nature. The Chinese are particularly fond of puppet shows,
which they have brought to a great degree of perfection, with various
automatons, like our “Punch and Judy.” All ranks take delight in these
amusements.
I hope in my next Annual to give you some further insight into the
manners and customs of this most interesting people.
Jack and Jill.
“Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water:—
Jack fell down
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.”
Widow M’Carthy rented four or five acres of land, in a rural part of
the county of Cork, in Ireland. She was a respectable, hard working,
cleanly, honest, upright woman; and the landlord, seeing that she
was likely to become quite as good a tenant as any one could be, and
indeed, far better than most persons in her neighbourhood, allowed
her to keep the little farm after her husband’s death. It was well
in him to do so, for she managed the land properly, paid her rent,
and every other debt, with punctuality and honour. The good widow
had two daughters, the stay and comfort of her old age, the pride
of the village, the pattern of all good and thrifty qualities to
the neighbours. Their names were Betsey and Jill. They were young,
good-looking, cheerful and industrious. Under their management the
cottage became cleanly, neat and comfortable. The pigs and poultry
were kept out of the house, in their proper places. The floors were
regularly swept and scoured; the table, though it was only a deal
table, was always so white, and clean, and sweet-looking, that
positively it looked quite pretty. A neat Dutch clock stood over the
dresser, among the shining crockery-ware; and click! click! click!
it went, so cheerfully, that even the old hoary figure of Time with
a scythe, which was painted on it, looked benignant and happy, as if
well satisfied with his continual harvest of holy and profitable hours.
Betsey, the elder of the two girls, was unfortunately lame, from an
accident she had received in her babyhood. She could not, therefore,
be so active as her sister, but she made up for it in the activity of
her mind. She was wise and thoughtful, and her mother relied upon her
much for advice and sympathy in times of difficulty. Jill, the younger,
was the pride and joy of the neighbourhood. She was here, there, and
everywhere, wherever there was work to be done. She milked the cow;
she baked the bread, she could mend the thatch, and weed the garden.
And then she had such a pretty face, such a neat little figure; her
hair was always so clean and so nicely arranged. Many lads of the
village were in love with her, and one among them was Jack Sullivan,
the son of their nearest neighbour. He had known her for a great many
years, without caring more about her than he did about other young
maidens; but one day as he was passing the widow’s front garden, he
saw Betsey leaning over the half-door of the cottage, and Jill mounted
on a ladder, mending the thatch of the roof. There was a gentle breeze
stirring, and it played and whispered about her little form very
lovingly. The small check apron round her pretty waist, waved and
fluttered about, and curled round behind, as if playing at hide-and
seek with the morning breeze, and now and then a wavy movement of the
neat stuff gown showed her well-turned ancles and little feet. The
sunlight played upon her shining hair; her face was so rosy and full of
smiles; her hands moved so nimbly at her work, and all the curves of
her young figure were so graceful, that Jack stood still a long time
to look at her. From that hour he fell in love. Jack himself was a
good-looking fellow, very good-looking indeed. He had, besides, free,
frank, good-natured ways, and was a great favourite in the village
for his generosity, and his gay and lively manners. He could play the
fiddle a little, sing a song with spirit, and dance as gaily as if all
the blood within him were a current of joy. He became now a frequent
visitor at the widow’s cottage. What he came for was soon plain enough
to the mother and to Betsey, and indeed to any one that observed; but
Jill—sly, blushing, little Jill—pretended not to know anything about
it. One day, however, she knew all about it, because Jack told her; and
oh! to see the little maiden then! It was well there was nobody by,—she
could not have borne it. She lifted up that little apron of hers, and
covered her pretty face with it, burning with blushes. Jack had put
such an important question to her, that it was quite impossible she
could answer it at once without consulting her mother; but the blushing
brow, the sparkling eyes, the trembling little hand, were almost answer
enough for him.
