I was on the point of turning back, but seeing a child at the door, I

went up and spoke to it. It looked me in the face, and I could see,

even in the soft features of infancy, the semblance of my friend. I

could not help smiling to note in a child, the features which were so

associated in my own mind with the boyish tricks, youthful frolics,

and Yankee shrewdness of the father. In a few moments, the mother came

to the door, and asked me to walk in. I did so, but she did not

recognise me for some time. When I left Salem, she was the picture of

ruddy health, and light-hearted happiness; she was now thin and pale,

and her countenance told of sorrow. Her house was ill furnished, and

had a comfortless appearance.

We went on conversing for some time; at last I enquired for her

husband, and thus she recognised me. Soon after, Bill came in. He knew

me instantly--but I thought the meeting gave him pain, rather than

pleasure. I noticed that he looked poor and shabby, and he seemed to

be oppressed with the consciousness of it. However, he soon rallied,

and went on talking in his usual way, putting a great many questions,

and much faster than I could answer them. “Where’s the box and the two

sucking doves, Bob?--Mr. Merry--I beg your pardon!--How you have

altered! Why, you’re grown up complete. Where have you been all this

time? Let me see--it’s better’n four years since you left us, aint it?

I dare say you’ve been all over the world. Did you go to China, where

they have houses made of crockery? Come, tell us all about it.”

Thus Bill rattled on, for a time, and at last I left him. The next day

at early dawn, I took my way to the mountain. It was autumn, and the

leaves had already fallen from the trees. The chilly winds sighed

through the branches of the forests that clothed the shaggy cliffs,

and seemed to speak of coming winter. The birds had fled, the insects

were hushed, the flowers had gone down to their tombs. I could not but

feel a sort of melancholy, which in some degree prepared me for the

scene which followed.

As I approached old Sarah’s cave, I saw her sitting at the door. I

went nearer and spoke to her--but she answered me not. I looked again,

and perceived that her head was leaning against the rock--her white

hair hanging loose upon her shoulders. She seemed asleep, and I spoke

again--and again. I took hold of her arm to awake her--but she awoke

no more. Alone--with no friend at her side--no one to hear her parting

words, no one to say a last prayer--she had departed, and doubtless

her spirit had gone to a better world.

I returned to the village and told what I had seen. Some of the

inhabitants went to the mountain with me, and we buried the hermitess

near the cave which she had chosen as her home. If the reader should

ever be passing through the little town of Salem, let him obtain a

guide to the mountain, and if he cannot show him the exact site of old

Sarah’s grave, he will still point out the ruins of the cave, and the

shelving rock, beneath which it was built.

After remaining a few months at Salem, finding it necessary to engage

in some business in order to obtain the means of living, I again went

to New York. But business of every kind was greatly depressed, and

finding nothing to do, I turned my attention to the seat of war, along

the line that divides the United States from Canada. Setting out on

foot, I soon made my way to Fort Niagara, and afterwards to Cleveland,

on the southern border of Lake Erie.

About this time, a company of riflemen was raised, chiefly to operate

against the Indians, who were very troublesome along the borders of

the lake. In this I enlisted, and we were soon marched into the

quarter where our services were needed. Here we joined a small

detachment of American troops, and set out with them to march

northward to join the army of General Winchester, then in the vicinity

of the river Raizin.

Our route lay through a country consisting alternately of prairies and

forests; and as we were passing through one of the latter, we were

suddenly attacked by a party of Indians. A smart engagement followed,

and several of our party were killed. I was myself wounded in the

knee, by a bullet, and falling to the earth, fainted from loss of

blood and the anguish of the wound. When I recovered my senses, I was

alone, except that one of my dead companions was near me. I attempted

to rise, but fell again to the earth.

At this moment, I saw a tall Indian peering through the woods. He saw

me, and with some caution came to the spot. He lifted his

scalping-knife over my head, and as my senses faded away, I supposed

that my last hour had come.

It was long before I was conscious of existence. When my reason

returned, I was on a straw bed in an English blockhouse, where I had

been taken by the Indian who found me after I was wounded. It was the

young chief whom I had supplied with a charm, some years before, by

which, as he told me, he was able to win the heart of the beautiful

Zary. As he was about to take my scalp, he recognised me, and with a

heart full of gratitude, took me to the fort, and caused me to be

attended with the utmost care. These things I learned by degrees, for

it was several weeks before I was able to listen to the whole story.

When I came fully to myself, I found what I had not before known, that

the surgeon of the fort had amputated my leg, as the only means of

saving my life. My recovery was slow, and when at last I was able to

rise from my bed, it was with the sad consciousness that I was a

cripple for the remainder of my days.

Months passed away, and I was again at Salem. There still swung the

sign of the Cock and Bull, and there still flourished the tavern. It

had lost, indeed, its former character; for the greater part of the

travel had been directed from this route, and instead of being the

local point for numerous lines of stages, it was now the stopping

place of only a tri-weekly stage. But the bar-room was as well filled

as ever; and when I returned, I found nearly the same set of persons

there who had been accustomed to visit it before. A few indeed were

missing; and, on enquiry, I learned that they had all gone down to

their graves. Their place was however occupied by others, who bore the

same general aspect.

The tavern-keeper who succeeded my uncle, followed his example, and

shared his fate. He drank liberally, was called a clever fellow, and

died early. His successor, so far as I could judge, was walking in

their footsteps. Thus flourished the Cock and Bull. My readers may

call it a sad place, but no one thought so then. It was esteemed a

good tavern, and there were none to remark its deadly influence. It is

true that it was a place where men went to get poison, which took away

their reason, brutified their souls, and destroyed their bodies. It

was a school where vice and crime were taught; a place which converted

many a kind husband and good father into a ruthless savage--and sent

down many a noble form to a premature grave. Yet in these days such

things were deemed matters of course. Let us be thankful that the

deadly influence of the tavern and the grog-shop is now understood.

But poor Bill Keeler--how shall I tell his story! Alas, he too was the

victim of the village tavern! He was naturally a kind-hearted,

generous fellow--quick-witted, active and ingenious. If any one had

met him on the highway, and struck him to the earth, and taken his

life, he would have been called a murderer. But a tavern-keeper could

not only take his life, but degrade his body and soul, and it was a

very respectable business! So it was once--thank Heaven it is so no

more!

I have not the heart to tell the details of my poor friend’s downward

steps in the path of ruin. It must be sufficient to say that when I

returned to Salem, I found his widow with a large family, struggling

against poverty, but with cheerfulness and success. It was for some

time a part of the care, as well as the pleasure of my life, to do

something for the education of these children. In this occupation I

forgot my own sorrows, and I became contented, I may almost say,

happy. It is a curious fact that cripples are generally cheerful, and

I really believe, that, in spite of what may seem the frown of

fortune, their lot is generally brighter than that of the average of

mankind. I can at least say, that, though I have seen what is called

hard luck in life, it has generally been the result of my own weakness

or folly. At all events, I hope my story will show my young readers

how many evils flow from the neglect of early advantages; and that a

man with a wooden leg, may still be

MERRY.

[Illustration: _Hualpa discovering the mine._]

Discovery of the Mines of Potosi.

There are many silver mines in Potosi. They were first discovered by

an Indian called Hualpa, who was scampering up the side of a mountain,

after some wild animal. Finding that it had jumped up a steep place

quicker than he could, and determining to follow it, he laid hold of a

branch of a shrub, to assist him in climbing. But instead of assisting

him, it broke in his hand, or rather it was torn up, root and all, out

of the earth. He was, however, repaid for his disappointment, by the

sight of something bright in the hole which the plant had come from.

He soon discovered this to be a lump of silver, and he found several

small bits sticking about the roots. These he picked up carefully, and

home he went with great joy. Right glad was he to have found such a

treasure.

He returned to the mine whenever he was in want of money; and

by-and-by he became so much better in his circumstances, that his

neighbors began to wonder at it. So at last he told one of his friends

about his discovery, and shewed him the place where the silver was to

be found. They went on for some time very peaceably, but at length a

disagreement arose, because Hualpa would not tell how he purified the

silver. The Indian was so angry at this, that he went and told the

whole story to a Spaniard. The mine being once found out, the

Spaniards soon took possession of the whole, and the poor Indians got

no more of the silver. This was in the year 1545.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER XV.

In a state of extreme agitation, Alexis hurried Linsk into his room,

locked the door, then turning round upon him, said to him, almost with

fierceness, “Tell me, Linsk--tell me--are they well?”

“Who do you mean?” said the old fur-hunter--scarcely knowing whether

Alexis was not out of his head.

“Tell me, instantly,” said Alexis, “is he alive?”

