Mr. Dormer called early the following morning, and breakfasted with the
Bernard family before his departure. The little folks endeavoured to
welcome him with smiles; but it was very evident that their hearts were
heavy, in spite of their efforts to appear cheerful. They had never
before been separated from each other, and they felt that Edward's
absence would make a sad blank in their little circle. Edward himself,
though delighted with the prospect of his journey, could not repress a
starting tear, as his mother folded him, with maternal tenderness, to
her bosom. He renewed his promise of writing them a long letter in the
course of a week, giving a full account of all he should hear and learn;
then, kissing his brother and sister, he hastened into the chaise,
followed by Mr. Dormer, and soon lost the sadness which had crept over
his spirits, in admiration of the luxuriant country through which they
passed.
But with the little group at home, it was quite otherwise: they had no
variety of scene to banish their sorrow for his departure; on the
contrary, every object they saw reminded them of their beloved Edward.
They felt, without being aware of it, the force of Scott's beautiful
lines:
"When musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone."
Their customary tasks passed off heavily, and every object,
notwithstanding the cheerfulness of the day, assumed an appearance of
unusual gloom.
Mrs. Bernard affectionately sympathised in their sorrow, and thinking a
walk might in some measure divert their attention, proposed a visit to
the old woman's cottage. Mr. Bernard had lost one of his under clerks,
and intended taking Henry to supply his place, should he find him
qualified for the situation. No proposition could have been more
agreeable to the children, and with great alacrity they prepared to
accompany their mother. It was, however, some time before they could
recover their spirits, so as to enjoy their walk as usual.
"Ah, mamma," said Ferdinand, "how very different things appear when we
are happy, and when we are unhappy; this walk was so delightful last
Monday! How much we did enjoy ourselves! Do you not remember it? You
gave us that interesting account of the British _hirundines_. Edward
enjoyed it with us, and we thought it so pleasant; and now I really do
not think it a particularly cheerful walk, and, to tell you the truth,
mamma, it appears to me very dull to-day, and yet I see no alteration in
the prospect."
_Mrs. B._ The alteration is in your own mind, my boy. Your present
feelings must convince you, how important is the acquisition of that
firmness of mind, which your father has so constantly endeavoured to
inculcate, and which can alone enable you to bear, with fortitude, the
_real_ evils you will have to encounter in after life.
"_Real_ evils, mamma!" reiterated Ferdinand; "you do not then think this
a real evil?"
"Indeed, my dear, I do not," replied Mrs. Bernard; "on the contrary, I
hope, to Edward it will prove a real good; and I am sure you are none of
you so selfish as to wish to deprive him of any advantage, merely for
the sake of your own gratification."
"Selfish! Oh, no, mamma, indeed we are not selfish," cried all the
children at once: "we will convince you we are not, for we will, this
minute, leave off grieving for Edward's departure, and teach ourselves
to rejoice, and wish him very happy."
_Mrs. B._ You will do quite right, my dears; and now let us change the
subject, for that is the best way to banish your regret.
_Ferdinand_. I was very much amused yesterday, mamma, with reading the
new book you gave me for a prize a little time ago.
_Mrs. B._ Miss Edgworth's "Early Lessons," do you mean, my dear
Ferdinand?
"Yes, mamma: I was reading that part of Harry and Lucy, in which their
father so clearly explains to them the expansibility of air, and the
power of steam; and I thought this might, perhaps, account for a thing
that has always puzzled me extremely, and that is, earthquakes.
[Footnote: Another remark of the child before mentioned.] I was reading
a description of one a few days ago, and feel very anxious to know what
can occasion such dreadful convulsions in the bowels of the earth. Will
you be so kind, mamma, as to tell me what is supposed to be the cause?"
_Mrs. B._ On this, as well as on most other philosophical subjects, the
opinions of the learned vary. Mr. *****, who was a great naturalist,
imagines some to be produced by fire, in the manner of volcanoes;
others, by the struggles of confined air, expanded by heat, and
endeavouring to get free. But there does not appear any sufficient
reason for this distinction. The union of fire and air seems necessary
to effect the explosion; since the former is an agent of no power,
without the aid of the latter.