[Illustration]
The mother shook her head when she heard of what had passed between
Jack and her daughter. She loved him for his generosity and liveliness,
but she knew well his defects of character. Jack was not a thrifty
fellow. He loved his pleasures better than his business. His cottage
and garden were both in sad disorder. His fences, too, were broken
down; the weeds grew in his fields; and, altogether, his affairs were
in anything but a prosperous condition. Of course, the good mother
could not think of such a suitor to her thrifty little daughter, until
he altered his habits and gave some promise of becoming a steady and
industrious man. Jack was told this—and his conscience, besides,
whispered to him that he had been careless and indolent, and that it
was nothing more than right that Jill’s little hand should be denied
him till he had shown some proofs of care and frugality. But with such
a reward to encourage him and urge him on, he felt a new life at his
heart; he made a manful beginning of improvement, and probably would
have gone successfully on, but for an accident which brought sorrow
to both families, and for a time disabled Jack altogether. There had
been long drought in the summer; a drop of rain had not fallen for a
fortnight; the ponds in the neighbourhood were dried up, and the wells
gave but a very scanty supply. The best of these was at some distance
from the village at the top of a hill, with a well-worn path on one
side, but covered with grass and underwood on all the others. One day,
Jill, wanting water for her cows and for household purposes, proposed
to go up the hill to fetch some. Jack readily offered to help her. He
obtained a donkey cart, and filled it with buckets, and drove to the
foot of the hill, with Jill in company. They went up together, Jack
holding her by the hand and helping her on. When they had reached the
top and filled their pails, he proposed to go down the other side of
the hill, the distance being a little shorter. It was steeper and more
slippery it was true, but still he thought he could venture. He went
first, with a full pail in his hand, and Jill followed behind him.
They had not gone more than half-way down when Jack’s feet began to
slide over the smooth, steep ground, and down he fell on his side, and
rolled, over and over. Poor Jill screamed, leaned forward, and, in her
turn, fell and rolled down the hill behind Jack. On they went, over and
over down the hill, like a couple of cricket-balls, and nothing could
stop them till they came to the bottom. The mere rolling down hill
would not perhaps have have done them any great harm, for the ground
at that part was soft and grassy; but the worst of it was that Jill’s
pail—when it fell from her hand—struck Jack’s head, and it went bump!
bump! all the way down-hill close to him, hitting him now and then on
the ribs rather roughly. They were both picked up at the foot of the
hill, and placed, carefully, side by side in a cart, with a truss of
straw strewn over it to relieve the jolting. It was soon evident that
Jill, though a good deal frightened, was not much hurt; but Jack’s
fall was somewhat serious. His head was bleeding, and, when the Doctor
examined him, he said, that two of his ribs were broken. A day or two’s
nursing brought Jill round again, for there was nothing seriously the
matter with her; but Jack’s illness kept him to his bed some weeks.
Stars shine in the night, and so love burns with peculiar fervour in
the hours of affliction and sorrow. Jill and her mother waited upon
their patient with tenderest care. His food and his medicine were given
to him by their gentle hands; he sank into slumber at night with the
echoes of their prayers in his ears; and when he awoke in the morning,
the first eye-beams that met his own were theirs. The love in his heart
strengthened, and grew under such influences. He made all sorts of
generous resolves as to what he would do when he got well—how hard he
would work! how prudent and careful he would be! Nothing was too hard
to do or to endure, to gain such a wife as Jill.
With such excellent nursing, Jack recovered in due time, and came
out of his illness quite well and cheerful, One evening, after his
recovery, he was seated in the widow’s kitchen, talking to Jill and
Betsey, while they arranged their garden-pots of flowers in the window,
when the door opened, and Father M’Callagh, the parish priest, entered
the room, holding a letter in his hand.