“Is who alive?” said Linsk.

“My father--my father,” said Alexis, bursting into tears, from

apprehensions suggested by the hesitation of Linsk.

“I hope he is,” said Linsk, a good deal affected; “I hope he is alive,

and well.”

“And Kathinka--is she well?”

“I hope so,” said Linsk.

“My dear friend--do not torment me thus; see, I am calm! Tell me the

whole truth--I will hear it all--I believe I can bear it. If they are

dead, let me know it--anything is better than suspense.”

“Well, now that’s right, be calm and I will tell it all--but you must

give me time. In telling a long story, I must manage it just as a

crane does an eel--I must swallow the head first, and then go to the

tail. If it gets cross-ways, it won’t go down at all, you know.”

“Go on--go on!”

“Well--now you must know that four months ago I left Tobolsk to come

here and sell my furs. As I was coming away, your sister

Kathinka----.”

“O, tell me, Linsk--tell me, for heaven’s sake, is my sister well?”

“Patience, boy--patience. I hope she is well--let me go on. Your

sister Kathinka, as I was coming away, gave me the roll of furs you

had sent her, and requested me to seek out the princess Lodoiska, and

see that they were safely placed in her hands.

“All this I promised faithfully to do, and departed. When I reached

this city, I sought out the princess, and gave her the parcel. There

was something in it from count Zinski, whom we saw in the cave of

Siberia, and the princess almost went mad about it; she told me to go

right back to Siberia, and find the hermit and bring him here, and she

would give me a thousand dollars! I should have taken her offer, but

that I saw the count in Okotsk, in the disguise of a fur merchant, and

doubted if I should be able to find him.”

“But my father--my sister?”

“All in due time, master Alexis. When I left Tobolsk, your father was

very poorly, and Kathinka used to shed a great many tears about it. At

last, Col. Krusenstern, who had seemed to be very kind, told your

father that he had got the consent of the Emperor that he and Kathinka

should leave Siberia, and return to Poland. This put new life into the

old gentleman, and he set off with Kathinka for St. Petersburgh. They

had money enough, for the colonel provided everything.

“Well, when they got to St. Petersburgh, Krusenstern was there. He

immediately caused information to be lodged at one of the police

offices, that your father had fled from Tobolsk and was in the city.”

“The villain--the villain!” said Alexis, springing to his feet, and

unable to contain himself longer.

“Be quiet be quiet,” said Linsk; “you must command yourself. Your

father was arrested and hurried to prison, with poor Kathinka. There

was no one to appear in their behalf, for Krusenstern kept the matter

very quiet. At last I heard what was going on. With the greatest

difficulty I gained admittance to the prison. I have heard about

angels, master Alexis, but I never saw one till then. Your sister was

pale as death, but there was a sweet sunshine upon her face, that

seemed to cast a gleam of light through the dungeon. She was sitting

by your father, and telling him some pleasant tale, for I saw the old

man smile--though the place was very dim.”

Alexis wrung his hands and groaned in an agony of impatience--but he

still commanded himself so as to allow Linsk to proceed.

“Well--they were delighted to see me; and your sister, taking me

apart, told me to go to the princess Lodoiska, and take to her a ring,

and tell her that Pultova of Warsaw and his daughter were in prison,

and to beg her immediate aid. I went to find the princess immediately,

but she was gone to Poland. In the mean time, your father was tried

and condemned. In this state of things, Krusenstern, who was in love

with your sister, told her that if his love could be returned, he

would save her father. She spurned him as if he had been a serpent,

and this turned his heart to gall. Now he seems anxious that your

father should die, and the fatal day is fixed for a week from

to-morrow.”

Alexis seemed for a few moments in a state of mind which threatened to

upset his reason: but soon recovering himself, his step became firm,

and his countenance decided. “Take me,” said he, “to the prison,

Linsk: I want to see my father and sister without delay.” They went to

the place, but found that they could not be admitted. What now could

be done? “I will go to the emperor,” said Alexis--“I will appeal to

him.”

At this moment the message committed to him by count Zinski, came into

his mind. Proceeding to the hotel, he made the most rapid preparations

in his power, for proceeding to the palace. This, however, was a work

of several hours. At last he set out. Dismounting from the carriage at

the gate of the palace, he entered, and as he was crossing the court,

a coach with a lady was passing by. At this moment, the horses took

fright at some object, and rearing fearfully for a moment, set forward

at a full run. They swept quite round the circular court with

desperate fury, and were now approaching Alexis.

Springing suddenly upon them, he fortunately seized the bridle of one

of the horses, and by his vigorous arm, arrested the progress of the

furious animals. While he held them, the driver descended from his

box, opened the door of the coach, and the lady, almost fainting from

fright, sprung forth upon the ground. Alexis now approached the lady,

and was about to offer to conduct her across the court to the palace,

when some of the servants, who had witnessed the scene we have

described, came up, and gave their assistance. As the lady was moving

away, she spoke to Alexis, and asked his name. “Alexis Pultova,” said

he.

“Pultova? Pultova?” said the lady, “Alexis Pultova, of Warsaw?”

“Once of Warsaw, madam, but now of Tobolsk.”

“Come, young gentleman,” said the lady, seeming at once to have

recovered from her fright, “you must come with me.” Accordingly, she

took the arm of Alexis, and they entered the palace. After passing

through several halls and galleries, they came to a small room, which

the lady entered and Alexis followed.

It is unnecessary to give the details of the interview. The lady was

the princess Lodoiska, who had just returned from Poland. The story of

count Zinski was soon told, as well as that of the father and sister

of Alexis. The princess seemed at first overwhelmed with the double

calamity which seemed to fall like shocks of thunder upon her ear. She

saw at once the danger to which Zinski, whom she still loved with

devoted attachment, had exposed himself by his rash return: and she

also felt the extreme difficulty of controverting the artful and

villanous scheme of the wicked Krusenstern, in respect to Pultova and

his daughter.

She begged Alexis to delay his interview with the emperor a single

day, and promised her utmost efforts in behalf of all those in whom

Alexis felt so deeply interested. When he was gone, she went straight

to Nicholas, and told him the story of the count, as she had heard it

from Alexis. She then told frankly her feelings, and stated the

circumstances of their former acquaintance, which have already been

detailed to the reader. She then threw herself upon her knees, and

begged for the life and liberty of her lover.

We need not say that it was a touching plea--but the emperor seemed

unmoved, and positively refused to grant the request. He insisted that

the count’s crime was one of the highest nature, and it was

indispensable that he should receive a signal punishment. “His fate is

sealed,” said Nicholas, firmly, “and it shall be executed to-morrow. I

hope, fair lady, if you do not approve my mercy, you will at least

acknowledge my justice.”

Baffled and broken-hearted, the princess left the stern monarch, and

sought her room. On the morrow, Zinski was taken to the castle of St.

Petersburgh, and preparations for his execution seemed to be

immediately set on foot. In vain was the petition of Lodoiska: in vain

the representations and the prayers of the captain of the Czarina.

When Alexis came, and delivered the message of Zinski, Nicholas seemed

to feel a touch of emotion; but it appeared to pass immediately away.

About four o’clock in the afternoon of the day fixed for the count’s

execution, there was a heavy sound of musketry in the court of the

castle, then a dead silence, and finally a gate was opened, and a

coach, briskly drawn, issued forth, wending its way to the palace of

the emperor. A man of a noble form, and still youthful, issued from

the coach, and was conducted to the audience room of the Czar.

There stood Nicholas--a man of great height, and vast breadth of

shoulder, as if he had been made as the very model of strength: at the

same time, his countenance, lighted up by a full blue eye, expressed,

amid a lofty and somewhat stern look, an aspect almost of gentleness.

By his side was the princess Lodoiska.

The stranger entered the hall, and proceeding toward the emperor, was

about to kneel. “Nay, count Zinski,” said his majesty, “we will not

have that ceremony to-day. You have been shot, and that is enough. I

owe you my life, count, and I am glad of being able to testify my

gratitude. I sentenced you to Siberia, expecting that you would

petition for reprieve; but you were too proud. I have long mourned

over your stubbornness. Your return has given me pleasure, though I

could have wished that it had been in some other way. I could not

overlook your crime, so I ordered you to be shot--but with blank

cartridges. And now, count, what can I do for you?”

“One thing, sire, and but one.”

“What is it?--you shall have your wish.”

“The restoration of Pultova and his family.”

“It cannot be--it cannot be! The rebel has just returned from Tobolsk,

like yourself.”

“Then, sire, let him be like me--forgiven.”