_Ferdinand_. But pray, mamma, how does heat get into the inside of the
earth?
_Mrs. B._ There are hidden in the bowels of the earth, immense
quantities of inflammable matter: pyrites, bitumens, and other
substances of a similar nature, which only require moisture to put their
fires in motion. Water readily finds its way into the greatest depths
of earth: or even from subterraneous springs, this dreadful mixture may
occur, when immediately new appearances ensue; those substances which
have lain dormant for ages, and which, had they not met with this new
element, would have remained so for ages longer, appear suddenly to have
changed their nature: they grow hot, produce new air, and require room
for expansion. The struggles this air then makes to get free, throw all
above into convulsions, and produce those dreadful catastrophes which we
so properly denominate earthquakes. This appears the most rational
means of accounting for this phenomenon; I have not, therefore, thought
it needful to enter into the theoretical speculations of philosophers
upon the subject.
_Ferdinand._ Well, mamma, directly I read, in Henry and Lucy, an
account of those experiments, I felt almost sure, the expansion of the
air in the earth, was the cause of earthquakes; though I did not exactly
understand how it could be. I am much obliged to you for your
explanation.
_Mrs. B._ You are very welcome, my dear. You lately read an account of
one of these dreadful convulsions of nature. Where did it happen?
_Ferdinand._ In Jamaica, mamma, in the year 1692: it is a most dreadful
account. In two minutes' time, the town of Port Royal was destroyed,
and the houses sunk in a gulph forty fathoms deep. In every fathom,
there are six feet, you know, mamma; so, if we multiply forty by six, we
shall find that these poor creatures were instantly buried, with their
houses, to the depth of two hundred and forty feet under ground. In
other parts of the island, the sand rose like the waves of the sea,
lifting up all who stood upon it, and then dashing them into pits. The
water was thrown out of the wells with the greatest violence; the
openings of the earth were in some places so broad, that the streets
appeared twice as wide as they were before: in others, the ground yawned
and closed again continually, swallowing, at each yawn, two or three
hundred of the wretched inhabitants: sometimes the chasms suddenly
closing, caught them by the middle, and crushed them instantly to death.
From openings still more dreadful than these, spouted up cataracts of
water, drowning such as the earthquake had spared. Every thing was
destroyed: houses, people, and trees, shared one universal ruin. Great
pools of water afterwards appeared, which, when dried by the sun, left
only a plain of barren sand, without a single trace of its former
inhabitants.
_Mrs. B._ I recollect to have read the account, as well as that of a
very similar one that occurred some years ago at Lisbon, which is, you
know, the capital of Portugal. I have, at home, a very interesting
narrative of an earthquake that happened at Calabria, in the southern
part of Italy. It is related by Father Kircher, who was considered as a
prodigy of learning, and was also a very excellent man. When we return
home, I will look for the paper, and let you read it.
Just as Mrs. Bernard had finished speaking, a little girl, about six
years old, came running towards them, crying most bitterly, and
exclaiming: "Oh! dear lady, do pray come to my poor mammy, for she is
very bad indeed: I do think she is going to die, as my daddy did last
week; and then poor baby, and Tommy, and I shall die too, for there will
be nobody to take care of us when mammy is gone."
"Where does your mammy live, my poor little girl?" enquired Mrs.
Bernard.
"By the hill-side, Ma'am, at yonder cottage," said the child, pointing
to a low-roofed shed at no great distance.
Mrs. Bernard, accompanied by Emily, Louisa, and Ferdinand, proceeded
towards the spot pointed out by the little girl, and on entering the
cot, beheld a sight which wrung their gentle hearts with pity. On a
bundle of straw in one corner of the hovel, (for it deserved no better
name,) lay a young woman, apparently fast sinking into the arms of
death; at the foot of this wretched bed, sat a poor little half naked
boy, crying for that food his wretched mother could not supply; an
infant at her breast, was vainly endeavouring to procure the nourishment
which nature usually provides, but which want and misery had now nearly
exhausted.
Mrs. Bernard approached the poor sufferer, and took her hand. It was
cold and clammy: her lips moved, but no sound met the ears of the
attentive listeners Mrs. Bernard then enquired of the child, what food
her mother had lately taken.