“Jack!” said the Father, “I have just called upon you; but not finding
you at home, I guessed very naturally that you were here. While I was
standing at your doorway, the village postman came with this letter;
and as I knew pretty well where you were, I offered to deliver it to
you. Do not stand upon any ceremony with me, but read your letter at
once, while Mrs. M’Carthy, Betsey, and I, have a little quiet talk
together.”
Jack opened the letter, and read it aloud to Jill. It was from a
cousin of his, who had gone to America about ten years ago. He was
now a small but substantial and thriving farmer in one of the Western
States; and, as he wanted help in his farm, he had written to Jack,
offering him a free passage out and good wages. The letter stated that
the labour required would be constant and steady—now and then, perhaps,
severe—but that the reward would be sweet and sure. It also enclosed an
order, on an Irish Bank, for a small sum of money.
Jack looked at the maiden in silence. There were tears in her eyes.
Then the letter was handed to Betsey and the mother, and they both read
it; a solemn stillness came over the spirits of the family.
“What is to be done?” said Jack.
“Suppose we ask Father M’Callagh to advise us,” said Betsey.
The letter was instantly put into the good man’s hand. He looked over
it, and then advancing to where Jack and Jill sat, he took the little
hand of the maiden in one of his own, and laid the other in a friendly
manner on Jack’s shoulder.
“My advice,” said he, in a firm and cheerful voice, “is—Go! Go! by all
means.”
The young people looked up with distressed countenances, but spoke not
a word.
“Jack, my friend!” said the old man, cheerfully, “you are at heart
a good fellow; but you have some serious faults, which you are now
striving bravely to amend. You have made a capital beginning, but as
yet it is only a beginning. When we awaken to a sense of duty, we
ought to accept opportunities which put our virtue to the proof.
Inward resolutions must become outward life. Virtuous sentiments must
speak out in virtuous habits; practice must prove theory. Now, Jack,
my boy! shew a brave spirit. Accept this trial. Go to America! work!
be thrifty! Put by what you can reasonably spare; and in about a
twelvemonth, perhaps, you will be able to send for little Jill and make
her your wife.”
Jack’s countenance brightened, and so did Jill’s a little, though
her tears continued falling; but it was now the widow’s turn to be
sorrowful. The thought of her daughter’s going away to marry in a
foreign land was hard to bear; but Father M’Callagh comforted her. She
came to see that the arrangement was natural and wise; and, after some
little hesitation, she gave her consent.
On the following Sunday, the good old Father preached in the village
chapel from this text:—“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell
in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me,
and Thy right hand shall hold me.” He attempted to shew, that wherever
we go, in obedience to the voice of duty—whether upon burning sands or
freezing snows—whether in the flowery meadows or on the stormy seas—the
love, and mercy, and tenderness of heaven would hover over us still,
making our happiness fruitful, and turning our sorrows into joy. It
was a very comforting sermon for the family; and when the evening of
that Sabbath came, it was one of the sweetest and calmest they had ever
enjoyed. The stars that glittered in the skies seemed like the eyes of
angels looking down upon them; and the cool breeze that touched their
cheek and hair as it swept by, was like the kiss of an invisible
spirit, stooping down from a higher world.
Time flew rapidly on, and the day for parting came. Jill went with her
lover to the ship. She saw it leave the quay at Cork; she watched it
from the sea-shore, as with outspread sails it glided on and on. She
lingered on the beach till the shadows of evening fell, and the vessel
containing her dearest friend faded away like a speck on the horizon.
She wept a little—it was natural, she could not help it; but the tears
were not altogether bitter. The night wind swept over the sea with a
solemn sound; the waves broke upon the shore, and to the pious listener
they seemed to say—“Fear not! we roll in the hollow of His hand.”
* * * * *
Among the old lovers of little Jill was one Laurence Doheney, the
village postmaster’s son. She had never given him the slightest
encouragement; but now that Jack had gone to America, he thought there
was a chance for him, if he chose to persevere; and persevere he did,
much to Jill’s annoyance. He would sit upon the garden railings,
playing a few notes on an old cracked fiddle he had borrowed, and sing
a rude verse of a song which some one had written for him:—
“My pretty Jill!