“You are ready with your wit, count--but you shall have your way. I

will give immediate orders for the liberation of Pultova; and he, as

well as yourself, shall be restored to your estates at Warsaw.”

[Illustration: _Shooting wild geese._]

Wild Geese.

The passage of wild geese to the north commences with the breaking up

of the ice; their first appearance in Canada and on the shores of

Hudson’s Bay, varying with the forwardness of their spring, from the

middle of April to the latter end of May. Their flight is heavy and

laborious, but moderately swift, in a straight line when their number

is but few, but more frequently in two lines meeting in a point in

front. The van is said to be always led by an old gander, in whose

wake the others instinctively follow. But should his sagacity fail in

discovering the land-marks by which they usually steer, as something

happens in foggy weather, the whole flock appear in the greatest

distress, and fly about in an irregular manner, making a great clamor.

In their flights, they cross indiscriminately over land and water,

differing in this respect from several other geese, which prefer

making a circuit by water to traversing the land. They also pass far

inland, instead of confining their course to the neighborhood of the

sea.

So important is the arrival of geese to the inhabitants of these

northern regions, that the month in which they first make their

appearance is termed by the Indians the _goose moon_. In fact, not

only the Indians, but the English settlers also depend greatly upon

these birds for their subsistence, and many thousands of them are

annually killed, a large proportion of which are salted and barrelled

for winter consumption. Many too that are killed on their return,

after the commencement of the frost, are suffered to freeze, and are

thus kept as fresh provisions for several months.

Travels, Adventures and Experiences

of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER XXVI.

_The plain of Lombardy--Inundations of the Po--Padua--First

prospect of Venice--Arrival at the city--Description

of Venice--Character of the Venetians--Contrast of

the Italians with the Americans--Journey to Milan and

Turin--The plain of Marengo--Genoa--Leghorn--Return

to Boston--General observations on travelling in

Italy--Conclusion._

The remainder of our journey to Venice was through a region which

exhibited a remarkable contrast to that which we had recently

traversed. No mountains nor even hills diversified the face of the

country. The whole extent was an immense uniform horizon. We were now

in the great plain of Lombardy through which the Po rolls his waters

into the Adriatic. For many miles beyond Ferrara the soil was marshy,

and instead of fences, there were broad ditches covered with water

lilies, which served to keep the cows and pigs from straying into the

wrong meadows. These were the first swine that I had seen north of the

Pontine marshes; and they were poor specimens of the piggish race,

lean, scraggy and weak. Wooden barns and stables--another rarity--also

struck my sight here. As we proceeded, the aspect of the country

became more and more dreary and monotonous. No villages nor even

farm-houses were to be seen. Sheds and fences for cattle were all the

structures that relieved the universal flatness of the plain. The road

became soft and spongy, so that the sound of the wheels and the

horses’ feet could no longer be heard. The dikes which extended as far

as the eye could reach, like a long green rampart, showed that the

country was subject to inundations. In fact, the Po often overflows

its banks, and floods whole miles of the neighboring country. In many

parts of this alluvial tract are fields of rice, but the cultivation

of this article is allowed only to a limited extent, on account of the

unwholesome air which the rice plantations are supposed to generate.

There were no trees except poplars and willows in long lines on the

borders of the ditches: and the most abundant of all living animals

seemed to be the frog, which kept up an incessant croaking as we

passed.

The sight of the masts of vessels gliding along at a distance beyond

an immense line of green wall, apprized us that we were approaching

the Po, though we could nowhere discern the current of the river. When

we came to that celebrated stream, we found a channel, three quarters

of a mile broad, confined on both sides by artificial banks which rise

high over the neighboring plains. The waters of the Po are muddy and

turbid like the Mississippi, and every three years a great inundation

happens in spite of the dikes. On this account, every house is

provided with boats, and at the first fall of the heavy rains, which

precede the rising of the river, the inhabitants embark with all their

goods, so that commonly little damage is caused except to their

dwellings, which are of no great value. The river brings down immense

quantities of mud, which are deposited at the bottom here, so that the

bed of the stream is continually rising.

Crossing the Po by a bridge, we entered the Austrian territory, and

submitted to the usual examination from the custom-house officers,

after which we were permitted to proceed. The appearance of the

country somewhat improved, but still continued equally flat and

unvaried in surface. We passed through Rovigo, a decaying and

unhealthy town, and travelled over a sandy district to the Adige,

which we crossed by a ferry. Here were a number of floating mills

moored in the stream.

Beyond the Adige, the country becomes hilly, and is diversified with

pine and cypress trees. A more cheering prospect appeared in the sight

of several neat little villages, full of people, which we were glad to

behold, after the journey across the dreary and desolate plain behind

us. Still more welcome was the sight of the city of Padua, where we

arrived at sunset, and put up for the night.

The streets of Padua are lined with long arcades; it has some pleasant

green gardens; the walls of the city are grass-grown, and in taking a

walk on the top, I could espy the Alps with their snowy summits away

in the north. The general appearance of the city is old fashioned and

rusty, and an air of quiet repose reigns in every part. There is a

queer-looking old building, which the inhabitants show to travellers,

as Livy’s house. I should have wondered if they had not done this,

even though the whole city had been levelled to the foundation a dozen

times since the day of the great historian. We made only a short stay

in Padua, and hurried onward to Venice. A few hours’ travel brought us

within sight of the Adriatic, and I beheld the towers of that

wonderful city rising out of the waves “as by the stroke of the

enchanter’s wand.” It is hardly possible to imagine a more singular

spectacle: a great city appears to be floating on the water, and you

remain in doubt whether the whole is not an optical illusion.

Embarking in a steamboat, we crossed the lagoon or wide expanse of

water which separates the city from the main land. No one has heard of

Venice, without forming in his imagination a very distinct and vivid

picture of that singular place. Many celebrated cities disappoint

expectations, but the preconceptions of Venice are never contradicted

or dispelled by the actual view. In a few particulars, the previous

notions of the place are not realized, but the general idea is fully

verified; and there is besides so much that is strange, unexpected,

and magnificent, that the grand impression of the scene is stronger

than anticipation. We expect to find it a strange place, and so it

proves. The sensation of strangeness, too, remains a long while on the

traveller: I have known persons who have lived there for more than a

year without getting rid of the feeling of novelty which impressed

them on their first arrival. Venice may be characterised as a dreamy

place, where a man feels habitually in a sort of transition state

between the world he formerly knew, and another one.

On approaching other cities, you hear sounds of life and population,

the rattling of wheels, the tramp of footsteps, the cries of the

streets. No such sounds here greet the ear. Venice has neither horses,

carriages, nor streets. We shot into a canal between two rows of lofty

houses; and though I was prepared by previous descriptions for these

long lanes of water, yet the reality of sailing through a city,

turning corners and passing under bridges, gave me sensations which I

find it impossible to describe. After threading what appeared to me an

inextricable maze of these narrow passages, we issued at length into

the Grand Canal, which, to compare water with land, may be called the

Broadway of Venice. It passes in a curved line through the whole city,

and is fronted by splendid marble palaces for almost its whole extent.

Across this canal is thrown, in a single arch, the lofty bridge of the

Rialto. Black gondolas in great number were gliding up and down the

canal, and some small feluccas and river craft lay moored at the quays

and landing places.

Palaces, churches and other magnificent structures, the common

ornaments of Italian cities, also abound in Venice: but there is no

end of describing them. Some of the architecture has a sort of

barbarian grandeur, strikingly distinct from that of other parts of

this country. There are no monuments of classical times in Venice, for

the city grew up after the decline of the Roman Empire. Yet the place

is full of objects associated in our memories with historical and

poetic recollections. The Place of St. Mark, the Palace of the Doge,

suggest stirring remembrances of the celebrated Council of Ten and

their mysterious doings. No one can cross the Rialto without thinking

of Shylock. The great square of St. Mark is the only place in the city

where a man feels as if he were upon _terra firma_. It is spacious,

paved with stone, surrounded with stately buildings, and overhung with

lofty towers and domes. Here the crowd of Venice assemble in the

evening, sauntering about in the open space, or sipping coffee and

sherbet in the shops. The whole place is in a blaze of light from the

multitude of coffee houses which line the arcades. The busy hum of

chattering crowds, and the lively strains of music which fill the air,

render it almost a scene of enchantment, the effect of which is much

heightened by its contrast with the stillness and solitude of the

remainder of the city. The commerce of Venice brings hither a great

crowd of strangers from all parts of the Mediterranean,--Greeks,

Turks, Austrians, Dalmatians, Moors, and all the trading population of

Europe.

