CHAPTER XXV.

_Journey toward Venice.--Water-scenery.--The vettura.--Slow

travelling.--Fig-trees.--Ascent of the Apennines.--Night on

the mountains.--Blazing earth.--Farewell to Tuscany.--Bologna.--

Leaning towers.--Arcades.--Paintings.--Lack of education in

the people.--Bologna sausages.--Ferrara.--A deserted city.--

Empty palaces.--Whims of travellers.--Cause of decay in

these countries._

So agreeable did I find the residence at Florence, that my stay there,

which I designed should be only a fortnight, became prolonged to four

months. It was the middle of September when I left that city for

Venice, by way of Bologna. The road crosses the Apennines, and is more

or less hilly for the whole distance to the latter city. The heat of

the summer had somewhat embrowned the landscape, yet the aspect of the

country was everywhere inviting. The vineyards and olive-trees were

abundant. Groves of oak, and hills picturesquely tufted with

cypresses, clumps of chestnuts and conical firs, poplars, walnuts, and

other trees which I did not know by name, gave a perpetual variety to

the beautiful scenery along the road. There were no large streams of

water, but little rivulets here and there murmured along among the

broken hills. In water-scenery, Italy, except in the north, is very

deficient: it has nothing to be compared with the little lakes or

_ponds_ of New England, which form so beautiful and striking a

characteristic of our landscapes. The streams, moreover, have hardly

ever the clear waters and well-wooded banks of the American rivers.

The Arno, the Tiber, the Nar and the Garigliano, which I had already

seen, were turbid and muddy; the Po, which I saw afterward, was still

more so. The Clitumnus appeared to be the only clear stream in the

country, and this little brook has been famed from all antiquity for

the transparency of its waters.

Finding it impracticable to perform the journey on foot, on account of

the quantity of baggage which I had by this time collected, I was

forced to take passage in a _vettura_, or common travelling coach.

This vehicle much resembles an American stage-coach in shape, but it

is commonly in a shabby and crazy condition. The driver never changes

his horses on the journey, in consequence of which the rate of

travelling in these conveyances is none of the most expeditious. They

start with the first peep of dawn, and travel till eleven in the

forenoon, then lie by three or four hours to avoid the heat of the

day, start again in the middle of the afternoon, and continue till

sunset. This is the common mode of travelling all over Italy, and has

been so, time out of mind. They never run their horses down a steep

hill, like our Yankee stage-drivers, but lock the wheels. On a hilly

route, therefore, which is the greater part of the time, the speed

does not average more than a brisk walk. I often got out of the

carriage and walked ahead, strolled into the fields, or climbed a

fig-tree which hung over the road, and helped myself to a ripe fig.

The figs appeared to be abundant this season, and as they are a fruit

which are not preserved in this part of the country, but must be

consumed fresh, they are not valued higher in the villages than the

crab-apples of our farms. A ripe fresh fig is a delicious fruit, but

too sweet and luxurious to be relished alone. It is common to eat

bread and figs together: this is as good as bread and honey, and not

so cloying. On the journey I commonly made my dinner in this way.

The road became steeper and steeper, and at length brought us to the

top of the Apennines. On this wild and lofty spot, I found a lonely

post-house, where we were to pass the night. There were no other

houses near, and the spot looked not at all inviting. I was told,

moreover, that it had been a famous place for robbers in its day,

having long served as a rendezvous for a gang of banditti that were

the terror of the whole country. These troublesome gentry, however,

were all extirpated, and the driver assured me we should be just as

safe here as in the midst of Florence. I comforted myself with this

assurance, and saw that my pistols were in order. A little prudent

precaution is never superfluous in a place that has a bad reputation,

especially on a lonely mountain-top, where you have no good neighbors

to call in. However, we passed the night without any molestation, and

in the cool air of this elevated region I had a sound night’s sleep.

The morning dawned beautifully, showing the blue ridges of the

mountains at a distance, the shaggy woods of the neighboring steeps,

the rocky cliffs, dark dells and green swelling hills that stretched

away in the distance as we looked down from the lofty Apennine. I

could not behold this prospect without some pangs of regret: it was my

last view of ever-beautiful Tuscany. We were now about to descend the

northern slope of the Apennines, into the Roman territory. Just before

reaching the frontier, we came to the village of Pietra Mala, where we

were stopped at the custom-house: during this delay, I went to visit a

singular spot about half a mile off, known here by the name of the

_woodfire_. It is at the foot of a steep mountain, and surrounded by

cornfields. The first view I obtained of it, was that of a body of

flickering flames rising about a foot above the ground. On approaching

nearer, these flames were found to issue from ten or twelve spiracles,

and rose without the least sparkling or noise. In stormy weather,

however, I was told they made a great crackling, and rose six or eight

feet. The whole space they occupy is not more than fifteen feet in

diameter. There is no smell of sulphur, but sometimes an odor of nitre

arises from them, particularly when the ground is stirred. When the

flame is extinguished by choking up one of the spiracles, it breaks

out again in a few seconds. It is probably caused by subterranean

gases. There is a phenomena somewhat similar on the shore of lake

Erie, where a lighthouse is maintained from a source of this nature.

Still descending the slope of the Apennines, we came in sight of the

great plain of northern Italy, extending towards Milan, and bounded by

the distant Alps. This wide extent of level country is considered the

garden of Italy, in regard to fertility, though for picturesque and

variegated scenery, it will not compare with Tuscany or Naples. The

region through which we were travelling, however, continued broken and

hilly: the soil was stony and poor, and the hills so steep, that we

had frequent occasion to lock our wheels. Chestnut trees were

abundant, and none of these are ever cut down, as the inhabitants of

the hill country subsist chiefly on the fruit. They have no bread

except what is made of chestnut meal: the soil is too thin and poor to

raise grain. As we descended into the more level tracts, the

cultivation improved, and we passed some fields where wheat had been

harvested. On approaching Bologna, the land became a level plain, and

ere long, we came in sight of the leaning towers and curious antique

spires of that ancient city.

A lofty wall of brick runs round the whole city, above which the

spires, domes, and towers, rise loftily into the air, with an imposing

effect. Passing through the gate, we were struck with the antique and

venerable appearance of the place, which, though not ruinous, but on

the contrary very well preserved, has an air of old age that contrasts

strongly with the modern freshness of Florence. The streets are

furnished with arcades, supported by handsome columns. There is one

arcade, or covered portico, of stupendous dimensions, being no less

than three miles long, extending from the city wall to a church in the

neighborhood. It was erected for the purpose of affording a

comfortable walk to the churchgoers in winter, at which time, the

weather here is cold and rainy. The whims of the Italians are singular

and extravagant. They pass their lives in the want of many comforts

and conveniences without which we should think existence hardly

supportable, yet will bestow enormous sums of money upon an object

which we cannot help regarding as most frivolous and unimportant. Here

is an incredible amount of treasure lavished upon a structure, the

only use of which is to save people occasionally the use of a cloak

and umbrella.

The churches and palaces of the city I need not describe; but there

are two singular leaning towers, which attract every traveller’s

curiosity. One of them is nearly four hundred feet high, and leans

over its base a little more than three feet. This small inclination,

however, in a building of such enormous height, gives it a most

threatening aspect. I went to the top, from which I had a pleasant

view of the neighboring country, bounded by the Apennines in the

south, with the city of Modena in the west, and Ferrara in the north.

This tower was originally of the incredible and dangerous height of

four hundred and seventy-six feet; but after an earthquake in 1416,

the inhabitants began to be frightened, as well they might, and took

down about a quarter part of it. There is enough of it remaining, I

should think, to be dangerous still, especially in a country subject

to earthquakes. The Italians are not considered a courageous people,

yet it is surprising what hazards they will encounter sometimes, and

that, too, without necessity. After seeing a powder-mill on Mount

Vesuvius, it did not much surprise me to find leaning towers nodding

their lofty heads over a populous city. The other tower is only one

hundred and forty feet high, and inclines six feet and a half. The

same erroneous belief, as in the case of the tower of Pisa, prevails

with regard to these structures, namely, that they were built upright,

and leaned afterwards by the sinking of the foundations. They were all

erected in the twelfth century, the commencement of the era of modern

architecture, when the ingenuity and taste of artists ran into strange

caprices.

The reader perhaps will be surprised that I have given no description

of the splendid paintings for which this country is so celebrated.

Every large city abounds with them, and there is not even a small town

or village without some considerable objects of the kind. Pictures,

however, must be seen; they cannot be described. I can only say, that

their number is infinite, and caused me to wonder where these people

found heads to design, or hands to execute, so many beautiful works of

art. The quick and keen perception of beauty seems to be an inherent

and natural quality of the Italians, by which they are distinguished

from other nations as much as the Greeks of antiquity.

Bologna has a famous university; yet the population are, in the mass,

as ignorant as if the college were the other side of the Alps.

Education has never been extended to the middling or lower classes,

and, in a country like this, there might be a dozen seminaries of

learning in every town, while the bulk of the population could not

write their names. Popular education is not promoted by the government

at present, although during Napoleon’s reign, the foundation of a

general system of popular instruction was laid, and a strong desire to

possess the accomplishments of writing and reading was manifested by

all classes. The restoration of the papal government, however, put a

stop to this undertaking, and the peasants and mechanics plod on in

their old, ignorant, and hopeless way.