"Oh! none, Ma'am, since the day before yesterday. When my poor daddy
was carried away, we had but one loaf left, and that she _giv'd_ all to
Tommy and me."
This account, though it shocked Mrs. Bernard extremely, still gave her
hopes that disease was not the sole cause of the poor woman's deplorable
situation, and induced her to believe, that proper nourishment, with
other attentions, might be the means of preserving a life so valuable to
her infant family.
Emily proposed hastening home for medical assistance, and also for that
nourishment which seemed not less necessary.
Mrs. Bernard requested she would take charge of her brother and sister,
as it was her intention to remain at the cottage till the poor woman
should revive a little. She also begged her to send Jane as quickly as
possible, who was an excellent nurse, and would cheerfully afford the
assistance of which the poor sufferer stood so much in need.
Emily immediately set off, accompanied by Louisa and Ferdinand. Before
they had proceeded far, they met a rosy milk-maid, singing with her pail
upon her head.
"Oh!" exclaimed Louisa, "I do think some milk would be good for the poor
woman and the children, till we can get them something better. Do let me
ask the young woman to take some to the hut."
Emily quite approved her sister's plan, and pointing out to the girl the
path that led to the hovel, they received her promise to call with the
milk, and proceeded on their way, their hearts already lightened of a
load of anxiety.
Mrs. Bernard was delighted at the sight of the milk-girl, and much
pleased with the consideration of the children in sending her. She
purchased a sufficient quantity, to supply, for the half starved
children, a plentiful meal.
"Have you no bread in the house, my dear," said she to Susan, for that
was the little girl's name.
"Yes, Ma'am, a little," returned she; "because I did not eat my last
bit, for fear we should not get any more; and then, if poor little Tommy
was ever so hungry, he would have nothing to eat, for mammy is too ill
to work for us now."
"But are you not hungry yourself?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.
"Oh yes, Ma'am," replied Susan, "that I am; but I don't mind it: I am
the biggest and the strongest, so it won't hurt me to be hungry a bit."
Mrs. Bernard looked the surprise and admiration at this truly good
child. "Well, my poor little Susan, you shall have a good meal now, as
soon as we can boil the milk. But the fire is almost out."
"Oh, Ma'am, I'll make a cheerful blaze in a minute," said Susan, whose
usual alacrity was increased by the hopes of a plentiful meal: and
instantly running into the lane, she, in a few minutes, collected a
large bundle of sticks, which she placed with much judgment upon the
expiring embers, and exciting them with her breath, a blazing fire soon
lighted the cold walls of the hut, and cast a ray of cheerfulness around
the gloomy scene. The heat from the fire, together with reflection from
its flame, gave to the child's before pallid countenance, a momentary
flush of health; and Mrs. Bernard thought, as she gazed upon her, she
had never seen a more interesting little creature. She supplied the
fire with a fresh bundle of faggots, which maintained the genial warmth;
and producing a saucepan, which for brightness might have vied with any
in Mrs. Bernard's kitchen, she put on the milk to boil.
Whilst this operation was performing, Susan swept up the hearth, reached
out of a cupboard two black porringers, and crumbled into them her
little store of bread.
Tommy, in the mean time, had crept from the bed, and was warming his
half-frozen limbs at the cheerful fire, eyeing with delight the meal
that was preparing for him.
As soon as the milk boiled, Mrs. Bernard poured it upon the bread, and
persuaded the poor woman to take a few spoonfuls. It appeared to revive
her much; and a violent flood of tears, which at this moment came to her
relief, proved still more salutary. Mrs. Bernard did not wish to stop
their flow: she took the little infant in her arms, and gave it a good
meal of bread and milk; after which it dropped into a sweet sleep, and
was again laid on the humble bed of its mother.
Susan and her brother ate their portion with the eagerness of real
hunger, and with hearts glowing with gratitude; though in a style of
infantine simplicity, they tanked their generous benefactress for her
kindness.