The gondolas of Venice are familiar to every reader. They are long,

narrow boats, with a prow like the neck of a giraffe, and a house in

the middle. In this, you may be rowed all over the city, as you would

ride elsewhere shut up in a hackney coach. They are cheap conveyances.

You may hire one for a dollar a day, and see all the rarities of the

city. For lazy people, I do not know a greater luxury. There is no

jolting, nor danger of an overturn, or of horses running away. The

gondoliers are civil and obliging, and very useful as guides about the

city. They used to sing verses of Tasso by moonlight, but this

practice is now discontinued;--the world seems to be growing

unpoetical everywhere. It was strange to my eyes, as I rowed down the

Grand Canal, under the Rialto, thinking of old times and the golden

days and glories of Venice, to come suddenly upon an American brig

with “_Duan, Boston_,” on her stern. Such an apparition amidst the

marble palaces of this city of enchantment was the last thing for

which I was prepared. She had brought out a cargo of cotton, and was

loading with corn for the Boston market.

Gondolas are used not only as hackney coaches, but they also serve the

same purpose as handcarts, wheelbarrows, and jackasses in other

cities. Country people bring their grain to market, pedlers and

hucksters hawk about their commodities, in them. If you want an apple,

you hail a gondola. Many of them are rowed by women, and they cry

their goods in a demi-musical strain. Most of the traffic of Venice is

done in a small way, for though it has some maritime commerce, it is

inconsiderable for a city of one hundred and fifty thousand

inhabitants. The wealth and population of the place are evidently

decaying, and the Austrian government, which prevails in this quarter,

is detested by the inhabitants. Many of the palaces are falling to

ruin, and the traveller who makes any considerable stay here cannot

help seeing proofs that Venice is “dying daily.” Yet, in spite of

their misfortunes, the Venetians are cheerful and amiable, and form,

what is thought by many, the pleasantest society in Europe. Strange

contrast with our own country!--where the people, with every material

of enjoyment and prosperity within their reach, in the possession of

the most unrestrained political liberty, and amidst the benefits

arising from popular education and the general diffusion of

knowledge--with a free government, a free press, free commerce, and

unbridled freedom of speech--are so far from being happy or contented,

that we pass the greater part of our time in comfortless disquiet,

engaged in the barbarous contests of political faction, in unsocial

bickering and rivalries, and in the unprofitable indulgence of those

sordid and malignant passions which arise from the abuse of the

bounties of Providence!

There is one thing which a traveller may learn by visiting foreign

lands; namely, that this western world does not enjoy a monopoly of

all the wisdom of the universe;--and that, wise and intelligent and

enlightened as we are accustomed to call ourselves, it would do no

harm to “see ourselves as others see us,” before we attempt to take

the first rank among civilized nations. We have yet much to learn and

much to do, before we outstrip all other communities in the

acquisitions and qualities that render human beings estimable. It is

perfectly true, that, as a nation, we possess great advantages, but it

is no less true that we have a strong propensity to pervert and abuse

them. The good and evil of this world are much more equally balanced

than we are apt to suppose. Under tyranny and oppression, the Italians

exhibit a cheerfulness and good humor which might put the dissatisfied

grumblers of our own land of liberty, to the blush.

Being now compelled to bring my narrative to a close, I shall pass

hastily over the remaining portion of my tour. Having satisfied my

curiosity with the wonders of Venice, I left that city and proceeded

west, along the great plain of Lombardy, to Milan. All the country is

cultivated like a garden, and produces the most abundant crops.

Everywhere the lofty ridge of the Alps may be seen on the right, like

a gigantic wall guarding this rich and beautiful region from the

hungry invaders of the North. Yet in all ages this formidable barrier

has proved insufficient to preserve Italy from their hostile

irruptions. From the times of Brennus and Hannibal, to the present

day, army after army of enemies, and swarm after swarm of barbarians

have swept over Italy; yet in spite of their ravages, such is the

fertility of the soil, such the natural beauties of the territory and

the genius of the inhabitants, that it still remains the fairest

country upon earth.

Milan is a splendid city, where every house looks like a palace. As

the whole city was levelled to the ground about six hundred years ago,

there are no marks of antiquity in its buildings. Its enormous

cathedral is a gorgeous structure of white marble. The marble statues

that cover it on the outside may be counted by thousands. It was begun

between four and five hundred years ago, and finished by Napoleon when

king of Italy. Milan, however, though full of splendid buildings, does

not interest the traveller like most of the other Italian cities. Its

level situation takes away everything picturesque from the prospect,

and it compares with Florence as Philadelphia does with Boston.

From Milan I proceeded to Turin. This city stands on the Po, and, like

very few other places in Italy, appears to be growing fast. The

population has rapidly advanced within a few years; and every year

adds to the fine structures with which it is embellished. The greater

part of the city is regularly built, with straight streets and uniform

architecture. There is a very spacious square fronting on the river,

with arcades on the three sides. The breadth and open situation of

this fine esplanade, with the beautiful prospect of the fresh green

hills across the river, render it one of the noblest squares I ever

saw. I remarked a handsome bridge just erected across the Dora, a

branch of the Po. It is of a stone very similar to Quincy granite, and

springs in one wide arch across the stream. The hills around Turin are

lofty and picturesque, covered with vineyards, orchards and every kind

of fresh verdure. On the top of the highest and steepest of them all,

stands the most magnificent church in the whole country. Why it was

built upon a spot hardly accessible by human feet, one is puzzled to

guess, till he learns that it owes its origin to a vow of the Duke of

Savoy, previous to a victory obtained over the French in 1706. The

church was erected on the spot where the Duke and Prince Eugene stood

while they laid the plan of the battle. It is a pity the Duke had not

the sense to reflect, that a vow of something useful would have been

equally acceptable.

Leaving Turin, I journeyed southeast towards Genoa, crossing, in my

course, the plain of Marengo, where the battle was fought which

decided the fate of Italy and established the government of Napoleon

over the French. The Alps are in sight at a great distance, and a

soldier would say that this wide plain seemed designed for the theatre

of a great battle. A steep and rugged road then led me across the

Apennines, and the next day I reached Genoa.

I have no space to devote to a description of this noble city, with

its hundreds of palaces. I found it necessary to hurry my departure

homeward, and took passage in a Genoese felucca for Leghorn, which

place I reached in twenty-four hours. Here I was fortunate enough to

find a Boston brig on the point of sailing. I embarked in her, and

after a long and boisterous passage, landed on Long Wharf, nine months

from the day of my departure.

I will add one thing more which may give the reader a notion of the

expense of travelling in this quarter of the world. I spent four

hundred and fifty dollars on the whole tour, passage out and home

included. I visited every considerable Italian city, and resided a

reasonable length of time at all the capitals. I lived as well as I

could wish, and paid as liberally for everything as any traveller is

expected to do. As far as the common objects of travelling are

considered, I think there is no other country in which a man can get

so much for his money as in Italy.

The Two Friends.

There were once two little boys, who lived near each other in a very

pleasant village, near the new forest in Hampshire, England. The name

of one was John, and that of the other Paul.

Paul’s father lived in a large house, and kept horses, and servants,

and a coach; had a nice lawn and garden, and was, what is called, a

gentleman. Paul had a pony to ride on; he had also a great many

playthings--tops, hoops, balls, a kite, a ship, and everything he

could wish for. He had also fine clothes to wear, and nothing to do

but to go to school.

John’s father was a poor man, for he had only a little farm to keep

him; and John was forced to get up in the morning and look after the

cows, feed the pigs, and do a great deal of work before he went to

school.

Although John’s father was a poor man, he was determined to send his

son to the best school in the parish: “for,” said he, “if my boy turns

out a good lad he will be a comfort to me in my old age.”

When John first came to the school to which Paul went, the boys, who

were dressed better than he was, all shunned him. They did not like

his rough cord jacket, nor his thick hands and coarse shirt. One said,

“he shall not sit by me;” and another said, “he shall not sit by me:”

so when he went to a form to sit down, the boy who was on it slid

himself to the other end.

Poor John did not know what this meant. At last, when he looked at his

coarse clothes, and rough hands, and thick shoes, and compared them

with those of his school-fellows, he said to himself, “It is because I

am a poor boy:” and the tears came into his eyes.

Paul saw what was going on, and he felt for him, and could have cried

too; so he went to the form on which the new scholar sat, and said,

“Do not cry, little boy; I will come and sit by you: here, take this

nice rosy apple: do take it; I do not want it! do, there is a dear

little boy.”

This made John cry the more; but these were tears of joy, at having

found some one to feel for him. He looked at Paul, and sobbed out,

“No, no, I thank you.” Then Paul put his arm round his neck, and said,

“I cannot bear to see you cry;” and kissed him on the cheek.