It would be unpardonable in me to leave this place without saying a

word of _sausages_, for which Bologna is as famous all over the

civilized world as our own Taunton is for alewives, Hingham for

buckets, or Boston for notions. It is a good thing for a place to have

something to boast of, as it keeps up character and ambition. The

Italian cities are remarkable for their characteristics, not only in

manner and language, but in productions. Naples bears the palm for

soap and macaroni, Florence for oil, Parma for cheese, Padua for

learning, and Bologna for sausages. It seemed to me, however, that

most of the Italians care more for sausages than for science. Under a

better government, their taste in this matter might be altered for the

better.

Leaving Bologna, the appearance of the country improved. The cottages

of the peasantry were neat and comfortable; the soil was under good

cultivation, and its fertility reminded me of the rich borders of the

Connecticut. I saw large fields of Indian corn, which ripens well

here, but does not grow so tall as in America. The kernel too is

smaller, but the meal is equal in sweetness to any I ever tasted.

Fields of hemp were abundant, growing very tall and luxuriant. At

Malalbergo, we came to a canal, being the second I had seen in Italy:

the first one connecting Pisa with Leghorn. Both are only a few miles

in length: this one unites the Po with the little stream which runs

from this place into the Adriatic. It appears to have no great amount

of navigation. A few miles farther brought us to Ferrara, a fine large

city, but almost deserted. It is regularly built, with spacious

streets and sumptuous palaces, but the streets are grass-grown, and

the palaces are lonely, without doors, windows, or furniture. Nothing

gave me more impressive sensations than to wander through the silent

solitudes of this beautiful city, where nothing is ruinous but all is

deserted. In the quarter bounding on the river were some houses

inhabited by a few mechanics, laborers and boatmen; but in all those

streets which were lined with lordly palaces and stately piles of

architecture, no living beings were to be seen except cows, quietly

feeding upon the grass which had overgrown the pavement.

I went into many of these empty palaces, which, of course, any one may

do, without invitation. The appearance corresponded with what I saw

without. Colonnades, sculptured staircases, galleries and ornamented

walls were overgrown with ivy, and other trailing plants. Moss and

green foliage decked the terraces and roofs. Great marble vases,

containing jasmines and pomegranates, stood on the terraces,

abandoned, nobody knows how long, and left to flourish in luxuriant

neglect. They had spread themselves on every side, and hung down full

of flowers over the marble cornices and balustrades. What a

spectacle!--and this not in one place or two, but all over the better

part of the city. What is the cause of this melancholy desolation? Not

pestilence, famine, war, earthquakes, storms, inundations, nor any

hostility of nature or the elements. The soil of the neighborhood is

rich, the air is pure, the sky is mild, the elements tranquil, and the

country has been long at peace. The inhabitants do not lack genius,

and require only the application of the proper means to become

intelligent and industrious. What then is the cause that this fine

city is desolate and falling to ruin? I answer, bad rulers--a

government that neglects two great things--education and industry in

the people.

Mr. Stephens, the ingenious traveller, on visiting one of the

volcanoes of Guatemala, wished he could transport it to the United

States, as he could have bought it for ten dollars, and, the fire

having gone out, he could have made his fortune by showing it for a

sight. Had I the power of removing mountains and other great tracts of

country, I should choose to bring home something better than a dead

volcano, which might come to life some day, and make my house too hot

for me. I would rather select some of the magnificent cities of the

old world, that lack inhabitants as much as we lack fine buildings.

How I longed to transport the city of Ferrara, with its empty palaces

and grass-grown streets, to the state of Massachusetts! I would soon

turn the cows out and put the inhabitants in. There is many a man in

the United States who could buy it, and the owners would willingly

sell out. Unfortunately, this cannot be done, and this fair city,

which might accommodate, most nobly, all the inhabitants of Boston,

will remain deserted, with cattle pasturing in her streets and ivy

mantling her walls, for many a year to come. Nothing but a political

renovation of the country will save it from crumbling to ruin.

[Illustration]

Gall Insects.

These are bred in an excrescence of a species of oak which grows in

Africa, and are formed by a kind of fly, which bores into the bark of

the tree, for a place in which to deposit its eggs. The sap of the

tree hardens round the egg, grows with the growth of the tree, and

becomes what we call the gall-nut, and which is used for dyeing. The

worm that is hatched within this spacious vault, lives upon the

substance of the ball, till after its change into a chrysalis and then

a fly, when it eats its way through into the air, and gains its

freedom.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs,

&c., of the Indians of

America.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE ESQUIMAUX.[14] _Personal appearance.--Houses.--Food.--

Fishing.--Females.--Dress.--Children.--Marriage and Character._

The Esquimaux are a race of savages scattered over the bleak, icy

regions in the north of America, and the large, dreary peninsula of

Greenland. They are a diminutive people, not more than five feet high,

with broad, flat faces, and noses so small, and sunk so deep that a

ruler might be laid across, from one blubber cheek to the other,

without touching it. Their hair is long and black, and their

complexion of a tawny brown. They cannot be called handsome, but their

broad faces and little twinkling eyes give them a good-humored, jolly

appearance, which is not far from bespeaking their real character.

Their dress consists of a double coat of deer-skin, with the hair both

inside and out, to which is joined a large hood which covers the head.

The breeches, also of deer-skin, reach to the knee and overlap the

boots, which are made of seal-skin. The females have their boots very

wide and deep, for the purpose of carrying their children in them;

they also serve, at times, to hide stolen goods, as the English under

Captain Parry one day discovered. An old woman, who saw their

eagerness to obtain furs, very readily sold them one of her boots, but

nothing could induce her to part with the other; suspicion was at last

excited, and the boot was taken off by force, when they found in it

two pewter spoons and a plate, which she had secretly appropriated.

The following account is taken from Parry’s Voyages.

Their winter houses are built of snow, and sometimes have several

apartments, in each of which lives a whole family. The roof is round

like a dome; a thin piece of ice serves as a window, and admits the

light like ground glass. In the middle of the room is hung a large

lamp, with which they cook all their victuals; they dare not, of

course, have a large fire, for fear of melting their roof down about

their ears. These snow huts answer very well during the long northern

winter, but when summer commences the walls and roofs melt, and

sometimes fall on the heads of the inhabitants.

The food of the Esquimaux is obtained entirely by fishing and hunting;

their implements are bows and arrows made of bone, and harpoons of

every sort and size. For nine long winter months the native is obliged

to support life by what he can obtain from the sea alone. In this

element live the huge whale, the unwieldy walrus, and the seal, the

most useful of all. In hunting these animals he will sit, hour after

hour, under a little shed of snow, waiting for his prey to rise and

take breath. Then he throws his harpoon with unerring aim, and the

animal plunges into the water to escape; but in vain. To the harpoon

is tied a long line with a bladder at the end, which floats on the

water; and this the hunter watches, for he is always sure that the

animal will rise somewhere near, to breathe. Another harpoon is then

driven into his body, and so on, until he is at length exhausted by

his wounds, and becomes an easy prey to his exulting enemy.

Whenever the news arrives at a village that a whale or walrus has been

taken, shouts of joy are raised by all, for among this generous people

such food is common to the whole. On its arrival, it is instantly cut

up; every lamp is supplied with oil; the houses are all in a blaze;

all the pots are filled with flesh, and all the women are engaged in

cooking the savory food. When the feast is ready, one man takes up a

large piece, and bites off as much as his mouth will hold; he then

passes it to the next, who does the same, and thus the process

continues until the animal is entirely consumed, or until their

stomachs will hold no more. It must be a large quantity, however, to

surfeit an Esquimaux. The mass of food which they will eat is

astonishing. One young man, named Toslooak, eats in one day enough to

have served two sailors a week. Their taste seems to us rather odd;

they turned away in disgust from all the sweet-meats, gingerbread, and

spirits which were offered them; but tallow, fat, and oil they

devoured in alarming quantities. The captain seeing one rather pretty

young woman, gave her a candle, thinking she might need its light in

the long nights of winter; when, to his utter astonishment, she began

to eat it, and would have finished the whole, tallow and wick, had not

he, fearing for her delicate health, insisted upon pulling out the

last.

For travelling on the land, or rather the snow, they use sledges drawn

by dogs. These animals are very useful to the natives, though not so

swift as the Lapland reindeer. The Esquimaux are fond of them, and

always share with them their food, whatever it may be.

The boats in which they sail are called cayaks; they are made of

birchbark or of skins stretched on a slight frame of whalebone or

wood. These are entirely covered over by boards laid across, except a

hole in the middle where the man sits and propels, with one oar, his

little vessel so swiftly that no English sailor can compete with him.

The Esquimaux women are very fond of their children, and sometimes

carry them, when very young, in their large fur hoods, carefully

wrapped in furs; in many tribes, however, they use their wide boots

for this purpose. The children repay the kindness of their parents by

their gentle and dutiful behavior; they never disobey their parents in

their slightest commands; if ever they feel inclined to be froward or

mischievous, a word or even a look is enough to bring them back to

their duty.