In about an hour Jane arrived, accompanied by Mr. Simmons, the medical
friend of the family. He was a man possessed of a liberal fortune, but
of a still more liberal mind. His skill in his profession was great, and
he was always ready to exert it to the utmost, for the relief of the
needy sufferer. He warmly entered into Mrs. Bernard's benevolent plan on
this occasion, and confirming her suspicion, that the poor woman
required nourshing diet and care, rather than medicine, it was
determined that Jane should remain at the cottage as nurse, and that the
children should be removed to a more comfortable abode, till their
mother was sufficiently recovered to attened properly to them. No
persuasions, however, could prevail upon poor little Susan to leave her
mother; she was, therefore, permitted to remain as Jane's assistant,
whilst her brother and the baby were conveyed to the hospitable mansion
of Mr. Bernard.
Under the kind care of Jane, and with the necessary assistance from her
benevolent mistress, the cottage soon assumed a new appearance. The
wretched pallet of straw was removed, and gave place to a comfortable
bed. A table and chairs were provided, and a degree of comparative
comfort reigned around.
The poor woman endeavoured to express her gratitude for so many
unexpected blessings, but was prevented by the positive commands of Mrs.
Bernard, who insisted upon her keeping herself, for this day at least,
perfectly tranquil.
The children at home had not been less busily, or less benevolently
employed, than their mother at the cottage. The moment little Tommy and
the baby entered the house, the charity-box, so recently stored by the
hand of industry, was recollected with delight. Some warm undergarments,
with a neat frock and petticoat, were soon found, that exactly fitted
little Tommy, and the baby was still more easily provided for.
"See, see, the effects of industry!" cried Ferdinand, jumping with
delight around his sisters, as Louisa tied the last string of Tommy's
frock, and Emily put on the baby's cap, which she declared made it look
quite beautiful: "Oh! how delightful to be able to be so useful. Now I
wish mamma would come home: how pleased she would be. What a pity that
poor little Susan is not here, to have some new clothes too; but we must
take her some, Emily. Let us go to the box, and look for some that will
fit her."
"We have none large enough, Ferdinand," said Emily.
"Oh yes, I do think this pink frock will be big enough," exclaimed
Ferdinand, drawing one out from underneath the others: "here is a great
tuck in it, let us pull it out; that will make it a great piece longer."
Saying these words, he was going to immediately to proceed to business,
when Louisa loudly exclaimed:
"Oh, stop, Ferdinand, stop; that is not a real tuck; there is a great
join under it, because my stuff was not long enough to make it all in
one piece."
"What a pity! How shall we manage then?" said Ferdinand, putting on a
look of great consideration.
"We must have patience till we can make one of proper size, I believe,"
added Emily: "but here comes mamma."
Ferdinand and Louisa instantly seized each a hand of little Tommy, and
led him forward, whilst Emily followed with the baby.
[lacuna]
_protegeis_, and thanked her children for the assistance they had
rendered her.
The idea of having afforded their mother assistance, as well as having
extended their benevolence towards a poor stranger in distress,
gladdened their affectionate little hearts, and never was there a
happier group.
"Ah, mamma, I am now convinced of the truth of what you said," continued
Ferdinand, "that the departure of Edward is not a real evil. Do you not
think it is very useful to see real sorrow sometimes?"
_Mrs. B._ Indeed, my dear boy, I do. It teaches us the true value of the
blessings we enjoy, and, I should hope, would fill our minds with
gratitude towards the Dispenser of so many favours.
In attention to their new charge, the children spent a most happy day,
and in the evening, Emily and Louisa, according to the promise they had
given Ferdinand, began to make the clothes for little Susan; whilst he
read aloud to them the following account of the earthquake in Calabria,
which had been the subject of their conversation during the morning
walk.
"Having hired a boat, in company with four more, two friars of the order
of St. Francis, and two seculars, we launched, on the twenty-fourth
[lacuna]
promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the city of Euphemia in
Calabria, where we had some business to transact, and where we designed
to tarry for some time. However, Providence seemed willing to cross our
designs; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, on
account of the weather; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were
as often driven back. At length, however, wearied with delay, we
resolved to prosecute our voyage; and although the sea seemed more than
usually agitated, yet we ventured forwards. The gulph of Carybdis,
which we approached, seemed whirled round in such a manner, as to form a
vast hollow, verging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onwards, and
turning my eyes to Etna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke, of
mountainous sizes, which entirely covered the whole island, and blotted
out the very shores from my view. This, together with the dreadful
noise, and the sulphureous stench which was strongly perceptible, filled
me with apprehensions that some most dreadful calamity was impending.