One of the boys called out, “Paul Jones is playing with apples;” and,

in a minute, the usher came up, and, without making any inquiry, took

the apple away, and gave Paul a cut with his cane. The apple he gave

to the boy who told, for that was the rule of the school. Paul did not

mind the cut, because he knew he was doing right.

Then the other boys laughed, and seemed quite pleased; some peeped

from behind their slates, which they held before their faces, as if

they were doing their sums; and one called out, in a whisper, “Who

likes _stick_ liquorice?”

John felt as if he could have torn the usher to pieces. “Oh!” said he

to himself, “if I was a man, see if I would not give it you!” for he

felt it cruel that Paul should be struck for being so kind to

him.--(It was, however, wrong for him to wish to take revenge.)

From that time, John felt as if he would have died to serve Paul, and

he never seemed so happy as when he could play with him, or sit by him

at school.

Some time after this happened, Paul, who had about half a mile to walk

to his home, through the green lanes, met some gipsies. There were

three of them. One said to the other, “Bob, do you see that youngster?

He has some good things about him.”

So they whispered a little together. At last, one came close to the

little boy, and in a moment seized him round the waist, and put his

hand over his mouth and nose, to prevent his calling out. They had

made up their minds to steal him for his clothes.

So they put him in a sack, and tied a handkerchief over his mouth, and

told him, if he made the least noise they would kill him.

After going for some miles, they went aside into a thick wood; and,

when they reached the middle of it, they stripped poor little Paul

quite naked, left him under a tree, and went off with all his clothes.

It was now very dark, and Paul was very much frightened. When the

gipsies were gone, he cried out for help till he was hoarse, and could

cry no longer. Being naked, he was very cold, and he crept under a

bush, to screen himself from the wind.

When Paul’s father found he did not come home, he was very unhappy,

and went to look for him; he sent servants, first one way, and then

another, but no one could find him. His poor mother too was in great

grief. Indeed both father and mother were nearly mad through losing

him.

They dragged all the ponds in the neighborhood, went up and down the

river, inquired of every one they met, but no one had seen him. John

was called up, and said, the last time that he saw him was when he

bade him good bye, at the corner of the lane.

The night began to close in, and it grew dark; Paul was not found, and

poor John was as unhappy as any little boy could be; he went crying to

bed, and when he knelt down to say his prayers, he prayed that Paul

might come safe home again. He then went to bed, but he could not

sleep for thinking of his kind school-fellow.

At last he leaped out of bed, and said, “I must go and see if he is

found--I must go and seek him too.” So he slipped on his clothes, let

himself out, and fastened the door after him.

At first he did not know what road to take, and he wandered up one

lane, and down another. It was very dark at first, so that he could

scarcely see where he went. At last the moon rose up, and seemed to

cheer him in his search.

So on he walked, looking into every ditch and every pond, going

through every little clump of bushes, but to no purpose--he could

neither see nor hear anything of poor Paul.

It was about twelve o’clock at night, and he reached the church-yard.

Some boys would have been afraid of going into the church-yard, for

fear of ghosts. John said to himself, “If the living do not hurt me, I

am sure the dead will not; besides, why should I be afraid, when I am

doing what is right.”

John thought he would have one look in the church porch, so he drew

towards it. The old arch seemed to frown on him; and it looked so dark

within, it made him shudder, although he would not be afraid. He

stepped boldly in, and cried, “Paul, are you there?”

Something started with a loud noise, and bounded by him, calling out,

“Halloo! halloo!” and leaped to one of the tombstones. When John

looked, he found it was a poor silly boy, whom they used to call Silly

Mike; and whose part John had often taken, when other boys used to

tease him.

“Ah! Mike,” said John, “don’t you know me?” The poor idiot knew him

directly, and said, “He is in the sack! he is in the sack!--buried in

the wood! Dong, dong--no bell go dong, dong.”

After some trouble, John made Mike understand that he was in search of

Paul; who kept saying, he was in a sack in the wood: “Gipsy men,--sack

in wood;--Mike frightened.”

At last John prevailed upon the poor fellow to show him to the wood;

for the boy thought it might be that Paul had been taken away by

somebody.

So they went on till they came to the wood. Mike led the way. At last

they thought they heard a moan. John listened:--he heard it again; he

then pushed through the brambles, tearing his face and hands at every

step.

He called out, “Paul, Paul?” “Here, here,” was faintly said in reply.

John rushed to the spot, and there lay the poor little boy, half dead.

John ran and helped him up; he then pulled off some of his own

clothes, and put them upon him. Mike then lifted him on his back, and

they soon got out of the wood.

Paul’s father had been out all night after him. His poor mother had

also been searching every place she could think of, and had given him

up for lost. They thought he had fallen into the river, and had been

drowned.

When the poor lady saw her child borne towards her she could scarcely

speak; and, when he leaped into her arms, she fell down in a fainting

fit.

Paul’s father soon came home, and was rejoiced to see his son. He took

John up also in his arms, and pressed him to his heart, for saving his

son.

“I offered a hundred pounds reward to any one who would find him, dead

or alive,” said his father. “You shall have the hundred pounds, my

little fellow; nay, more, I will give you the best pony in my stable.”

“What for, sir?” said John.

“Why, for being such a brave little fellow.”

“No,” said John, “one good turn deserves another: you remember the

nice rosy apple you gave me the first day I went to school, Paul.”

Nothing could prevail upon John, or his father, to take the reward:

“To pay my son for doing his duty,” said the poor man, “would spoil

all.”

From this time Paul and John were firm friends, and grew up together

like brothers. At last Paul became a very rich man, and John was his

_steward_.--_English Periodical._

The Selfish Boy.

The selfish boy is one who loves himself solely, and nobody else; who

does not care who he deprives of enjoyment, so that he can obtain it.

Should he have anything given him, he will keep it all to himself.

Should it be a cake, he will keep it in his box, and eat it alone:

sometimes creeping up stairs in the day-time, to munch when nobody

sees him; at others, getting out of bed at night, to cram himself in

the dark.

The selfish boy likes playthings, but he does not like anybody to

touch them: “You shall not bowl _my hoop_; you shall not touch _my

bat_,” is constantly on his tongue. He is ever on the watch, to find

out if any one has been even near anything of his. He is _restless_,

_anxious_, _fearful_; he knows it lies at the bottom of his heart to

_rob_ others, because all selfish boys are _covetous_, and he thinks

that everybody will take from _him_.

When he sits down to his writing, if he happen to make a good letter

he holds his hand over it, so that no one may copy it. When he has

worked his sum, he hugs it up to his breast, for fear any one should

be benefitted by knowing how it was done; not that it is right to show

your sums to others, but this is not his motive.

He obtains knowledge, perhaps works hard for it, but he has no desire

for _communicating_ it to others. If he should see a fine sight at the

window, he calls for no one to share his delight, but feels a pleasure

in being able to say, “_I saw it, and you did not_.”

The selfish boy cannot see the good of anything, without he is to be

the gainer in some way or other. When _his_ interests are concerned,

you will see him quite alive, although he was ever so sluggish just

before. He sees in a moment what will make to his own advantage, and

is, therefore, an adept at chopping and changing, and at making

bargains. He knows well enough how to _disparage_ (to speak against)

his school-fellow’s plaything. If it be a knife, he will pretend the

spring is bad, and find out a hundred faults; then, when he has made a

good bargain, oh! how he chuckles over it, and rubs his hands.

The selfish boy is a great cheat: when he plays marbles he takes care,

when an opportunity offers, of kicking his alley nearer to the ring;

when he makes a false shot, he will pretend that he was not in

earnest, on purpose to get another; when the game is going against

him, he will pretend he has hurt his knee or his knuckle, and can’t

play any more.

The selfish boy is a great braggart; he often says, “I have got this,

and I have got that. Aye, you do not know how much money I have got in

my saving-box.” Sometimes he hints that his father is rich, and he

shall have a fortune left him when the old gentleman is dead; and he

does not seem to care how soon he dies.

His whole life is a sort of _scramble_; if anything is to be given

away, he is the first to cry out, for fear he should lose his share,

and the first to grumble when he obtains it. If another boy happens to

receive a larger slice at mealtimes than himself, he pines over it,

and can scarcely contain himself for vexation. He always looks out for

the best of everything, and thinks he has a right to it.

Poor boy! he thinks the world was made for him. He never thinks of

others. It is no pleasure for him to see others happy; nay, he would

sooner make his dearest friends miserable, than deprive himself of

anything. He will make no self-sacrifice, I can assure you.

