The twilight now is blushing o’er the earth—

The west is glowing like a garden, rich

With summer’s many-tinted blooms; the flowers

Of earth hold up their fairy cups to catch

The softly falling dew-drops; the bright stars

Are set like glorious diamonds on the dark

Blue drapery of the halls of heaven; the pale,

Sweet moon, like some young angel of the air,

Floats from the east upon her silver wing;

Eve’s golden clouds hung low—and thin, white mists

Rise silently and beautifully up

Through the calm atmosphere. Serenity

And loveliness and beauty are abroad

O’er the whole world of Nature.

At this hour,

When all the dark, wild passions of the breast

Are hushed and quelled by Nature’s spell of power,

When every wayward feeling is rebuked

And chastened by the blended influence

Of earth and heaven, I’ve stolen forth alone

Beneath the blue and glorious sky, to hold

Communion with the golden hours now gone

Into the past eternity.

My heart

Is very soft to-night, and joys long past

Shine through the silver mists of memory,

Like sweet stars of the soul. My brow is flushed,

My bosom throbs, and blesséd tears well up

From my heart’s unsealed fountain, as I see,

Through the pale shadows of the years, the home

Where first I felt the sweet, bewildering bliss

Of new existence. Softly, through the deep

Green foliage of the grove, the beautiful

White cottage peeps with its thick-blooming vines,

And in the distance the still church-yard, where

Repose the cold, unthrobbing hearts of those

I loved in childhood, lifts its marble shafts

Beneath the drooping willows. I behold

The shaded paths where my young footsteps strayed

To gather wild flowers at the morning tide,

And for a few brief moments once again

I seem to wander through the dear old wood.

The birds sing round me, the dark forest pines,

Stirred by the breeze, make music like the low,

Faint murmurs of the sea, my playmates shout

Beside me, and my mother’s music call

Of gentle love is in my ear.

Oh, there,

In that sweet home, I cherished fairy dreams

Of happiness, sad all my being wore

A glow of deep, ideal loveliness.

My vanished childhood rises to my view

In pale and melancholy beauty. Life

Since then hath been but desolate. Alas!

What heart-chords have been broken, what bright dreams

Been shadowed by the hue of grief. No more

The Egeria of my spirit-worship haunts

The grove and wood. No charm can woo her back,

She will not hear my call, she answers not

The witching spell of fancy. It is not

That Nature has grown old. Her skies are still

As blue, her trees as green, her dews as soft,

Her flowers as sweet, her clouds as beautiful,

Her birds, her waves, her winds as musical

As when I was a child—Alas! the change

Is in my heart.

Oh, blessed memories

Of home! ye are the worshiped household gods

Upon my spirit’s altar. Vanished years!

Ye are the dew-drops that my spirit’s flowers

Enfold within their petals. Years have passed

Since that all-mournful day when, with a sad

And breaking heart, and streaming eyes, I left

The scenes of childhood, and went forth to find

A home amid the stranger-crowds, where I

Have learned to wear the mask that others wear,

To smile while agony is in my soul,

Yet at an hour like this, when Nature glows

With deepest loveliness, when earth and heaven

Unite to woo my heart from its retreat

Of gloom and sorrow, I can wander back

To quench my faint and sinking spirit’s thirst

At young life’s gushing fountains, and forget

That I am not once more a happy child.

* * * * *

=THE BOY AFAR UNTO HIS SISTER.=

=BY LILIAN MAY.=

There are hearts in Northland valleys

Throbbing, beating wild for me,

And their soul-love yearneth ever

For a far-off one to see;

And the heart-strings of a sister

Harpeth all their melody,

Wild, sweet lays, for her lone brother,

In her joyness and her glee.

Oh, the ties which bind me to her

Keep aglow my ardent heart,

Thrilling it with pure emotion—

May it nevermore depart;

Oh, I love her ever dearly,

Sister kind she’s been to me—

All her words are golden music

To my heart-hopes minstrelsy.

Through the mellow sunlight glim’ring,

Glinting down upon the stream,

Voices sweet of love-tones falleth,

On my gorgeous, bright day-dream,

And I fancy forms of beauty

Linger then anear my side—

’Mid them all I see my sister

Through the misty visions glide.