The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance: those who have
seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, covered all over with bubbles,
will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise was still
increased by the calmness and serenity of the weather: not a breeze, not
a cloud, which might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. I
therefore warned my companions that an earthquake was approaching; and,
after some time, making for the shore with all possible diligence, we
landed at Tropoea, happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening
dangers of the sea.
"But our triumphs at land were of short duration; for we had scarcely
arrived at the Jesuit's College in that city, when our ears were stunned
with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number of chariots
driven fiercely forward, the wheels rattling and the thongs cracking.
Soon after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued; so that the whole
track upon which we stood seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale
of a balance that continued wavering. This motion, however, soon grew
more violent, and being no longer able to keep my legs, I was thrown
prostrate upon the ground. In the mean time, the universal ruin around
me redoubled my amazement. The crash of falling houses, the tottering
of towers, and the groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my
terror and despair. On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of
ruin, and danger threatening wherever I should fly. I commended myself
to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, Oh, how vain was every
sublunary happiness! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all were useless
sounds, and as empty as the bubbles in the deep. Just standing on the
threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure, and the nearer I
approached, I only loved him the more. After some time, however, finding
that I remained unhurt amidst the general confusion, I resolved to
venture for safety, and running as fast as I could, reached the shore,
but almost terrified out of my reason. I soon found the boat in which I
had landed, and my companions also, whose terrors were even greater than
mine. Our meeting was not of that kind where every one is desirous of
telling his own happy escape; it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of
impending terrors.
"Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage along the
coast, and the next day came to Rosetta, where we landed, although the
earth still continued in violent agitation. But we were scarcely arrived
at our inn, when we were once more obliged to return to the boat, and in
about half an hour, we saw the greatest part of the town, and the inn at
which we had set up, dashed to the ground, and burying all its
inhabitants beneath its ruins.
"In this manner proceeding onwards in our little vessel, finding no
safety on land, and yet, from the smallness of our boat, having but a
very dangerous continuance at sea, we at length landed at Lopizium, a
castle midway between Tropoea and Euphemia, the city to which, as I said
before, we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing but
scenes of ruin and horror appeared; towns and castles levelled to the
ground: Strombolo, though at sixty miles distance, belching forth flames
in an unusual manner, and with a noise which I could distinctly hear.
But my attention was quickly turned from more remote, to contiguous
danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching earthquake, which we by
this time were grown acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences.
It every moment seemed to grow louder, and to approach more near. The
place on which we stood, now began to shake most dreadfully; so that
being unable to stand, my companions and I caught hold of whatever shrub
grew next us, and supported ourselves in that manner.
"After some time, this very violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up,
in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphemia, that lay within sight. In
the mean time, while we were preparing for this purpose, I turned my
eyes towards the city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that
seemed to rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the
weather was so very serene. We waited, therefore, till the cloud was
past away, then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk.
Wonderful to tell! nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where
it stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad
catastrophe, but could see none: all was become a melancholy solitude--a
scene of hideous desolations. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest
of some human being that could give us some little information, we at
length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified with
terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning the fate of the city;
but he could not be prevailed upon to give us an answer. We entreated
him, with every expression of tenderness and pity, to tell us; but his
senses were quite wrapped up in the contemplation of the danger he had
escaped. We offered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight.
We still persisted in our offices of kindness, but he only pointed to
the place of the city, like one out of his senses; and then running up
into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city
of Euphemia; and as we continued our melancholy course along the shore,
the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, presented nothing
but the remains of cities, and men scattered, without a habitation, over
the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful
voyage by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers,
both at sea and land."
"The children were all highly interested by this extract, but a secret
awe crept over their minds, as they listened to the account of this
dreadful visitation, and they felt thankful that a gracious Providence
had placed him in this happy isle, where such tremendous convulsions are
but seldom felt.