Nay, more than this, if he does not want a thing, he cannot bear that

anybody else should enjoy it. This is the last stage of his disease;

and thus he is like the dog in the manger, and snaps at every one who

comes near him.--What a pretty _man_ he will make!--_Martin’s Treasury

of Knowledge._

Story of Little Dick and the Giant.

Poor little Dick; what a gay, blithe fellow he was! He used to go

singing and whistling about nearly all day: he was always merry, and

scarcely anything could make him sad.

One day, little Dick thought he would have a ramble in a large forest,

at some distance from his home. He had often been to the sides of it

before, but it looked so dark he was afraid to enter.

But Dick was more merry than usual on this day, for the sun shone so

brightly, and the flowers looked so lovely, that he sang and whistled

till he made the woods ring again. He delighted himself for some time

among the trees and flowers; and, at last, seemed quite glad to have

found out such a sweet spot.

There was a clear brook ran through the wood; and the waters looked so

clean, that Dicky, being very thirsty, stooped down to drink; but,

just at that moment, he was suddenly seized from behind, and found

himself in the hands of a great, tall, fierce, ugly-looking giant, a

hundred times as big as himself; for Dick was not much bigger than the

giant’s thumb. The giant looked at him with savage delight; his mouth

opened wide, and he made a noise which seemed to Dick quite terrible.

Dick thought the giant would have eaten him up alive, at one mouthful:

he did not, however, do this, but took and put him into a large bag,

and carried him off.

The poor little captive tried all he could to get out of the bag, but

to no purpose,--the giant held him fast. He screamed, he struggled, he

tried to tear a passage--the giant laughed, and carried him quite

away.

At last the giant came to his house--a gloomy looking place, with a

high wall all round it, and no trees or flowers. When he got in he

shut the door, and took Dick out of the bag.

Dick now thought his time was come. When he looked round he saw a

large fire, and before it hung four victims like himself, roasting for

the giant’s supper.

The giant, however, did not kill Dick; he took him by the body, and

gave him such a squeeze as put him to great pain; he then threw him

into a prison which he had prepared for him. It was quite dark, and

iron bars were all round it, to prevent his getting out.

Dick beat his head against the iron bars; he dashed backwards and

forwards in his dungeon, for he was almost driven mad. The giant gave

him a piece of dry bread, and a drop of water, and left him.

The next day the giant came and looked, and found that Dick had eaten

none of his bread; so he took him by the head, and crammed some of it

down his throat, and seemed quite vexed to think he would not eat.

Poor Dick was too much frightened to eat or drink.

He was left all alone in the dark another day, and a sad day it was;

the poor creature thought of his own home, his companions, the

sun-light, the trees, and the many nice things he used to get to eat;

and then he screamed, and tried to get between the iron bars, and beat

his poor head and limbs sore, in trying to get out.

The giant came again, and wanted Dick to sing, the same as he sung

when he was at home, and to be happy and merry. “Sing, sing, sing!”

said he: but poor Dick was much too sad to sing--a prison is no place

to sing songs in.

The giant now seemed quite in a rage, and took Dick out to make him

sing, as he said. Dick gave a loud scream, a plunge, a struggle, and

sank dead in the giant’s hand.--Ah! my young reader, poor _Dick_ was a

_little bird_, and that _giant_ was a _cruel little boy_.--_Holiday

Book._

The Flowers.

When we walk in the _fields_, how many _flowers_ we see; some spring

from the _grass_, where they look like little stars; some twine in the

_hedge_; some grow on each _bank_; and some hang from _trees_ and

_plants_.

How we love to look at them--_red_ and _blue_, and _yellow_ and

_white_. Some are round, like cups; some stand up, with sun-like rays;

some hang down their heads; but all their forms seem to please the

eye.

And then, while they look so bright and fair, how sweet they smell.

The air is full of their sweets; and bees sing songs round them, and

sip honey from their rosy lips.

They come in the first soft winds of spring, and shed their pure bloom

on the white bosom of the snow; they seem to look at the sun with joy,

and watch him through the day. At night, when the sun is gone to rest,

they seem sad, hang their heads, and droop.

But at morn, they open their leaves, and the clear dew seems, like a

tear of joy in their eyes, to hail the sun that lights them.

Why did God make the flowers so fair and pure, and bright, and paint

them with so many hues? Because it was his wish that they should make

glad our eyes.

He might have made them dull, dark, ugly things, so that when we

looked upon them they would have given us pain, and not joy; but God

wished to make us happy.

As the sun shines upon flowers, so God smiles on us when we do what is

right: when we, like him, try to shed light, and joy, and peace, about

us.

As flowers turn toward the sun all day, and seem to follow him in his

course, so should we let our hearts turn to the God who made us; for

he is _our_ bright _Sun_, and without him we should fade and die.

[Illustration]

Christmas.

This famous Christian festival is held on the 25th of December, in

commemoration of the birth of Christ. In all countries where the

Catholic religion prevails, it is noticed with a great variety of

ceremonies. In England, it is a day of cheerfulness and festivity. The

festival of Christmas is continued for twelve days, and in the

Catholic and English churches, they have frequent religious services

during the period. The churches are dressed with evergreens, and it is

a common custom to decorate the rooms of houses with branches of

evergreen trees.

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER XIV.

_The Conclusion._

After the little community of Fredonia had provided for their first

wants,--houses, clothes, and food,--they began to think of other

things. There were several children among them, and for these they

required a school. Accordingly they employed a young woman, who had

been well educated; and a place being provided, the children were

assembled together, and she taught them as well as she could. She had

few books, however; for neither the works of Peter Parley or Robert

Merry had then been written. Nor were there any bookstores or

printing-offices. There was one copy of a Bible, and in this the

children were, one after another, taught to read.

In all that could make the people happy, M. Bonfils, the good old

governor, took a lively interest. He did not confine himself merely to

a routine of official acts, but he was constantly considering how he

could influence the people in such a way as to make them live better,

more comfortably, and more happily. Being a wise man, he thus

exercised a great influence; and I beg my young readers to remember,

that in this way--by the exercise of wisdom and patriotism--rulers may

be great blessings to their country.

The governor had a notion, which you may think strange, but I will

mention it to you. His idea was, that no person can be happy without

religion. He was a Catholic himself, but he did not insist that all

should think exactly as he did on this subject. What he desired, was,

that every person should love and fear God with sincerity. He

maintained that no nation could be honest, virtuous, industrious, or

patriotic, without religion; and that an enemy to religion was always

an enemy to good government; always an enemy to the true interests of

mankind, even if we only regard the affairs of human society in this

world.

He therefore was desirous of sustaining the institutions of religion,

and for this purpose it was his custom, every Sabbath, to get the

people together, and offer up prayers, and make some kind of address.

It was a beautiful thing to see the people gathered beneath a group of

palm trees, and all kneeling in prayer, or listening to the

exhortations of the gray-haired patriarch who addressed them. It was

also a beautiful thing to hear them joining in their hymns, of which

they were able to sing a few from recollection.

Thus it was that society advanced one step after another, and no doubt

their improvement arose from the happy guidance of their governor. How

different was the state of the people from what it would have been if

Rogére had succeeded in making himself king! He was perfectly selfish,

and he would have subjected all around to his own personal wishes and

interests. Even if he had suppressed riot and turmoil and anarchy by a

strong hand, still the people would gradually have sunk lower in the

scale of civilization: a few would have been lords and the rest

slaves. But now, under the government of M. Bonfils, they enjoyed

equal rights and privileges; each one was secure of his house, his

home, and his lands, and the produce of his labor. Justice was also

duly administered; morality and religion were cherished; education

encouraged; peace, industry, and good neighborhood became the

established and habitual virtues of society. These are the results, in

a great degree, of the conduct and character of the ruler of the

little kingdom; and it ought to teach us the importance of having

good, wise, and religious rulers.

Thus affairs went on, till the good old governor became very feeble,

and was unable longer to attend to the affairs of government. He had

drawn up a plan for a constitution, and upon resigning his office,

submitted it to the people for their ratification or rejection. It was

another pleasing consequence of the virtues of the good old sage, that

what he recommended, came with the force of a command, and was

immediately adopted by the people. Thus, without agitation or

disturbance, the nation adopted a free constitution, and

thenceforward, they enjoyed that greatest of blessings--the privilege

of self-government.

It is not my purpose to extend this story further, nor have I indeed

the means. About a year after François had completed his little

vessel, he made a trip to the Isle of France, where he obtained a

great variety of articles needed by the Fredonians. During his stay

there, which however was brief, he related the events which we have

been detailing. He soon set out on his return, from which time we have

not heard from the little island which has so long occupied the

attention of our readers. If we get any news from them, it shall be

immediately laid before our friends of the blue and black eyes.