In her love, and in her beauty,

Softly, slowly doth she glide,

O’er the pathway of my day-dream,

As a moon-beam on the tide;

And she whispers close beside me,

Meekly soft, and kindly low,

Words, that kindle up my heart-hopes,

Which no other one may know.

When the fairies from the Southland

Bring from far the meek-eyed flowers—

Undine trippeth o’er the waters,

In the rosy June-day hours—

As I watch her mellow glances

Lighting up the fitful stream,

I shall tell _her_ all the haloes

Of a youthful poet’s dream;

And I’ll gather on the lea-land,

By the hill-side, in the grove,

Gems she’ll prize far more than jewels,

The bright flowers which I love,

With the dew-drops heavy-laden,

Sparkling in the red dawn light,

As the molten glory beameth

O’er the ebon wand of night.

Oh, my heart throbs wildly ever,

In its loneliness and wo,

And I long me for the summer,

When the Southland breezes blow;

Gladly, quickly, then I’ll hasten,

In the bright mid-summer day,

To my love-light Northland sister,

In my childhood’s home away.

* * * * *

=BLIND ROSA.=

=BY HENRIK CONSCIENCE. TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT.=

On a splendid summer day in 1846, the diligence was rolling along the

great highway from Antwerp to Turnhout at the regular hour. The horses

trotted, the wheels rattled, the carriage creaked, the driver clucked

incessantly with his tongue in order to quicken the speed of his cattle,

dogs barked in the distance, birds soared up from the fields high into

the air, the shadow sped alongside of the diligence, and danced along

with its peculiar motion amongst the trees and bushes.

Suddenly the conductor pulled up not far from a solitary inn. He leaped

down from his seat, opened the door of the diligence without saying a

word, slapped down the step, and put out his hand to a traveler, who,

with a knapsack in his hand, descended to the road. In the same silence

the conductor again put up the step, closed the door, sprung again into

his seat, and whistled gently to intimate to the horses that they must

move. The horses trotted on; the heavy vehicle pursued its monotonous

career.

In the mean time the traveler had entered the inn, and seated himself at

a table with a glass of ale before him. He was a man of more than

ordinary size, and appeared to be about fifty. You might at the same

time have supposed him to be sixty, if his vigorous carriage, his quick

glance, and a certain youthful smile about his lips, had not testified

that his soul and senses were much younger than his appearance. His hair

was gray, his forehead and cheeks covered with wrinkles, and his

complexion bore the stamp of early age which excessive exertion and

long-continued care impress on the countenance. Yet, at the same time,

his breast heaved with vigor, he bore his head upright, and his eyes

still gleamed with the fire of manhood. By his dress you would take him

for a wealthy citizen; it had nothing peculiar, except that the

frock-coat buttoned to the throat, and the large meerschaum pipe which

hung at his breast, bespoke a Flemish or a German officer.

The people of the house, having attended to his demands, again returned

to their occupations, without taking further notice of him. He saw the

two daughters go to and fro, the father renew the fire with wood and

turf, and the mother fill the kettle with water; but not one of them

addressed to him a single word, though his eyes followed earnestly every

member of the family, and although in his friendly glance might have

been read the question—“Do you not recognize me?”

At this moment his attention was caught by the striking of a clock which

hung upon the wall. As if the sound had painfully affected him, an

expression of disagreeable surprise appeared in his countenance, and

chased the smile from his lips. He stood up and contemplated the unlucky

clock while it went sounding stroke after stroke, to the number of nine.

The mother observed the singular emotion of the stranger, and placed

herself in wonder at his side; she, too, looked at the clock, as if to

discover what he found so remarkable in it.

“The clock has a pleasant sound—has it not?” said she. “It has now gone

for twenty years without the hand of the clockmaker touching it.”

“Twenty years!” sighed the traveler. “And where, then, is the clock

which hung there before? What has become of the image of the Virgin

which stood here upon the mantlepiece. They are both probably broken and

gone.”

The woman looked in astonishment at the stranger, and replied:—“The

figure of the Virgin, Zanna broke as she played with it as a child. But

it was really so pitiful, that the priest himself had advised us to buy

another. Here stands the new one, and it is much handsomer.”