The little Esquimaux, nevertheless, are just as fond of play as any

other young people, of the same age; only that while an American boy

draws a cart of wood, the little northern child has a sledge of

whalebone; and for the superb baby-house of the former, the latter

builds a miniature hut of snow, and begs a lighted wick from his

mother to illuminate the little dwelling.

It must be confessed that the Esquimaux, when grown up, treat their

aged and infirm parents by no means with that regard which we might

expect from their obedient temper in childhood. They allow them to

remain neglected, ill-clothed and ill-fed, even in the midst of

plenty. There are many other unpleasing traits in their dispositions;

they are ungrateful, and never seem to think the most valuable favor

worthy even a “_thank you_.” On the other hand, they are scrupulously

honest with each other; they leave their property exposed around their

huts, without the slightest fear that any will be taken. Some English

sailors often sent presents by one to another of them, and always

found that they were faithfully delivered.

When an Esquimaux falls sick, his friends do not attempt to relieve

him by medicine or careful attendance; they merely bring in a juggler

or conjurer, who performs a few unmeaning ceremonies. If the patient

becomes worse, as is generally the case, they resort to another

expedient. All his relations and friends collect together in the room,

and hold a _crying_ meeting around him, much like an Irish wake; every

one tries to howl and weep the most vehemently, his acquaintances as

well as his nearest relations. As might be expected, the health of the

sick man is not much improved by this method of treatment.

On his death the same ceremony of crying takes place; the corpse is

then buried under the snow, where it is often dug up and eaten by the

wolves. In order to prevent this, the English sailors, when the wife

of one of their Esquimaux friends was buried, placed several large

stones upon her grave; the husband did not seem very well pleased at

this, and expressed some fear lest the weight should prove painful to

his buried spouse; but when, a short time after, one of his children

died, he absolutely refused to have it buried in that way, for he said

it was impossible for it to endure the weight of the stones.

The marriage ceremony among the Esquimaux is very simple; the young

man, having obtained the consent of the parents of his intended bride,

goes to their house and pretends to take her away by force; the female

always affects great reluctance, but at length suffers herself to be

led away, and thus the marriage is concluded.

With regard to the sciences, the Esquimaux cannot pretend to any great

advancement in that respect. From their long wanderings they have a

pretty good knowledge of the geography of much of the northern coast

of America, and several of them were able to draw maps of those parts

of the world, which the English voyagers found very useful and

accurate. In arithmetic they are miserably deficient; the most knowing

of them could not count beyond ten, even with the aid of their

fingers; and when asked for any higher numbers, they were greatly

distressed, and are always glad to get off by saying _oonooktoot_,

which may mean any number from ten to a million.

On the whole, these inhabitants of the frozen north seem to be a kind,

good-humored race, somewhat selfish, indeed, but honest and frank.

They are generally intelligent and quick-witted, and have much natural

talent for mimicry. With the benefits of a good education, much might

be made of such a people.

[14] Pronounced _Es-ke-mo_.

Anecdote of the natives of Porto Rico.

After the Spaniards had almost subdued the inhabitants of Porto Rico,

they were very anxious to find out whether their new masters were

immortal, as it was generally supposed they were. One of the caziques,

accordingly, by many acts of kindness, induced one of the young

Spaniards to visit him.

This young man at last accepted the invitation, thinking himself quite

safe. He was persuaded to let himself be carried over a river. In the

midst of it, those that bore him dropped him into the water and held

him there so long that he was drowned.

They then brought the breathless body to the shore, but could not

persuade themselves that he was dead. They called him repeatedly by

name, saying, “Salcedo, get up! it is not our fault that you fell into

the river.” They watched the corpse three days, till it began to

decay.

This was reported to the cazique, but he was so far from giving credit

to it, that he sent others to see if Salcedo did not rise when called.

At last he went to view the body himself, but this did not satisfy

him; he ordered it to be watched still longer, till it was in such a

state as to remove all doubt.

The natives now began to think that their masters were mere mortals

like themselves; the consequence of which, was a general insurrection

a short time after.

[Illustration]

Winter Sport.

Down, down the hill,

How swift I go!

Over the ice

And over the snow!

A horse or cart

I do not fear,

For past them both

My sled I steer!

Hurra! my boy!

I’m going down

While you toil up;

But never frown.

The far hill top

You soon will gain,

And then, with all

Your might and main,

You’ll dash me by,

While, full of glee,

I’ll up again

To dash by thee!

So on we glide:

Oh, life of joy!

What pleasure has

The glad school boy!

_From Parley’s Picture Book._

Clouds.

How beautiful are the clouds at morn! they look like ruby gems set

round with gold; and the lark mounts towards them, and sings as if he

were at heaven’s gate.

How bright are the clouds at midday, when high in the sky they hang,

and show their pearly whiteness in the azure sky!

At sun-set they again are beautiful, and in the far west they take all

hues and forms. Sometimes they look like towers and castles, high

thrones and lofty palaces, of topaz and of gold.

At night, when the moon shines on them, they look fair and white, and

pure; and when all is hushed and still, they seem like a flock of

little lambs asleep.

Yet what are clouds but vapors?--soon they pass away, soon they

change: now they become dark with tempest; now they swell in storm;

but then the bow of mercy is seen, and nature, in the midst of

showers, is cheered.

Life is like a cloud, fleeting and changeable: to-day it is gay and

bright, to-morrow it is dark and full of gloom; yet again the sun

shines upon it, and it sinks to its rest in peace.

What gives to the clouds their brightness and their beauty? it is the

sun that lights them, gilds them with his beams, and paints them with

his smiles.

What gives to life its glory? it is the smile of Him who formed the

clouds to water the earth with rain, and to refresh all plants and

herbs.

It is He who gives to life’s morning its bright joys; who in manhood’s

prime, exalts us and sustains; who in the storm and darkness, like the

rainbow, smiles upon us; and who, at even time, when death would draw

his curtains round us, brightens the soul with hope.

[Illustration]

Orang-Outang.

This animal possesses a countenance more nearly allied to man than

that of any other. The frame is less like the human frame than that of

the chimpanse, a large species of ape found in Africa. It is capable

of walking nearly erect, but the usual gait on the ground is like a

cripple who supports himself on his hands, and draws his body forward.

It is probable that it seldom walks on the ground in its native state,

its home seeming to be on the trees.

A young orang-outang was brought to Boston, in 1831, from Borneo, and

was exhibited in the country for nearly two years, when it died. It

had very much the appearance of an unhappy little negro, who was sick

of the world, and wished to have as little to do with its inhabitants

as possible. Another species was brought here recently, which also

died.

The orang-outang belongs to the family of apes; it has four hands,

long arms, long fingers, with a thumb on each hand; all the fingers

and the thumbs of the four hands are furnished with nails. He is

covered with a thin coat of reddish-brown hair. He lives upon fruits,

and in a wild state is fierce and formidable, being sometimes six or

seven feet tall. When tame, he appears to acquire a quiet disposition,

and has a grave, melancholy air. He is easily taught to sit in a

chair, to drink in a cup, and to perform many actions in imitation of

those around him. In the island of Borneo he grows to the size of a

man: he then appears to possess great strength, and sometimes he is

very savage.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER XIV.

The ship Czarina continued to pursue her southerly course, and soon

came in sight of Corea, a large peninsula, separated from China by the

Yellow Sea, and from the Japanese islands by the straights of Corea.

It is four hundred miles long, and one hundred and fifty broad, and

inhabited by a tall, brave and polite race, who appear to live much

after the fashion of the Chinese. The country is finely cultivated,

and though traversed by a range of mountains, many portions are very

fertile. Kingkitao, an inland town, is the capital. The king of Corea

pays a small tribute to the emperor of China, but he is in most

respects independent. The government here appears to exclude strangers

from the country with the same jealous care, as in China and Japan.

Sailing forward in a southerly direction the vessel soon came near the

Loo Choo islands, the largest of which is sixty miles long. It would

seem that these islands possess the most delightful climate in the

world. Fanned by perpetual sea-breezes, they are alike free from the

frosts of winter and the scorching heat of summer. The soil is

prolific, and the vegetation is of the most luxuriant kind.

But the people of these islands are the most interesting objects of

observation. The captain of the Czarina went ashore upon the great Loo

Choo, and Suvarrow and Alexis were permitted to accompany him. They

found the people not more than five feet high, very fat, and with a

smooth, oily skin, of a copper color. Their houses were low, and built

in the Chinese fashion. The people seemed the most cheerful and happy

creatures imaginable. They were very polite to the captain and his

party, and gave them a feast of roasted dogs, monkeys and cats.

Nothing could exceed the beauty of the country. Though it was now

winter, still the whole extent of the landscape was nearly as verdant

as spring. The high state of cultivation gave the island the

appearance of a vast garden.

Alexis and Suvarrow left this lovely island and these gentle people

with great regret, and proceeded, with the captain, to the ship. Their

course was still southward, and they soon came in sight of the large

island of Formosa, a name which signifies “fair.” It belongs to China.

The western portion of it is very fertile and inhabited by a civilized

people. The eastern part is rugged and mountainous, and is occupied by

savages, who tattoo their skins, sleep in caves on beds of leaves, and

have scarcely any clothes or furniture.