Have you I will!
I’ll be your constant lover.
When one’s away,
The wise would say,
‘Take comfort in another.’”
Such a rude verse as this was, of course, not at all likely to please
so faithful a girl as Jill. It deeply offended her. She turned a deaf
ear and a severe countenance to all that he had to say, and his foolish
wooing was all in vain. Seeing that he could not succeed at all, and
that he did not get even so much as a smile, his love (if, indeed,
it ever was love) soured into vexation and anger. He took to teazing
her about her tumble down-hill, and made rude jests about the droll
figure she must have cut, when she came rolling over and over, like
a snow-ball, with Jack before her. He even went so far as to bring a
bell, one day, and ring it like a town-crier three times, while he
cried out—“O yes! Lost, a pair of young lady’s garters, while tumbling
down hill. Whoever will bring the same to Miss Jill McCarthy, will
receive one shilling reward.” This foolish and vexatious nonsense went
on for some time. Jill took but little notice of it; and she hoped
that, ere long, Laurence himself would grow tired of his own unkindness
and folly.
Meanwhile time flew on rapidly. The vessel which had taken Jack out to
America returned to Cork; but, strange to say, no letter had yet been
received by Jill. A sailor on board the ship, who had some relations
in the village, reported that he had seen Jack leave the ship on her
arrival, safe and sound, but that since that time he had neither heard
nor seen anything of him. This information was satisfactory, as far as
it went; but, of course, it was not enough, nor anything like enough,
for a loving heart like Jill’s. It was strange she did not hear from
him! What could be the matter? Five months—six months—seven months
passed away, but no letter. Poor Jill! she went into secret places,
and wept bitterly; she pined, lost her appetite, and grew pale. Her
mother and sister comforted her to the best of their power; but her
heart was deeply wounded, and it would not heal.
One day, when Father M’Callagh was visiting the cottage, and the
deep grief and disappointment of poor Jill was being talked over, he
suddenly fell into a deep silence, as if some thought had suddenly
struck him. Presently, turning to the chair where Jill sat, he spoke to
her,—
“My child! I have heard that Laurence Doheney, the postmaster’s son,
has been troublesome to you since Jack’s departure, and that he has
tried to get himself accepted as your suitor.”
“Yes, Father, he has annoyed me very much. Of course, I have had
nothing to say to _him_; and now I hope he will have nothing to say to
_me_.”
“Humph!” said the old Father. Then, after a long pause, he continued,
“Jill, my child, I daresay you know when the next mail is due from
America?”
“Yes,” she replied, drawing out a slip of newspaper from her pocket; “I
study such things now. Here it is! To-morrow!”
“That is at Cork, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Then, the day after to-morrow the letters ought to be delivered in
the village, if there be any. My child, you will probably see me on
that day. Meanwhile, be patient and hopeful. I dare be sworn Jack is
constant and true. I much fear that others——.” And here his countenance
grew grave and sorrowful; but he checked himself, looked smilingly
again, and bidding them all a gentle adieu, went his way.
* * * * *
On the day appointed for his again visiting the cottage, Father
M’Callagh went into the post-office of the village. Holding out his
hand to the postmaster, he began to inquire, in a friendly way, after
his health and that of his family, and begged permission to be seated
there a short time, as he was weary.
“As long as you please, Father—none more welcome!”
And then they began chatting together, the two old men, of the times
when they were young—of men and things—of joys and sorrows long since
past away. Laurence was in the room.
Presently, a horn was heard.
“Here comes the mail from Cork, father!” said Laurence, starting up,
and taking in the bag at the doorway.
“Very well,” said his father, “untie the bag, and go on sorting. I will
be ready presently.”
Father M’Callagh shifted his chair a little, so as to command a good
view of the movements of Laurence, while seeming not to notice him. He
entered into conversation again with the elder Doheney.