[Illustration]

Winter is coming.

Yes--cold, bustling, roaring winter is coming. Soon the earth will be

covered with snow: the leaves are already stript from the trees; the

flowers have perished; the birds have fled; the woodchuck and

chip-squirrel have gone to their burrows and laid themselves down for

a long nap. The farmer has gathered his hay and grain and potatoes;

the cattle are collected from the woods and pastures, and now wait for

their meals around the barn; the axe-man is in the woods gathering a

supply of fuel, that he may kindle the bright fire, and keep his

children warm.

Well--cold, chill, and desolate as is the world without, this is the

season to have comfort and cheerfulness in the house and the home. Let

each do his part to make all happy. What a delightful place is the

fireside, in winter, where the parents and children are affectionate

to one another; where there is obedience, quietness, kindness, all

around! And let us not permit our thoughts to be confined to ourselves

during this dreary season. Let us think whether there is not some

neighbor, less fortunate than ourselves, to whom our kindness, our

charity, our attentions may be a blessing.

[Illustration]

Liberty.

Liberty is freedom from restraint. In its widest sense, it is the free

permission to exercise our powers of body and mind as we please,

without hindrance or restraint. This is _absolute liberty_. According

to this, a man might take away another’s property or life; or enslave

another man; or make him the tool of his pleasures or caprices.

According to this, a strong man might use a weak one as he pleased, or

the cunning man might cheat or circumvent another, and thus take away

his life or property, or make him the slave of his pleasures.

This is liberty without law. Such liberty as this could exist only in

theory, for where society has enacted no law, the obligation of

justice exists. A savage is as truly bound by the golden rule, “do to

another as you would have another do to you,” as a member of civilized

society; for even the savage has a sense of right and wrong. Truth and

justice are intuitive perceptions and feelings in every human soul,

and conscience enforces their observance. Every human being,

therefore, has his absolute liberty abridged, by notions of right and

wrong, anterior to the formation of civil government.

Practically, absolute liberty would be the harshest kind of tyranny,

for it would immediately result in making the weak the slaves of the

strong. Not only would the weak, therefore, be deprived of liberty,

but of justice. In this state of things, no man is free, except the

strongest man; he alone has power to act as he pleases; all the rest

are his slaves: so that a community endeavoring to establish absolute

liberty, immediately make all the members but one, the slaves of a

master whose might is the rule of right.

Absolute liberty, therefore, as said before, immediately runs into

despotism. It is a thing that can only exist where one man, like

Alexander Selkirk, or Robinson Crusoe, is alone upon an island, and

“monarch of all he surveys.” Absolute liberty, in society, is a

practical absurdity--an impossibility.

_Natural liberty_ is freedom from restraint, except so far as is

imposed by the laws of nature. According to this, a man may speak,

act, and think as he pleases, without control; in this sense, it is

synonymous with absolute liberty. But it is often applied to a state

of society, where restraints do actually exist; as, for instance,

among savages, even where property is held in common, and where of

course there is no theft, there are still obligations, rules, and

restrictions, of some kind.

The coward is punished with death; the parricide is banished; the

traitor is shot. Every member of such a society is under certain

restraints, and certain abridgments of absolute liberty. If one is

guilty of cowardice, he consents to lose his life; if he kills his

parent, he consents to be forever cast out of his tribe; if he betrays

his nation, he agrees that he shall be slain by an arrow. Thus, he is

restrained from cowardice, killing a father or mother, or betraying

his country; all of which are abridgments of absolute liberty.

Thus, in the simplest and rudest stages of natural liberty, as put in

practice among mankind, we see certain restraints upon absolute

liberty, established by the laws or customs of the nation. But, in

point of fact, other restraints are put upon the largest part of the

community, for in such a state of society the weak are obliged, for

the most part, to bow to the strong. If, indeed, the weak are

protected from the strong, then the strong are restrained, and so far,

natural or absolute liberty is abridged. If it is not thus abridged,

if the weak are not protected from the strong, then they are the

slaves of the strong. In this state of society, where natural liberty

is said to prevail, the mass are subject to the despotism of a few;

the weak are the slaves of the strong. A state of natural liberty, is,

therefore, practically, a state of tyranny on the one hand and slavery

on the other.

An illustration of this is found among the animal tribes. Among the

fowls of the barnyard, there is no law: the males meet in conflict,

and the strongest or most active becomes the master. Among a pack of

wolves, or among dogs, the question who shall have the bone, is

settled by fighting it out, and the strongest has it. The law of

nature, then, is a law of force: where there is no other than natural

law, might is the only rule of right.

Even if all men were virtuous, a state of natural and universal

liberty could not exist--for virtue itself implies an observance of

rules, obligations, and laws. A virtuous man will not steal; his

liberty therefore, in this respect, is restrained. It is restrained by

law; and the only difference between this restraint and that of civil

government, is, that God enacts, and his own heart enforces, the law.

Civil government is founded in the idea that men are not all virtuous;

that men will not enact and observe just laws individually and of

themselves; and therefore to secure order, peace and justice,

government must enact and enforce laws, and thus abridge natural or

absolute liberty.

Experience, in all ages, has taught the lesson, that among men, as

well as among animals, there being some strong and some weak, the

former will ever seek to get the advantage of the latter. Thus

government steps in to protect the weak against the strong; to

substitute justice for force, right for might.--_Young American._

Dress and other matters in France,

in the time of Henry IV.

One grand object of the king, Henry IV. of France, was to promote the

arts and manufactures. The silk trade of Lyons owes its birth to him.

Thinking to benefit trade and commerce, he encouraged his courtiers in

habits of expense, quite opposite to his own frugal habits.

The expense of dress became enormously great on account of the

quantity of gold, silver, and jewels with which it was decorated. It

was not only costly, but dreadfully heavy. It is related of one of the

ladies of the court, that, when she was in full dress, she was so

encumbered by the weight of her finery as to be unable to move, or

even to stand.

The dress of a gentleman of the day is thus described: “He was clothed

in silver tissue; his shoes were white, and also his stockings. His

cloak was black, bordered with rich embroidery and lined with cloth of

silver; his bonnet was of black velvet, and he wore besides a

profusion of precious stones.”

The ruff had been laid aside in the last reign, because Henry III.

took it into his head that the person whose business it was to pin on

his ruff, had been bribed to scratch him on the neck with a poisoned

pin.

Its place, so far as the ladies were concerned, was supplied by a sort

of frame of wire and lace, in which the head was enclosed, and which,

in compliment to the queen, was called a _Medicis_. Masks were much

worn by both sexes. They were made of black velvet, and were so

necessary a part of the out-door costume of a lady, that she was

thought to be in _dishabille_ if seen without one.

This weight of dress led to the introduction of a new luxury. The

ladies could no longer ride to court on horseback. Coaches were

therefore employed to carry them. The first coach made its appearance

in Paris, in the reign of Henry II.

For a long time, there were but three in the whole city. The queen had

one; a great court lady had another; and the third belonged to an old

nobleman, “who, being too fat to ride on horseback, was obliged to

submit to the mortification of being carried in a coach like a woman.”

The tapestry, carpets, and bed hangings of the houses corresponded in

splendor and costliness with the dress. When the constable Montmorenci

was killed, his body was brought to his own house, and lay in state,

as it is called; that is, for exhibition, in a hall, the walls of

which were hung with crimson velvet bordered with pearls.

But in all other respects, the houses, and even the king’s palaces,

were very deficient in what we should call furniture. Excepting one or

two arm-chairs for the heads of the family, the rooms usually

contained one coarse long table, some stools, a few benches, and

several chests, which also served for seats.

Those who could not afford the expense of hangings of silk, or damask,

or satin, covered the walls with gilt leather, or had them panelled

with wood. I think the last was the most appropriate, from the

description we have of what was perhaps the only parlor and

sitting-room of a French _chateau_, or country house.

“The hall was very large. At one end was a stag’s antlers, which were

used for hanging up hats, coats, dogs’ collars, and the chaplet of

paternosters. At the opposite end of the hall were bows and arrows,

targets, swords, pikes and cross-bows.

“In the great window were three harquebusses, (a kind of gun,) with a

variety of nets, and other apparatus for sporting. In the chests

(called coffers) were coats of mail laid up in bran, to keep them from

rusting. Under the benches was a plentiful supply of clean straw for

the dogs to lie on.”

Amidst all this litter, there were two shelves, on which was deposited

the library. This consisted of the Bible, Ogier the Dane, the

Shepherd’s Calendar, the Golden Legend, the Romance of the Rose, &c.