While the ship was passing by the island, the Russian merchant asked

Alexis if he had ever heard of Psalmanazar. To this the youth replied

in the negative; but expressing a desire to hear the story, the

merchant related it as follows:

“The extraordinary man, who called himself Psalmanazar, is supposed to

have been a native of France, but this is not certainly known. He

obtained an excellent education in some of the colleges of the

Jesuits; and at an early age he stole a pilgrim’s cloak from a church,

where it had been dedicated, and putting it on, travelled about as a

pilgrim, and lived upon the charity he thus obtained.

“After this, he put on another disguise, and pretended to be a native

of Japan. Not succeeding very well in his scheme, he went to another

place, and there passed himself off as a native of Formosa. In this

character he went to Liege, in Belgium, and there being met with by an

English clergyman, who was duped by his plausible story, he was

converted to Christianity, baptized, and formally admitted into the

church!

“The conversion of so able and extraordinary a man was esteemed a

great thing, and accordingly, as he went to London soon after, he

easily obtained the patronage of Compton, the bishop of London. Under

his auspices, Psalmanazar became one of the greatest objects of

interest and curiosity, especially among learned men. He lived in the

house of bishop Compton, and was greatly sought after and flattered by

persons of high rank and station. All this time, he pretended to be

very pious, but to keep up his imposition, he affected a little of the

wild man too, and fed upon raw flesh, roots and herbs.

“Things went on very well with him, and so he set to work and made up

a language, which he called the Formosan! He even translated the

church catechism into this fictitious lingo; and finally he wrote a

history of Formosa out of his own brains!--Such was the ingenuity of

his trick, and such the credulity of the public, that this quickly

passed through two editions, few or none doubting that it was all a

genuine relation of real events. But at last some inconsistencies were

detected in the history; suspicions were excited; the learned Formosan

was charged with his imposition; and being thus detected, he confessed

his guilt. He lived a number of years in London after this--and though

fully exposed, he devoted himself to writing books, and greatly

assisted in preparing a famous work entitled a ‘Universal History.’ He

professed to be penitent for his imposture, and lived in an exemplary

manner. He wrote a life of himself, in which he told the story of his

deception, and died in 1763.”

Leaving the Chinese Sea to the right, the navigators now turned to the

east, and were soon upon the bosom of that mighty sea--the Pacific

Ocean. In a few weeks they came to the Ladrones, a group of islands,

inhabited by an interesting race of people, who appeared to have made

farther advances in civilization than most of the barbarous tribes who

occupy the islands of the Pacific. When first discovered, in 1512, the

islands were quite populous, the whole number of inhabitants amounting

to forty thousand. They are now reduced to five thousand.

Leaving the Ladrones, and passing by various other groups of islands,

our voyagers at length approached the Fejee islands, which are

situated nearly in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. At one of the

largest of the group, called Paoo, the captain concluded to stop for a

short time, for the purpose of obtaining fresh water. The vessel was

accordingly brought to anchor near the land--and the captain, with two

or three of the officers, the Russian merchant, and about a dozen men,

went ashore.

Here they were met by some of the natives, who invited them, by signs,

to visit the king, at a short distance. To this the party agreed, and

were led forward about a mile, where there was a considerable village,

at the head of a small bay. As the strangers approached this place,

their attention was drawn to a considerable vessel, built in the

fashion of a canoe, coming up the bay. She had tall masts, and four

ranges of spars across them, to each of which were suspended a great

number of figures bearing a resemblance to the human shape.

The margin of the bay was soon crowded with the natives, all eagerly

awaiting the arrival of the canoe, and seemingly excited by some event

of great and animating interest. The strangers paused on the brow of a

hill near the bay, for they began to be surrounded with multitudes of

the savages. The Fejee vessel soon came to the shore, and now the

captain and his friends could easily see that the images which

decorated the spars of the savage vessel, were human bodies--the upper

tier consisting of infants--the second of larger children, the third

of women, and the fourth of men! It appeared that the king and his

warriors had been to wage battle against a neighboring island, and

these mangled bodies were the trophies of victory which they bore back

with shouts of triumph and rejoicing.

No sooner was the Fejee king informed of the visit of the Russian

captain, and his company, than he marched to his cabin, and there

awaited the strangers. Here a short interview took place, during which

the Russians observed that a crowd of warriors were gradually

surrounding them. Alarmed at this, the captain begged leave of the

swarthy prince, to withdraw, when a sudden signal was made, and the

Fejee warriors set up a wild yell, and brandished their weapons in the

air, with a fierce and threatening aspect. It was clear that an attack

was about to follow, and it was to be the onset of hundreds against

little more than a dozen men.

It was a fearful moment--and even the Russian officers seemed to quail

before the dark and lowering throng of armed men that hemmed them in

on all sides. The hope of escape appeared to be utterly vain; and by

degrees they were making up their minds to sell their lives as dearly

as they might--when an incident occurred which suddenly changed the

whole aspect of the scene. The Russian merchant had taken the

precaution, before leaving the ship, to arm himself with a brace of

pistols, which were stuck in his belt, and a dagger, which he had

swung at his side. Seeing the imminent danger which now threatened his

party--he sprang forward like a tiger, seized the king, hurled him to

the ground, and holding his pistol to his face, threatened him with

instant death. At the same time, he required him, by signs, to command

his men to depart. The king, utterly confounded at the whole

manœuvre, did as he was required; the warriors drew back, and the

Russians made a hasty retreat--leaving their savage foes to recover at

leisure from their panic. Scarcely had the party reached their boat,

when the throng of savages came roaring after them, like a foaming

tide fretted by a rocky beach.

The Russians soon gained their vessel in safety--and were glad to take

leave of the island of the Fejee king. Nor did the captain fail to

express his gratitude to the fur merchant, who had saved his life and

the lives of his companions by his prompt skill and manly daring. The

event indeed was noticed by all on board, and from that time the fur

merchant became an object of notice, and all seemed to see something

extraordinary about him.

I cannot undertake to tell all the details of the voyage of the

Czarina, in her passage homeward. My readers must be content to hear

that, after touching at various islands in the Pacific Ocean; after

doubling Cape Horn, crossing the Atlantic, and stretching far to the

north, she at length passed through the British channel, entered the

North Sea, traversed the gulf of Finland, and approached the city of

Cronstadt, a port about twenty miles from St. Petersburgh, where

vessels of war always stop, it being impossible for them to reach the

city on account of the shoals.

It was now about a year since the vessel had left Okotsk, and at least

eighteen months since Alexis had parted with his father and sister at

Tobolsk. He expected to find letters from them at St. Petersburgh; but

what mingled emotions agitated his heart as he approached the mighty

city that was now before him! What hopes and fears--what ardent

desire--and yet what apprehension lest it should all end in learning

that some fearful calamity had befallen those he loved--alternately

took possession of his heart.

In this agitation, Suvarrow participated to a considerable degree.

Although he always spoke cheeringly to Alexis, in respect to his

father and sister, he could not deny to himself, that there were

causes of uneasiness. He feared that the misfortunes which had

befallen the noble-hearted Pultova--misfortunes which alike extended

to his country and himself--had broken his heart, and, added to the

weight of years, had borne him down to the grave. This apprehension

was founded partly upon his own observation before he left Tobolsk,

and partly upon the last letters which Alexis had received from his

father and sister.

Nor was this his only source of uneasiness. A shadowy fear--a dim

suspicion of Krusenstern, the commandant of the castle at Tobolsk, on

account of his attentions to Kathinka, had sprung up in his bosom,

before he left that place, and by degrees it had grown into an active

feeling of distrust and jealousy. He knew the man to be profligate and

base, capable of carrying into execution any wickedness his heart

might suggest. Suvarrow’s mind had dwelt much upon this subject during

his long voyage; and in the absence of other occupations, he had woven

a variety of little circumstances which he had noticed in the conduct

of Krusenstern, into a consistent web of proof, sufficient to satisfy

himself that the Russian officer harbored some evil design against the

daughter of the Polish exile--and who now seemed dearer to him than

any other earthly object.

While thus Alexis and his young friend had these common sources of

uneasiness, there was still another, which affected them in no small

degree. Alexis knew the secret of the mysterious merchant, and as he

had become deeply interested in his behalf, he trembled when he

thought of the probable fate that awaited him on his arrival at St.

Petersburgh. He knew the stern and relentless character of the emperor

Nicholas in dealing with matters of state policy; and he could not

doubt that the unauthorized return from exile of so important a

personage as the Polish count Zinski, and that too in disguise and on

board a Russian ship of war, would be punished according to the bloody

code of the Czars. Impelled by his fears for the safety of one whom he

now loved as a friend, he urged the count, and almost with tears, not

to take the rash step he meditated, which was immediately to report

himself to the emperor; but, rather to seek concealment for a time; to

make his situation known to the princess Lodoiska, and trust to her

mediation in his behalf. These suggestions, though kindly received,

seemed to have little effect upon the determined purpose of the count.