It was but a small packet of letters; and Laurence, who had long been
used to help his father in such matters, very quickly divided them
into their proper parcels. But there was one letter which, instead
of putting on the table with the others, he snapped up with a rapid
movement, and put into the side-pocket of his jacket.
But, quick as this was done, the watchful eye of Father M’Callagh saw
it. He rose from his seat, went up to Laurence, laid his hand upon his
shoulder, and, with a solemn voice and manner, said:—
“Laurence! Laurence! I pity you. I fear you have done a very wicked
thing. I would lead you back to honour by the gentle means of mercy.
Repent now, while there is time to do it, without public shame, or
by-and-bye Justice may seize you with a rough hand. Give me, instantly,
the letter that you have just concealed.” Laurence, pale and trembling,
produced the letter. It was addressed to Jill M’Carthy.
“I have no doubt,” said the priest, clutching the letter, “that you
have several others addressed to her in your possession. Give them all
up!”
Laurence unlocked a little drawer of his own in a corner of the office,
and, with downcast eyes, put into the old Father’s hands five or six
letters addressed to Jill. The seals had not in any instance been
broken.
“Oh, Laurence! Laurence!” said the old Father, with emotion, “is it
needful for me to say, how mean and paltry, how malicious, how unkind,
how cruel is such conduct towards any one? But towards such a girl as
Jill!—Oh, Laurence! Come! Come! I see the tears of shame and sorrow in
your eyes. You _do_ feel it.”
Yes! Laurence did feel it. He buried his face in his hands and wept.
Foolish habits and evil companionship had done him much harm, but they
had not destroyed all good. Here and there, in his neglected nature,
were some spots where the beautiful still grew, like patches of verdure
in a desert of sand. Now, the good within him awoke and stirred—the
evil sank into silence and slumbered. Shame and sorrow fell upon his
spirit, as summer rain upon withering flowers, and the true and the
beautiful revived.
Father M’Callagh promised the distressed father and the repentant son
that he would not speak of this discovery to any one in the world
but Jill. Now that a gracious repentance had begun its work, they
need not fear anything harsh or indelicate from those who knew the
circumstances. Then, with a few words of solace and encouragement, the
good old Priest shook hands with both father and son, and went away.
In a few minutes he arrived at the widow’s cottage. He asked to speak
with Jill alone, and then he told her of the discovery he had just
made; he spoke, too, of the sincere penitence of Laurence, and asked
her to forgive him. Then, putting all the letters into her hands, he
bade her adieu, and left her to go up into her little bed-chamber,
and read over their happy and loving contents, with beating heart and
tearful eyes.
One day, about a month after this incident, Jill was sitting at the
window working, when Laurence opened the garden-gate, and came forward
with a letter in his hand. It had just arrived, and he had requested
his father to let him be the bearer of it. It was the first time he
had ventured to shew himself to Jill since the affair of his dishonour
towards her. She came forward into the garden to meet him, and took the
letter from his hand. He blushed, and trembled a little as he delivered
it to her; with a faltering voice, he asked if Father M’Callagh had
told her how very sorry he was that—
“Yes—yes, Laurence! he told me all about it!” said Jill, interrupting
him. “I know you are sorry, and that you would never do so again to any
one.”
“Never! never!” said Laurence, with great emphasis. “Believe me—never!”
“Of course, you would not! therefore we will say no more about it. Now,
Laurence, please let me go and read my letter. Good bye!” and she held
out her hand so prettily, and pressed it into his so gently, yet so
warmly, and looked into his face with so much simplicity and sweetness,
that Laurence felt the tears starting to his eyes. These new touches of
tenderness and mercy strengthened his virtue, and made his heart steady
in the beautiful change upon which he had resolved.