From this selection, it would appear that romances were preferred to

those memoirs and histories, so much more interesting to us, of which

many had been written. The period itself produced several writers,

whose works are still held in high estimation.

At the head of these is the great Duke of Sully, who has given a most

interesting account of those scenes in French history, in which he and

his great master bore the most conspicuous part. Next to him is De

Thou, who has written a minute general history of the period between

1545 and 1607.

Another distinguished memoir-writer was Theodore d’Aubigné,

half-brother to the king, and grandfather to Madame de Maintenon.

One of the first cares of Henry when he came to the throne, was to

restore his capital to its former flourishing condition. He found the

streets overgrown with grass, many of the shops shut up, and others,

abandoned by their owners, had been converted into stables. When the

Spanish ambassadors arrived, a few months after his coronation, they

expressed their admiration at the great improvement which had taken

place in the city, since it had been under his rule.

The king replied, “When the master is absent, all things get into

disorder; but when he is returned, his presence ornaments the house,

and all things profit.”--_Pictorial History of France._

The Last Leaf of Autumn.

It came with spring’s soft sun and showers,

Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;

It flourished on the same light stem,

It drank the same clear dews with them.

The crimson tints of summer morn

That gilded one, did each adorn;

The breeze that whispered light and brief

To bud or blossom, kissed the leaf;

When o’er the leaf the tempest flew,

The bud and blossom trembled too.

But its companions passed away,

And left the leaf to lone decay.

The gentle gales of spring went by,

The fruits and flowers of summer die.

The autumn winds swept o’er the hill,

And winter’s breath came cold and chill.

The leaf now yielded to the blast,

And on the rushing stream was cast.

Far, far it glided to the sea,

And whirled and eddied wearily,

Till suddenly it sank to rest,

And slumbered in the ocean’s breast.

Thus life begins--its morning hours

Bright as the birthday of the flowers--

Thus passes like the leaves away,

As withered and as lost as they.

Beneath the parent roof we meet

In joyous groups, and gaily greet

The golden beams of love and light,

That dawn upon the youthful sight.

But soon we part, and one by one,

Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone.

One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,

His brow yet fresh with childhood’s bloom:

Another treads the paths of fame,

And barters peace to win a name.

Another still, tempts fortune’s wave,

And seeking wealth, secures a grave.

The last, grasps yet the brittle thread--

Though friends are gone and joy is dead,

Still dares the dark and fretful tide,

And clutches at its power and pride--

Till suddenly the waters sever,

And like the leaf he sinks forever.

Varieties.

THE elevated and marshalled flight of wild geese seems dictated by

geometrical instinct; shaped like a wedge, the whole body cuts the air

with less exertion to separate individuals, and it is conjectured that

the change of form from an inverted V, A, L, or a straight line, is

occasioned by the leader of the van quitting his post at the point of

the angle, through fatigue, dropping into the rear, leaving his place

to be occupied by another.

* * * * *

THE LADY-BIRD.--The following address to the lady-bird is from the

German. Part of the second verse, most of my young friends are

acquainted with:

“Lady-bird! lady-bird! pretty one stay;

Come, sit on my finger, so happy and gay.

With me shall no mischief betide thee.

No harm would I do thee, no foeman is here--

I only would gaze on thy beauties so dear,

These beautiful winglets beside thee.

Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home;

Your house is on fire! your children will roam.

List, list to their cry and bewailing!

The pitiless spider is weaving their doom!

Then lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home,

Hark, hark to thy children’s bewailing!”

* * * * *

WINTER. Mary Howitt has beautifully described the contrast between the

rich and the poor at this season of the year:

“In rich men’s halls the fire is piled,

And furry robes keep out the weather;

In poor men’s huts the fire is low,

Through broken panes the keen winds blow,

And old and young are cold together.

Oh, poverty is disconsolate!

Its pains are many, its foes are strong.

The rich man, in his jovial cheer,

Wishes ’twas winter all the year;

The poor man, ’mid his wants profound,

With all his little children round,

Prays God that winter be not long.”

* * * * *

SIGNS OF THE WEATHER. An English writer, by the name of Jennet, thus

describes the signs of the weather:

“The hollow winds begin to blow,

The clouds look black, the glass is low;

The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,

And spiders from their cobwebs peep.

Last night the sun went pale to bed,

The moon in halos hid her head;

Hark! how the chairs and tables crack!

Old Betty’s joints are on the rack;

Her corns with shooting pains torment her,

And to her bed untimely send her--

Loud quack the ducks, the sea-fowl cry,

The distant hills are looking nigh.

How restless are the snorting swine!

The busy flies disturb the kine;

Low on the grass, the swallow wings;

The cricket, too, how sharp she sings!

Puss, on the hearth, with velvet paws

Sits wiping o’er her whiskered jaws;

The smoke from chimneys right ascends--

Then spreading back to earth it bends;

Through the clear stream, the fishes rise

And nimbly catch the incautious flies.

The glow-worms num’rous, clear and bright,

Illumined the dewy hill last night!

At dusk, the squalid toad was seen

Like quadruped stalk o’er the green.

The whirling wind the dust obeys,

And in the rapid eddy plays;

The frog has changed his yellow vest,

And in a russet coat is dress’d.

Behold the rooks, how odd their flight!

They imitate the gliding kite;

In fiery red, the sun doth rise,

Then wades through clouds to mount the skies.

’T will surely rain, we see with sorrow,

No working in the fields to-morrow.”

* * * * *

THE amaranth is one of the latest flowers in autumn, and when the

plant is dead, the flowers still retain their rich scarlet color. The

ancients associated it with supreme honors, choosing it to adorn the

brows of their gods. Poets have sometimes mingled its bright hue with

the dark and gloomy cypress, wishing to express that their sorrows

were combined with everlasting recollections. Homer, an ancient poet,

tells us that at the funeral of a great warrior, named Achilles, the

Greeks wore crowns of amaranth.

[Illustration]

Reflections.

Here we are then--at the end of another year--at the end of another

volume of Merry’s Museum! There is something in the winding up of the

year that is calculated to make us look back, and think over the past:

something which seems to stop us on the highway of time, and put the

questions--“What have you been doing? Where have you been? Where are

you going?”

And it is well for us all to answer these questions,--to answer them

fairly and sincerely to that inward monitor which thus calls upon us.

Have we done our duty, the past year, to our God, our neighbor and

ourself? If we have, let us rejoice: if we have not, let us repent and

sin thus no more.

I am not disposed to read a harsh lecture to my friends; for, to say

the truth, I am much more inclined to make them laugh than to make

them cry: I like a round face, far better than a long face. If I have

any advice to give--any correction to bestow, I prefer doing it in a

story, a fable or an allegory. If anybody wants to be scolded, they

must not come to Bob Merry--I do not like to be scolded myself--and I

never scold others. Still--still--my dear little friends, let me ask

seriously, are we improving in mind, in temper, in graces of all

kinds? Are you growing better, more intelligent, more wise, more

dutiful, more sincere, more fond of truth, of mankind, and of God? If

you are, I am glad of it: if not--my dear young reader, take old

Robert Merry’s advice--which is this--_be careful every day, every

month, every year, to do better than the day, the month, or the year

before_. Although it is my design to amuse you--to please you--still,

I shall almost feel that my labors are vain, if they do not result in

your improvement, mental and moral.

And now, we must say good-bye to the old year, and next month bid a

welcome to the new. I hope and trust that those young friends who have

trudged along with me for two years, will keep me company for another

year, and I promise to give them plenty of stories, lays and legends,

facts and fables, songs, anecdotes, sketches and adventures. I have

wound up the long tales which have run through two years of our

magazine, but others shall be forthcoming. If we have dismissed Bill

Keeler, Philip Brusque, Alexis Pultova, and Tom Trotter, still,

somebody quite as interesting shall soon be introduced to our readers.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become

standardized in their spelling. Words with inconsistent hyphenation

were left unchanged. Jargon, obsolete words and alternative spellings

were left unchanged. Misspelled words were corrected.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like

this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the

end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside

down, unprinted or partially printed letters and punctuation, were

corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and

abbreviations were added. Duplicate words at line endings or page

breaks were removed. Missing header, Varieties, was added to the

December issue.

The following were added where blotches on the page obscured the text:

‘---ng the coast’ to ‘along the coast’ (line 6749)

‘ta--- care that’ to ‘taking care that’ (line 10064)

‘to have ----’ to ‘to have it?’ (line 14722)

‘a--- twenty-five miles’ to ‘about twenty-five miles’ (line 17990)

‘The patt----- building’ to ‘The pattern of building’ (line 18000)