While such were the feelings of Alexis, in respect to the count, those

of Suvarrow, though of a lively nature, were somewhat different. He

had not been told the real name and character of the merchant--for

Alexis had kept his friend’s counsel in good faith; but still, the

bearing of the stranger, though in general harmonizing with the part

he was playing, in a multitude of instances, and especially in the

affair of the Fejee islands, betrayed the fact that he was not what he

would seem to be. Suvarrow was not alone in remarking this--for the

captain of the ship, and the other officers had come to the same

conclusion. Suvarrow had often heard them expressing their suspicions,

and more than once he had listened to the suggestion that the seeming

Russian merchant was the Polish count Zinski.

Under these circumstances, Suvarrow had a severe struggle between his

feelings and his sense of duty. He was a Russian officer, and bound by

every tie of honor to act with fidelity to the government. Could he

let such a secret as this, in respect to the count, pass by, without

communicating his knowledge to the emperor? While he was thus debating

the question in his own mind, he was summoned to the apartment of the

captain, where he found the officers of the ship assembled, together

with Alexis and the count. The latter soon after rose, and addressed

the captain as follows:

“Before we part, my dear sir, I have an apology to make to you and

these gentlemen. It is to hear this apology that I have requested you

to meet me here. I have practised a disguise, I may almost say, an

imposition, upon you all. I am not a Russian merchant--but the

disgraced and banished Count Zinski. I have taken this step, merely to

reach St. Petersburgh. We are now approaching the city, and my object

being accomplished, it is due to you and my own character to remove

the mask under which I have sought and obtained your kindness and

courtesy. Do not fear that either your character or mine shall suffer

for this; my purpose is fixed: I shall forthwith surrender myself to

the emperor.” “Here,” said he, addressing the captain, while he held a

paper in his hand, “is a statement of my return: this I shall entrust

to Alexis Pultova, who will bear it to the emperor. As is your duty,

captain, I have to request that you will place me under a guard, that

I may remain in security on board your vessel, at Cronstadt, till the

will of his majesty is known. At the same time, my wish is, that my

real name may not be exposed. Indeed, captain and gentlemen, if it be

compatible with your sense of duty and propriety, I could wish that my

whole story might for the present be held in reserve, as a matter only

known to ourselves.”

As the count finished, the captain rose, and grasping his hand, was

about to speak--but his voice was choked, and the tears gushed down

his cheeks. In a moment, however, he recovered and said--“My dear

count, I will do as you request, for I know that this is as well my

duty, as your interest; I would not encourage false hopes--but, sir, I

am indebted to you for my life, and for the lives of many of these

friends around me. But for you, our career had ended ingloriously, at

the island of Paoo. You shall not suffer for the want of due

representation of this service rendered to us and to the country. If

it can avail, we will go down on our knees, or lay down the lives

which your gallantry purchased.”

The vessel at last approached the frowning castle of Cronstadt, and

was saluted with a discharge of cannon which shook the sea to its bed

and made even the stout ship stagger in her path. This was returned by

the vessel--and soon after she entered one of the docks provided for

the Russian fleet.

After taking an affectionate leave of the count, and other officers,

Suvarrow and Alexis set out immediately for St. Petersburgh, where

they arrived late in the evening. The latter proceeded immediately to

the place where he expected to obtain letters from Tobolsk; but judge

of his disappointment to find that none awaited him! With a heavy

heart he returned to the hotel where he had taken lodgings--but as he

was about to ascend the steps, his arms were seized by a rough, strong

hand, and turning suddenly round, he recognised the well-known

features of old Linsk!

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER XIII.

The little nation of Fredonia, was now in a happy and prosperous

condition. It is true that they had not the means of living

luxuriously, but still they possessed all that was necessary to

comfort. It must be remembered that they had no such things as axes,

saws, knives, nor any of those tools made of iron, which are so common

with us, and which are so useful in many ways. It is with iron tools

that we cut down trees for fuel, for houses, and furniture: it is with

tools of iron that we make all the machines by which we cultivate the

earth, and weave cloths of every kind. It is, therefore, by means of

iron, that we, in civilized society, obtain furniture, food and

dwellings. So important is this metal in the affairs of life, that one

of the greatest distinctions between civilized and savage nations, is

that the former possess it and know its use, while the latter are

generally destitute of it. Iron is therefore much more important than

gold or silver--for nations may possess the latter, while they are yet

barbarous. The Indians of Mexico and Peru had abundance of gold and

silver, when discovered three hundred and fifty years ago; yet they

had no iron, and therefore no good cutting tools. Accordingly, they

had no very fine or perfect manufactures.

Some circumstances occurred at Fredonia, which made the use of iron

very apparent. In building their houses, and making their furniture,

the people of the island often wished they had saws, and axes, and

planes. How much time these tools would have saved! They were obliged

to use sharp stones for cutting down trees and shaping them, as they

desired. It, therefore, often took a man a week to do a job, which he

might have performed much better in an hour, with a carpenter’s axe.

Well, after a time, as Piquet was fishing one day, he saw a piece of

timber floating in the sea at some distance. Being curious to know

what it might be, he swam out to it, a distance of near a mile, and

you may guess his surprise to find that it was a log of wood, in the

end of which was stuck a carpenter’s axe! It had evidently fallen from

the deck of some vessel; and as the axe was exceedingly rusty, it must

have been in the water for several months.

Piquet managed, with a great deal of labor, to push the log, with the

axe, to the shore. He then carried the latter to the village, and it

is not easy to tell what an excitement the event produced. “Piquet has

found an axe!”--was shouted from house to house: “an axe! an axe!” was

echoed from hill to hill. The inhabitants came running together--men,

women and children,--and there stood Piquet, holding up his trophy,

more proudly than did David the head of Goliah!

It was indeed an affair of national importance, and for two or three

days after, Piquet was called upon, again and again, to tell the story

of the axe. He grew indeed to be a hero, not only among the people,

but especially in the fancies of the children and in his own conceit.

His narrative, became more and more marvellous every time he told it,

and in the space of a couple of years, the wonderful tale of the

“Fisherman and the axe,” was at least equal to our legend of old Blue

Beard.

When the first excitement had a little subsided, the question arose,

as to who should be the owner of the axe. Some persons insisted that

it belonged to Piquet--he found it, and he was entitled to the fruits

of his good luck. Beside, he swam out a mile into the sea, and by

risking his life, and making great exertions, he brought it to the

shore. It was, therefore, due to him as a reward for his sacrifices

and exertions. On the other hand, it was maintained that it ought to

belong to the state or the nation, inasmuch as it was found upon the

waters near the island, which were said to belong to the people at

large. This question produced a good deal of discussion; but finally

it was put at rest by the governor, who decided, for the reasons

suggested, that the axe belonged to its finder.

From this time Piquet became a great man. He ground up his axe, and

such was the demand for it, that he could get a great deal more money,

or more pieces of salt, merely for the use of it, than by fishing all

day. In the space of a year he had more salt than any other man on the

island, and was in fact the richest of the whole society. But it is

curious and interesting to remark, that what seemed his good fortune,

came near proving his ruin. Finding it unnecessary to work for his

support, he grew idle, and then discontented. Some persons suggested

that as he was the richest man on the island, he ought to be the

governor. This idea having entered into his head, he set about

endeavoring to carry the scheme into effect. He gathered around him

several partisans, whom he paid liberally in salt, and pretty soon

these persons set up quite a clamor against M. Bonfils. They insisted

that the latter was despotic, haughty and aristocratic. They found

fault with all he had done: and even where his conduct admitted of no

reproach, they impugned his motives, and said he had done good only to

get honor and glory in the eyes of the people, that he might thus

rivet firmly the chains of that despotism which he exercised! They

also started a thousand false stories about him, and if one was proved

to be untrue, another was immediately invented to take its place.

M. Bonfils did not heed all this, but pursued the even tenor of his

way, devoting himself, with all the energy his great age permitted, to

the promotion of the public good. But his patriotism was not

sufficient to ensure tranquillity. Intoxicated by the flattery of his

partisans, and deceived as to the state of opinion among the people,

Piquet, at the head of his followers, took forcible possession of the

Outcast’s Cave, and thence issued a command for all the people to come

before him, and acknowledge him as their governor. This summons was so

far obeyed that in a few hours all the men of the island were gathered

at the cave, and after a while Piquet appeared, and commanded them to

acknowledge him as their governor.

This was followed by a general burst of laughter--and Piquet, stung

with shame, to find himself thus an object of ridicule, slunk back

into the cave. His partisans, finding their position to be anything

but respectable, deserted their leader, and left him alone. Piquet

remained in the cave till it was night; then creeping out, he went

straight to his hut, took the axe which had been the source of all his

trouble, and ascending a high rock on the border of the ocean, hurled

it as far as he could into the sea. The next morning he again took to

his hooks and lines, and from that day he quietly pursued the life of

a fisherman, declaring that the intoxication of riches was by no means

so pleasant as the content attending a career of humble but useful

toil.

As I am telling this story chiefly to show how necessary it is to have

some established government, and how this contributes to the happiness

of society, I cannot detail very minutely the history of individuals.

I must not forget to say, however, that Brusque was married to Emilie,

and, notwithstanding the part he had taken in the French Revolution,

he became a very kind, honest and useful man. He devoted his time to

the manufacture of salt, and was thus able to procure all the articles

produced on the island, which he needed.