Jill, as soon as she got to her room, opened the letter. Of course,
it was from Jack. It contained an order for £12 on an Irish Bank, and
a very earnest entreaty that she would come to America without delay,
and be his wife. It stated that he was now bailiff and manager of a
good farm, which his cousin had just bought—that he had saved a little
money, and had now a comfortable home, which only wanted Jill to make
it delightful. The £12 enclosed were for the expenses of her passage
out.
Such a letter as this could not be received but with mixed feelings.
There was joy in the prospect, but it could not be reached without much
present pain. There was a blessed meeting to look forward to, but there
was also a sorrowful separation to endure. So it is! Heaven’s beautiful
affections are the means of dividing families, as well as of drawing
them together. And so it will be, till all are “gathered together into
one fold.”
And now the hours, as they rolled on, brought near the time of another
parting—parting, the lot, sooner or later, of all meeting things in
this world below. Many of the villagers went as far as Cork, to see the
last of their dear little friend; and when the vessel left the harbour,
amidst the tears and blessings of mother, and sister, and friends,
several of them (Laurence and his father among the number) clustered
on the sea-shore, and watched it, as it glided away with her whom they
loved on board.
Sail gallantly, proud ship! Waft her gently on, ye winds! Roll, roll
ye murmuring waters! Rejoice, ye waves, and smile! for Love, the most
beautiful of all things, is now upon the sea!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Adventure with a Shark_]
The Two Middies; or, a Fearful Encounter with a Shark.
My young readers will recollect, that in my last volume I afforded them
some curious particulars regarding the “shark family;” I am now about
to relate to them a story“ concerning one, which I know to be true. It
was the year, 1835, that the fine Indiaman, the ”Rajah,“ had crossed
the line, and stood on her way to Madras. There were, on board of her,
two brothers, named Palgrave; one had the baptismal designation of
”Edwin,“ and the other’s name was ”Arthur.“ They were twin brothers,
and Arthur was only a few minutes older than Edwin.
Both these boys had been brought up together—they had the same nurse,
the same tutor, the same education, the same pocket-money. They were
the same in appearance, in countenance, in stature, and so like that
one was often mistaken for the other.
They were, however, somewhat different in character and disposition.
Edwin was gentle and retiring, Arthur was bold and resolute. Edwin
was fond of books and the pen, and of the pencil. Arthur delighted in
riding, fishing, shooting, and boating. Arthur wished to go to sea.
Edwin wanted to be a clergyman.
At last the time came for each to make a choice of a profession. Arthur
was determined to be a sailor, and his father took the requisite
means to get him entered as a “middy” on board the “Rajah,” and
everything was soon settled, and the little boy appeared, dressed in
his “uniform,” to the great joy of all his brothers and sisters, except
Edwin, who looked upon it as a sign that he was now to lose the society
of his beloved brother for a long time—perhaps for ever.
This was more than he could endure, and he therefore implored his
father, with tears in his eyes, to get him a “berth” in the same ship,
and offered to give up his idea of becoming a clergyman, and to share
all the perils of the deep, that he might not lose the companionship of
his brother.
I need not say how pure and holy fraternal affection is; nor how
pleasing it is in the sight of Him who would have all men to be
Brothers. But I may say, that the love that existed between Edwin and
Arthur has never been excelled in my experience.
The ship “Rajah” pursued her way with a fair wind and a calm sea, and
as she neared the point of her destination the weather became hotter
and hotter. At last, the Indiaman lay becalmed, the sun darting down
its heat so furiously as to make the boards of the deck shrink and
crack. All the passengers were in a “melting mood,” and the crew of the
ship in little better than a fry. The sun was indeed so hot that you
might almost cook a beef-steak on the flat of the locker.
The most rational thing to do—when a person is hot—is to devise some
means of getting one’s-self cool. And among the various devices
commonly practised to produce this effect, that of bathing is said to
be a very good one.
Many, therefore were the “bathers” that dropped over the ship’s sides
to take a “salt-water cure” for heat, and among the bathers was Edwin.