"I learnt a passage from Cowper's 'Task,' the other day, mamma," said
Emily, "in which he deplores a similar catastrophe, that occurred in
Sicily some time ago: may I repeat it to my brother and sister?"
"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Bernard.
Emily having received the approbation of her mother, immediately recited
the following striking passage:
"Alas, for Sicily! rude fragments now
Lie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood.
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets,
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord
Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show,
Suffer a syncope and solemn passe,
While God performs upon the trembling stage
Of his own works, his dreadful part alone,
How does the earth receive him? With what signs
Of gratulation and delight, her king.
Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad,
Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums,
Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads?
She quakes at his approach: her hollow womb
Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps
And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot.
"The hills move lightly, and the mouontains smoke,
For he hath touch'd them. From the extremest point
Of elevation, down into the abyss.
His wrath is busy, and his arm is felt.
The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise:
The rivers die into offensive pools,
And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a gross
And mortal nuisance into all the air.
What solid was, by transformation strange,
Grows fluid; and the fix'd and rooted earth,
Tormented into billows, heaves and swells,
Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl,
Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense
The tumult and the overthrow; the pangs
And agonies of human and of brute
Multitudes, fugitive on every side,
And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene
Migrates uplifted, and with all its soil
Alighting in far distant fields, finds out
A new possessor, and survives the change.
Ocean has caught the phrenzy; and upwrought
To an enormous and o'erbearing height,
Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice
Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore
Resistless. Never such a sudden flood.
Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge,
Possess'd an inland scene. Where sow the throng
That press'd the beach, and hasty to depart,
Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone!
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep,
A prince with half his people! Ancient towers,
And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes,
Where beauty oft, and *etter'd worth, consume
Life in the unproductive shades of death,
Fall prone. The pale inhabitants come forth,
And happy in their unforseen release
From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy
The terrors of the day that sets them free."
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Bernard were conversing in this instructive and
interesting manner, with their little family, they were interrupted by
the arrival of Jane. She brough a good account of the poor woman, who
was already considerably better, and felt her appetite in some measure
returning.
"I think, Ma'am," continued Jane, "that a little sago or tapioca, or
something of that kind, would be very nice and nourishing for her to
take, before she settles for the night."
Mrs. Bernard quite approved this proposition: she desired Emily to bring
a small jar of tapioca from the closet in the store-room, and giving
Jane a sufficient quantity for the poor woman's supper, dismissed her
again to her charge.
The children all rejoiced to hear so good an accouont, and begged their
mother would allow them to walk to the cottage the following morning.
She readily promised a compliance with their request, provided the
weather should prove favourable.
Louisa, who had been for some minutes examining the tapioca, exclaimed:
"Pray, mamma, what is this; I cannot make it out: it does not look like
a seed, I think."
_Mrs. B_. It is, my dear, the produce of a plant, but not its seed. The
plant is called cassada, and it grows in the Cape Verd Islands, as well
as in Rio de Janeiro, and many other parts of South America. The root
is a wholesome vegetable, but the expressed juice from it is a rank
poison.
"How extraordinary!" said Ferdinand: "I should think they could not eat
the root, without taking the juice also."
"You will be still more surprised," said his mother, "to hear that this
very juice, after standing some time, deposits a sediment, which, when
dried, is not only wholesome, but extremely nutritious: and, in fact,
forms the tapioca which Louisa now holds in her hand."
"And sago, mamma," said Ferdinand, "is that the produce of a plant too?"
_Mrs. B_. Yes, my dear; it is obtained from a plant which grows in the
East Indies: the medullary, or pithy part of which, is beaten with
water, and made into cakes. These the Indians use as bread. This, when
reduced into granules and dried, forms the sago we find so nourishing to
persons of weakly and delicate constitutions. But it is now, my dear
children, quite time to retire.
The children instantly arose, and putting away their work, took leave of
their parents; and having peeped at their little charge, who were both
in a sweet sleep, they retired to their pillows, and enjoyed that
tranquil repose which generally visits the young and innocent.