François continued to pursue the life of a huntsman, and supplied the

market with goat’s flesh and wild game. He had also tamed several of

the goats, and some families were beginning to get milk from them. He

had also tamed some wild ducks and geese, and from these eggs were now

obtained.

Two years soon passed away in Fredonia, and the people were, on the

whole, prosperous and happy. Every family had a house, and sufficient

land--but now a difference began to appear between their several

situations. Some of the houses seemed constantly to grow better;

instead of looking old and shabby, they had, month by month, a more

agreeable and comfortable look. The furniture also became better; the

lands around them grew more and more productive; the gardens were not

only more fruitful, but they were stocked with a greater variety of

fruits and vegetables.

There were other estates, where a totally opposite state of things was

to be remarked. Here the houses were going to decay; they were dirty,

and ill-furnished, and the lands were but poorly tilled. All around

wore an aspect rather of poverty than thrift.

The causes of these differences were easily to be traced. Those people

who were industrious and frugal, had good houses and good farms; every

year they advanced a little, and gradually they became rich,

comfortable and happy. On the other hand, those who were idle, had

comfortless houses, poor furniture, poor farms and poor gardens.

About this period an event occurred which excited great interest in

Fredonia, and served eventually to change the prospects of the island

in no small degree. Vessels had frequently passed within sight of the

place, but never had come near enough to be hailed. But now, on a fine

summer morning, a vessel was seen under full sail, passing close to

the shore. A signal was immediately raised, and the vessel heaving to,

sent her boat ashore.

The captain, who was an Englishman, was greatly astonished at finding

such a society on the island, which was generally regarded as

uninhabited. He spent two or three days at the place, and supplied the

people with a number of articles which they particularly wanted. Among

them were a saw, hatchet, hammer, auger, several gimblets, a quantity

of nails, some knives, and other similar instruments. He furnished

them also with two or three books, and several newspapers, which were

objects of great interest; for there was nothing of the kind on the

island. But that which gave the greatest satisfaction, was about a

pint of wheat, which happened to be on board the ship, and which was

taken by the islanders for the purpose of sowing, so as to obtain the

means of making flour bread. After staying at the island a few days,

the captain departed on his voyage to China, whither he was bound.

The iron tools were put into the hands of a man who had been brought

up a carpenter, and he began to make various articles of furniture,

such as chairs, bedsteads and other things, which the Fredonians had

been obliged hitherto to do without--or if they had them, they were of

a very rude kind. The carpenter was also called upon to make doors and

windows to the houses, which before consisted only of rough openings,

fastened with a frame-work thatched with palm leaves. In this way a

great improvement in the comfort of the people speedily took place.

But that which now became the source of the greatest interest was the

building of a little vessel, which was undertaken by Brusque and

François. The latter had been brought up on the sea-shore, and was

familiar with the construction of vessels of all kinds, from the keel

to the top-gallant-mast. Brusque, by his industry and skill, had laid

up salt enough to pay the cost of the enterprise. The vessel which

they undertook to build was of about seventy tons burthen, to be

rigged schooner-fashion--that is, with two masts.

You may well believe that it was no small job to build a vessel, under

such circumstances. The want of iron, for making spikes and nails, was

the greatest difficulty, but industry and ingenuity can conquer all

obstacles. Instead of spikes, pins of hard wood were used. Tar for

filling up the seams between the boards, so as to keep out the water,

was made from fir trees found on the island; and paint was made of

yellow and red earth found on one of the hills, mixed with grease

obtained from the goats. Every obstacle was at last overcome, and in

about a year from its commencement, the vessel was launched, amid the

shouts and rejoicing of the whole nation--men, women and children.

In six months more, the vessel was rigged, and named the Hope.

François took command of her, and lifting his broad sail, woven of the

fibrous bark of the palm tree, sailed forth upon the sea, in the

presence of all the people. You may have seen a more splendid

ship--but never did one appear half so beautiful and so wonderful as

did the Hope of Fredonia, in the eyes of the admiring spectators, as

she scudded before the breeze, on the occasion we describe.

Field Teachers.

“I will now tell you of a little boy who determined to be idle:--

“‘I do hate my tasks,’ said little Robert,--‘I wish there never had

been a school in the whole world. I think the man that first thought

of a school must have been a very cruel, hardhearted man, and could

never have been a child. What is the good of sitting, and spell,

spell, spell? First, learn _this_ by heart, and then _that_; then say

the multiplication table; and then say the pence table; and then the

Latin grammar; and then the catechism; and then read; and then write;

and then cypher; and then, and then, and then----. But there is no end

to it,’ said Master Robert.

“‘But there is one good thing,--we can play truant; and so I am off

for a ramble, and am determined to be as idle as ever I can be. I am

resolved not to do anything to-day; I will do nothing but caper, and

run, and catch butterflies, and make ducks and drakes in the water,

and blow the heads off the dandelions, and kick my hat about for

sport, and roll about among the daisies. There, you stupid old

spelling-book,’ continued he, giving it a toss into a corner,--‘go and

take your rest there. If you were as tired of me, as I am of you, we

should never see each other again.’

“So saying, little Robert ran out at the garden gate, bounded over the

next meadow, leaped over hedge and ditch, up hill and down dell, till,

at last, he thought no one would follow him.

“So he leaped, and capered, and rolled on the grass. He took up many a

dandelion stalk, and blew off the winged seeds; at last he approached

a pond, and began to make ducks and drakes in the water. At this sport

he continued for some time, but at last grew tired; he then set

himself down in the warm sun. The smell of the flowers and vernal

grass quite overpowered him, and so, in a short time, he fell fast

asleep.

“No sooner had he fallen asleep than he began to dream. He dreamed

that a number of birds, and beasts, and insects, were humming and

singing about him, and that they were busied in all sorts of ways. On

a tall tree, just above him, he thought he saw a monkey swinging by

his tail to and fro, with his arms folded, and looking as if he was

half asleep. This monkey very much resembled himself.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz, went a bee, close to his ear, as he thought. ‘What

makes you so merry, Mr. Bee?’ said the little boy. The bee never

turned to look at him, but immediately dived deeply into the bell of a

flower, and licked out all the honey, and scraped up the wax; then he

came out, and dived into another flower, singing all the time. ‘What

makes you so merry, Mr. Bee?’ called out Robert, a second time.

‘Because I have got something to do,’ said the bee. ‘And pray what can

you have to do?’ the little boy thought he said to the bee. ‘Oh! a

great deal,’ said the bee:--‘I have to visit above a thousand flowers

this afternoon; I have to go to my hive, and back, a score of times; I

have honey to put in my cells, and wax to make, and a great deal to

do.’ And hum, hum, hum--bum, bum--m-m-m, z-z-z-z-z; and so the bee put

its head into another flower.

“‘But you seem so merry,’ said Robert: ‘you seem so merry, Mr. Bee.’

“‘That is because I have plenty to do:--

‘To work is my delight,

From morning until night.’

“So the bee flew away, and the little boy thought that he got up, and

walked, and walked, till he reached a wood. He came to a sunny bank,

and sat down upon it. He had not sat long, however, before he felt a

smart pinch on his leg, and leaped up in great consternation,--he

looked, and saw an ant; it appeared to him as if the ant spoke. ‘Go

away, you idle boy,’ said the ant; ‘see what mischief you have

done,--you are breaking down our city walls, and destroying our

dwellings. Why do you not work as we do?--Look at us!’

“So the little boy looked, and beheld a great number of ants, some

bringing small grains and seeds up the steep bank, some scooping out

the ground with their paws, some pushing, some pulling, some running

hither and thither, but all busy.

“‘Why, how you _do_ work?’ said Robert.

“‘Yes,’ said the ant. ‘Winter will come, you know; besides, we are

never so happy as when we are at work,--that is the greatest pleasure

we have. Our fathers worked, our mothers worked, our little ones

work,--we all work here.--There is nobody idle.’

“‘Then, if you are so fond of work, you may work by yourselves,’ said

Robert; so he walked away, and set himself down upon a little hillock,

at no great distance.

“Presently he felt the ground shake under him, and heard a slight

noise in the earth: a little animal peeped from the turf close

by.--‘Ha!’ said Robert, ‘that is a mouse.--No; it is a ----. What is

your name, pray?’

“‘My name is mole,’ said the little animal; ‘I am very busy just now,

and cannot stop to talk to you. You would oblige me, however, by

moving a little further, for I cannot do my work properly if you do

not.’

“‘Work again?’ said Robert.

“‘Yes: I have my castle to build; a great many trenches to place round

it; a number of galleries to construct, with various outlets, that I

may not be caught napping by my enemies. I have plenty to do, I assure

you; but the more I have to do, the happier I am. So, go along.’

“Robert moved off, for he began to be ashamed of himself; and, as he

passed through the trees, he felt something pass over his eyes;--it

was the long thread of a spider, which had just began to form its web.

The spider was suspended from the branch of a tree.

“‘Little boy,’ said the spider, ‘can you not find anything better to

do than to come and spoil my work?’

“‘Work again?’ said Robert.