A sail had been let down with a large “bulge” in it from the main and
mizen-yard, and on this, which had about the depth of six feet of water
in its lowest part, the young middies and some of the passengers found
a very pleasant bath.
Several persons had taken their ablutions and came on deck again. But
Edwin lingered about in company with another middy, amusing himself
with various frolics in the water, when all at once the head of an
enormous shark appeared for a moment at the margin of the extended
sail. The monster turned up its mouth, shewed its treble row of
saw-like teeth, and descended rapidly. Both the youths gave a fearful
shriek, and the one nearest to the ship’s-side laid hold of a “dangling
rope,” and leaped into the vessel. Not so with Edwin. This poor youth
seemed suddenly paralyzed with fear. In a few seconds the shark
appeared again, and, making a lurch, threw himself over one part of
the sail, and nearly swept the unfortunate Edwin into the sea. The
enormous weight of the creature so slackened the ropes that held the
sail on one side that it tilted, and left Edwin clinging to the other
side in great terror, not knowing what would come next.
[Illustration]
Arthur was a witness of this dreadful state of things, and Edwin
instinctively uttered his brother’s name. In a moment, with his
dirk-knife unsheathed in his hand, Arthur was by the side of Edwin. The
soft swell of the sea gave a lurch to the ship, and, as the sail dipped
deeper into the sea, the horrid creature made a movement towards the
lads, turned his mouth upwards, and gave a snap—and so close was his
monstrous jaw to the boys, that the rope to which they clung was cut in
two, and the monster darted down with a mouthful of sail and rope in
his capacious jaws.
The sailors on board were endeavouring, with all their might, to
haul the boys into the ship; but before this could be done the shark
made another plunge above the edge of the sail, close to Edwin, who
instinctively threw himself more into the water at this moment. Arthur
made a spring—buried his long knife up to the hilt, close to the
animal’s jaw, and, quickly withdrawing it, gave him a like “dig” in his
throat, and the blood gushed out, making the sea and sail quite red.
“Bravo—bravo!” said the sailors on board, “give it him again, middy.”
Before, however, Arthur had the opportunity of so doing the shark drew
off, and was seen savagely frisking about at a few yards from the side.
Shortly after he made another attempt, and Arthur made a bold lurch at
him; but, in doing this, he over-reached himself and fell into the sea.
In an instant the shark turned upon him, but while it was in the act of
throwing up its teeth, Arthur dexterously dived, and, rising beneath
the monster, sent his knife into its most vital part.
Feeling the wound, the creature twisted downwards, while Arthur rose
to the surface—one mass of blood. The shark rose, too, but evidently
weaker, and before he could make another attack Arthur dealt another
blow at him, amid the cheers of the spectators. The shark endeavoured
to dive but was unable: made two or three convulsive twistings, and
then turned and floated, belly upwards.
As soon as the shark gave signs of being among the defunct, Arthur
sprang to his brother, and clasping him affectionately round the neck,
held on by the remnant of the sail till both were drawn on board, amid
the plaudits of the crew and passengers.
Such, young friends, is the story of the Shark and the Middies; and I
hope you will be so far instructed by it as to be ready, at all times,
to venture your life to save that of a brother. You may not be called
upon to do it by fighting with sharks of the sea; but there are “land
sharks” worse than sea sharks, in the various business matters of this
world, which it may be necessary for you to combat to save a brother’s
life, or, what is equally precious, his integrity or his honour.
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s notes:
In the text version, italics are represented by _underscores_, and bold
and black letter text by =equals= symbols.
This book contains a considerable number of unusual and inconsistent
spellings. In some cases, research indicates that a spelling that
appears incorrect in current times, was in use at the time that this
book was printed, however a good number are probably typesetting errors
or originate with the authors.
In the majority of cases, spelling has been left as printed but a small
number of errors which obscure the meaning for the reader have been
corrected.
Both uncorrected and corrected spellings are noted below.