“‘Yes,’ said the spider. ‘I should be sorry to live without work; and,

if you will stop a minute, I will show you how I make my web.’ So

saying, the spider passed his threads from bough to bough; formed it

in one place, and tied it in another;--now tightened it;--now made it

secure in its weaker parts; and, at last, gave it a shake in every

part, to see that it was firm. ‘There,’ said he, ‘that _task is done_,

and now for a fat fly for supper.’

“‘_Task?_--do not talk of tasks, I pray you,’ said Robert.

“‘It is no task to me, I can assure you,’ said the spider; ‘but, have

the goodness to stand on one side, if you please, for I see you are

not fond of work. If you won’t do any good, do not do any harm.’

“‘No,’ said Robert, ‘I came out to play.’

“‘Play, play?’ said the spider; ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

“Robert was glad to get away from the spider, and said, ‘You are an

ugly looking thing,’ and left him. He had not gone far, however,

before he saw a beautiful bird, with a twig in his bill. ‘Bird,’ said

he, ‘I want to speak with you.’ ‘I have no time,’ said the bird,--‘I

am busy,--I have my nest to build.’

“Presently a rabbit crept from the underwood, with some dried grass in

its mouth. ‘Bunny! Bunny!’ said Robert. ‘I can’t stop,’ said the

rabbit: ‘I am particularly engaged.’

“‘Well,’ thought the little boy, ‘everything seems very ill-natured;’

and so he wandered to the side of a rivulet, and began to throw

pebbles in the water; whereupon he thought a beautiful little boy,

with flowing locks, came up out of the spring, and said,--‘Why do you

disturb me, little boy?’

“‘I am only playing,’ said Robert.

“‘But I have a great deal to do,’ said the river sprite, ‘and must not

be interrupted. I have a long journey to perform; and, although I am

only a rivulet now, I shall some day be a river. I have to afford

moisture to millions of plants; drink to thousands of animals; to bear

heavy burdens; to turn mills; to grind corn; and to do a great number

of things. There are few so busy as I am;--so, go along, little boy,

to some one who has time to idle away.’

“‘Then I will go the wind,’ said Robert; ‘I have heard the wind called

the idle wind.’ ‘Stop,’ said the wind, with a violent gust just in his

face; ‘hold, if you please,--I am not so idle as you think me.’

“‘Not idle!--why, what do you do, I should like to know?’

“‘I am just going to turn a few hundred mills between this and the

seacoast, and then I have a few thousand ships to convey into port.

Besides this, I have to disperse, as I go along, a great variety of

seeds. I have also to carry the clouds from one part to the other,

that they may discharge their showers in different places; and, then,

I exercise the trees, and shrubs, and plants; I do not like to see

anything idle.’ Thus saying, the wind started off at a rapid rate.

“‘Well,’ said Robert, ‘I am quite tired of talking to all these

things, and was it not for the nice, warm, soft, sunshine, I should

really think everything was busy; but that seems as if it would be as

playful and careless as myself. How it dances and capers in the brook;

and how softly it slumbers in the pond.’

“‘Not so fast,’ said a beam of the sun, which, glancing among the

trees, stood like a spirit of light; ‘not so fast, little boy, I have

more to do than you think for; I have millions of plants to bring

forth out of the earth, fruits to ripen, seeds to perfect. I am the

least idle of anything; I go from world to world, from clime to clime:

now I am melting the ice at the poles, and now bringing to maturity

the vegetation of the torrid zone. I am never idle, even in playing on

the waters. It is true, I laugh and sparkle on the brooks and

rivulets; but this is because I am happy. You thought I was sleeping

in the lake;--at that very moment I was busily employed in bringing to

perfection a number of water plants and young fish. I am never idle;

and, to show you that I am not, I will just take the skin off your

nose.’

“So saying, the hot and mid-day sun, which had all this time been

scorching little Robert, raised a very fine blister on the bridge of

his nose. Robert felt the smart,--he leaped up,--and behold it was a

dream!

“Yes, all was a dream, except the last part of it. The sun had,

indeed, taken the skin off the little boy’s nose; but he had been

taught a lesson, which he was not soon likely to forget.

“He went home, therefore; and, as he walked onwards, came to the

conclusion, that everything had some task to accomplish,--some duty to

perform,--_something to do_. That nothing seemed to live for itself

alone; that the idle are sure to get into mischief; and that to _be

idle_ was to be unnatural. He went, therefore, to his tasks, made up

for lost time, soon mastered the Latin grammar and the multiplication

table,[15] and ever afterwards found _something to do_.--_Martin’s

Holiday Book._”

[15] There is a corollary to this lesson, which my young

readers ought not to forget, namely, that when Adam

was placed in _Paradise_, he had _something given him

to do_,--to dress the garden, and to keep it.--GEN. ii.

The Life and Character of Alexander

the Great.

Alexander, the son of Philip, succeeded at the age of twenty to the

throne of Macedon, on the death of his father, which took place three

hundred and thirty-six years before Christ.

On the night of his birth, the great temple of Diana, at Ephesus, one

of the most wonderful edifices ever erected by human skill, was burnt

to the ground by Eratostratus, who madly hoped to perpetuate his

memory by the incendiary deed.

The first warlike expedition of Alexander was against the barbarians

to the north of his kingdom. During his engagements here, a powerful

confederacy was formed against him by the Grecian states; and the

Thebans, upon a false report of his death, killed all the Macedonians

within the reach of their fury.

Alexander speedily came against their city, took it, and utterly

destroyed it: six thousand of the inhabitants were slain, and thirty

thousand were sold for slaves. This dreadful example of severity

spread the terror of his arms through all Greece, and those who had

been opposed to him were compelled to submit.

A general assembly of the states of Greece was now summoned at

Corinth. Alexander, as heir of his father, was made generalissimo

against the Persians, and he immediately commenced preparations for

the momentous expedition.

Alexander set off with an army of only thirty thousand foot, and five

thousand horse, and provisions for a single month. He crossed the

Hellespont, and marched through Asia Minor, towards Persia. Darius

Codomannus resolved to crush at once this inconsiderate youth, and met

him on the banks of the Granicus, with one hundred thousand foot, and

ten thousand horse. The Greeks swam the river, their king leading the

van, and attacking the astonished Persians, left twenty thousand dead

upon the field, and put to flight their whole army. Darius was left

almost alone in his lofty chariot; he had but just time to get on

horseback, and gallop away from the battle.

Alexander now sent home his fleet, leaving to his army the sole

alternative, that they must subdue Asia, or perish. Prosecuting their

course for some time, without resistance, the Greeks were attacked by

the Persians in a narrow valley of Cilicia, near the town of Issus.

The Persian host amounted to four hundred thousand, but their

situation was such, that only a small part could come into action, and

they were defeated with prodigious slaughter. The loss of the Persians

was one hundred and ten thousand, that of the Greeks very

inconsiderable.

After the battle of Issus, Alexander besieged Tyre, but the Tyrians

resisted him with great bravery for seven months. At length, the city

was taken by storm, and thirty thousand of its population were sold

for slaves, and two thousand were crucified upon the sea-shore, for no

other crime than that of defending the country from an invader. The

shocking cruelty of Alexander to this city, stamps him with eternal

infamy.

Incensed with the Jews for not sending supplies to his army, when

besieging Tyre, Alexander marched to Jerusalem, resolved upon its

ruin. Jaddus, the high priest, and all the other priests of the

temple, proceeded from the city to meet him, and to implore his mercy.

Alexander no sooner saw the venerable procession, than he paid the

high priest all the tokens of profound respect, and left them in

satisfaction and peace, without the least molesting the temple or the

city.

The whole of Syria had submitted to Alexander; Gaza had followed the

fate of Tyre; ten thousand of its inhabitants were sold into slavery;

and its brave defender, Belis, was dragged at the wheels of his

victor’s chariot,--an act far more disgraceful to the conqueror than

to the conquered.

The taking of Gaza opened Egypt to Alexander, and the whole country

submitted without opposition. Amidst the most incredible fatigues, he

led his army through the deserts of Lybia, to visit the temple of his

pretended father, Jupiter of Ammon. When intoxicated with the pride of

success, he listened to the base flattery of the priests; and, upon

the foolish presumption of his being the son of that Lybian god, he

received _adoration from his followers_.

Returning from Egypt, Alexander traversed Assyria, and was met at

Arbela by Darius, at the head of seven hundred thousand men. Peace, on

very advantageous terms, was offered by the Persians, but was

haughtily rejected. The Persians were defeated at Arbela, with the

loss of three hundred thousand men, and Darius fled from province to

province. At length, betrayed by Bessus, one of his own satraps, he

was cruelly murdered, and the Persian empire submitted to the

conqueror, B. C. 330.

After the battle of Arbela, Alexander marched in triumph to the cities

of Babylon, Susa, and Persepolis, where he found amazing treasures.

Excited by intemperance, and instigated by a wicked woman, he set fire

to the magnificent palaces of the Persian kings, that no one should

enjoy them but himself.

Alexander, firmly persuaded that the sovereignty of the whole

habitable globe had been decreed him, now projected the conquest of

India. He penetrated to the Ganges, defeated Porus, and would have

proceeded to the Indian Ocean, if the spirit of his army had kept pace

with his ambition; but his troops, seeing no end to their toils,

refused to proceed. Indignant that he had found an end to his

conquests, he abandoned himself to every excess of luxury and

debauchery.

Returning again to Babylon, laden with the riches and plunder of the

east, he entered that celebrated city in the greatest pomp and

magnificence. His return to it, however, was foretold by his magicians

as fatal, and their prediction was fulfilled.

Giving himself up still further to intoxication and vice of every

kind, he at last, after a fit of drunkenness, was seized with a fever,

which at intervals deprived him of his reason, and after a few days

put a period to his existence; and he died at Babylon, on the 21st of

April, in the thirty-second year of his age, after a reign of twelve

years and eight months, of the most brilliant success.

His death was so sudden and premature, that many attributed it to

poison. Antipater has been accused of administering the fatal draught,

but it was never proved against him.

In the character of Alexander we shall find little to admire. In the

early part of his career he had shown many excellent and noble traits

of character; but he met with such great and continual success in all

his undertakings, that his disposition was ruined by it. At last he

began to think himself something more than mortal, and made himself a

god.

Yet so far was Alexander from being a god, that some of his actions

were unworthy of a man. One of his worst deeds was the murder of

Clytus, an old officer, who had fought under King Philip. He had once

saved Alexander’s life in battle, and on this account he was allowed

to speak freely to him.

One night, after having become intoxicated, Alexander began to brag of

his own exploits, and he spoke more highly of them than old Clytus

thought he deserved; accordingly he told Alexander that his father,

Philip, had done much greater things than ever he had done.

The monarch was so enraged, that he snatched a spear from one of his

attendants, and gave Clytus a mortal wound; but, when he saw the old

man’s bloody corpse extended on the floor, he was seized with

horror:--he had murdered the preserver of his own life!

Alexander’s remorse did not, however, last long. He still insisted on

being a god, the son of Jupiter Ammon; and he was highly offended with

a philosopher, named Callisthenes, because he refused to worship him:

for no other crime, Callisthenes was put into an iron cage, and

tormented, till he killed himself in despair.

After Alexander’s return from India to Persia, he met with a great

misfortune,--it was the loss of his dearest friend, Hephestion, who

died of a disease which he had contracted by excessive drinking. For

three days afterwards Alexander lay prostrate on the ground, and would

take no food.

He erected a funeral pile of spices, and other precious materials, so

that it was as costly as a palace would have been. The lifeless body

of Hephestion was then placed on the summit. Alexander then set fire

to the pile, and stood mournfully looking on, while the corpse of his

friend was consumed to ashes.

It would have been well if he had taken warning by the fate of

Hephestion: but Alexander the Great was destined to owe his

destruction to the wine-cup, the bane of more heroes than one.

There was once a certain pirate, who made great havoc among the

shipping of the Mediterranean Sea. He was taken prisoner by the

Macedonian soldiers, and brought before Alexander, who asked him by

what right he committed his robberies. “I am a robber by the same

right that you are a conqueror,” was the reply: “the only difference

between us is, that I have but a few men, and can do but little

mischief, while you have a large army, and can do a great deal.”

It must be confessed, that this is the chief difference between some

conquerors and robbers.--_Treas. of Knowledge._

Varieties.

TRUTH has been thus eloquently described by a writer who lived upwards

of two hundred years ago:

“Truth is the glory of time, and the daughter of eternity; she is the

life of religion, the light of love, the grace of wit, and the crown

of wisdom; she is the brightness of honor, the blessing of reason, and

the joy of earth; she is the angel’s worship, the saint’s bliss, and

martyr’s crown; she hath a pure eye, a plain hand, a piercing wit, and

a perfect heart. Her tongue never trips, her heart never faints, her

hand never fails, and her faith never fears. She is honored in love,

and graced in constancy; in patience admired, and in charity beloved.”

* * * * *

HONEY MOON. Though this phrase is in common use among us for the first

month after marriage, yet its derivation is not commonly known. Its

origin is from a custom of the Teutones, an ancient people of Germany,

who drank mead, or metheglin, a beverage made of honey, for thirty

days after every wedding.

* * * * *

A WILD man of Oronoko, in South America, said to a priest, who was

urging him to forsake his gods, “Thou keepest thy God in thy church,

as if he were sick and needed thy care; our God is on the mountain

top, directing the storm, and guarding us in the still watches of the

night.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME IV.--No. 6.

Merry’s Adventures.

CHAPTER XXV.--(_Conclusion._)

Leaving New York with my “two friends,” as Bill called them, I

proceeded to New Jersey, and thence I travelled to Washington. I was

well received wherever I went, and though I did not get rich, still I

procured money enough to pay my expenses. Having spent some time at

Washington, and having seen the President, Mr. Jefferson, and several

other famous men, I departed, and travelled through the southern

states, and in about a year reached New Orleans.

During the expedition, I saw many new things, and acquired a good deal

of information. I also met with many curious adventures; but I cannot

stop to tell them here. Having spent several weeks at New Orleans, I

set my face northward; and proceeding along the banks of the

Mississippi, one day, as I was approaching the town of Natchez, in

descending a steep bank, I stumbled and fell, and my box was thrown

violently to the foot of the hill. The glass at the top of the box was

entirely broken out, and my travelling companions, seeing that they

could secure their liberty if they chose, gradually slid out of their

confinement, and brandishing their tongues, and rattling their tails,

they glided away into a neighboring thicket. In vain did I coax and

threaten: neither fear nor affection could stop their progress, and

thus suddenly I took leave of them forever. It might seem that a

couple of serpents were not the objects upon which the heart is likely

to fix its affection--yet I felt a sort of desolation when they were

gone, and calling to mind the friend who had bestowed them upon me,

and my helpless condition, now that they were departed, I sat down by

the road-side, and indulged myself in a hearty fit of tears.

In a short time, however, I recovered my spirits, and entered the town

of Natchez. I here took passage on board a small sloop, and in five

weeks reached St. Louis--a voyage which is now made, in steamboats, in

four or five days. Here I found myself nearly out of money--and seeing

that it was necessary to do something, I purchased a small stock of

beads and other trinkets, and set off on foot to trade with the

Indians, of which there were several tribes in that region. My

business was to exchange the goods I carried, for furs. In the first

trip, I succeeded so well as to try it again, and finally I became a

regular fur dealer, and carried on a considerable trade.

In my excursions, I met with many incidents that might be worth

telling; but I can only stop to relate one of them. On a certain

occasion I had penetrated into the Indian territory, to a considerable

distance from any white man’s settlement. Having learned something of

the Indian manners and customs, and a few words of their language, I

almost felt myself at home among them, particularly as some of the men

spoke English. It was not, therefore, a cause of any anxiety, at the

time to which I refer, that I was obliged to seek lodging in one of

their villages.

It was a beautiful summer night, and I slept alone beneath a hut of

skins. About midnight I was waked by a slight noise, and saw the dark

figure of an Indian, about to enter the hut. I started in some alarm,

but he put out his hand in token of peace, and begged that I would

listen to a request which he had to make.

He sat down by my side, and stated that he loved a dark-eyed girl of

the tribe, but that she would not return his affection. He was the

bravest of the young chiefs in battle, as he said: the swiftest of

foot in the race; the strongest in wrestling; the most successful in

hunting--and yet the maiden, Zary, refused to become his wife. In this

condition, he begged me to give him some charm by which he could

conquer the heart of the girl, and persuade her to yield to his suit.

I had, among my wares, a pair of ear-rings about three inches long,

set with glass of various colors--green, red, and yellow. These I gave

to the chief, and told him to present them to Zary. He thanked me

after his Indian fashion, and went away. I did not know the result at

the time, but I learned it at a subsequent period.

At last, the war with England broke out, and the Indians being incited

to hostilities against us, there was no farther opportunity to venture

among them. I therefore left St. Louis, and after a variety of

incidents, reached New York. Here I spent a few days, and then set off

for Salem, where I arrived without accident.

At first, the place seemed a good deal altered. Every house was in

fact precisely as I left it, three years before--but still, all seemed

on a smaller scale than I had fancied. The roads and lanes were

narrower than they had once seemed; the old tavern of the Cock and

Bull was not more than two thirds as large, and the meeting-house

seemed to me to have shrunken to one half of its former dimensions.

But my friends were still the same, at least so far as to be glad to

see me. In some few cases, I could see the effect of habitual

attendance upon the bar-room, which flourished much the same as ever.

This was manifest, by an increased slovenliness of dress; a bloating

of the face; a tottling step; an uncertain and staring look, as if the

mind wandered; and, in short, a general aspect of degradation both of

body and soul.

Raymond was perhaps a little thinner and paler than when I left him;

Matt Olmsted seemed absolutely unchanged; but as to my best

friend--Bill Keeler--alas! my heart bled to look at him. It was of an

afternoon that I reached the village, in the stage-coach. Without

making myself known at the tavern to a single individual, I walked to

Bill’s house, which was at a short distance, and standing by itself.

As I approached it, I remarked with pain, that it had a shabby,

neglected, and desolate appearance. The garden by its side was

overgrown with weeds--the fence was broken down in several places: the

gate of the little door-yard was laying flat by the road-side. All had

on the appearance of waste and neglect, as if the proprietor cared not

for the place.