The traveler shook his head dissentingly. “And the clock,” continued the

hostess, “you will soon hear. The wretched old thing is always too late,

and has hung from time immemorial in the lumber-room. There! now it is

just beginning to buzz.”

And, in truth, there came from the adjoining room a peculiar, croaking

noise. It was like the hoarse note of a bird which slowly wheezed out

“Cuckoo! cuckoo!” But this extraordinary sound called into the

traveler’s countenance a beaming smile; accompanied by the hostess, he

hastened into the lumber-room, and there, with glistening eyes, gazed on

the old clock, which still had not got to the end of its “Cuckoo!

cuckoo!”

Both daughters approached the stranger with curiosity, and stared with

wonder at him, their large eyes turning from him to their mother full of

inquiry. The looks of the damsels awoke the stranger to consciousness,

and he returned to the room, followed by the three women. His heart

clearly felt very happy, for his features glowed with so attractive an

expression of pleasure and good-will, and his eyes bedewed with tears

glanced so brightly, that the two young girls with evident sympathy

approached him. He seized their hands and said:—

“You think my conduct strange, eh, children? You cannot conceive why the

voice of the old cuckoo delights me so much. Ah! I too have been a

child, and at that time, my father, when he had done his work, used to

come and drink here his glass of ale. When I had behaved well, I was

allowed to accompany him. For whole hours have I stood and waited for

the cuckoo opening its little door; I have danced and leaped to the

measure of her song, and admired in my childish simplicity the poor bird

as a masterpiece. And the sacred image of the Virgin, which one of you

has broken, I loved it for its beautiful blue mantle, and because the

little Jesus-child stretched its arms toward me, and smiled as I smiled.

Now is the child—myself—almost sixty years old, with gray hair and

furrowed countenance. Four-and-thirty years have I passed in the steppes

of Russia, and yet I remember the sacred image of Mary, and the cuckoo,

as if I had only been brought hither by my father yesterday.”

“You are from our village, then?” said Zanna.

“Yes, certainly,” answered the stranger, with a joyous precipitance. But

this announcement had not the anticipated effect; the girls only smiled

familiarly; that was all; the intelligence seemed to give them neither

pleasure nor pain. The traveler turned to the mother:—

“Well,” said he, “what is become of Baes Joostens?”

“You mean Baas Jan,” answered the hostess; “he died about twenty years

ago.”

“And his wife, the good, stout Petronella?”

“Dead too,” was the answer.

“Dead! dead!” sighed the stranger; “and the young herdsman, Andries, who

made such handsome baskets?”

“Also dead,” replied the hostess.

The traveler dropped his head and gave himself up to gloomy thoughts. In

the meantime the hostess went out into the barn to relate to her husband

what had passed with the unknown guest. The host entered the room

carelessly, and awoke by his noisy wooden shoes the stranger out of his

reverie. He sprung up, and with an exclamation of delight, rushed with

outstretched arms toward the host, who coldly took his hand, and almost

with indifference looked at him.

“Don’t you either know me again, Peter Joostens?” cried the stranger,

quite confounded.

“No, I do not recollect ever to have seen you,” replied the host.

“No! Don’t you know who it was that ventured his life under the ice to

rescue you from an otherwise inevitable death?”

The host shrugged his shoulders. Deeply wounded, the traveler continued,

almost moved to tears:—

“Have you actually forgotten the youth who defended you against your

bigger comrades, and supplied you with so many birds’-eggs, that you

might make a beautiful garland for the may-pole? He who taught you to

make so many pipes of reeds, and who so often took you with him when he

went with the tile-burner’s cart to market?”

“Something of the kind floats dimly in my memory,” answered the host;

“my late father used to tell me that when I was about six years old I

was very near perishing under the ice; but that Tall Jan drew me out,

and that he went away with the rest in the emperor’s time to serve for

cannon fodder. Who knows now where his bones lie in unconsecrated earth?

God be merciful to his poor soul!”

“Ah! now at length you know me!” exclaimed the stranger, joyously; “I am

tall Jan, or rather, Jan Slaets.”

As he did not receive an immediate answer, he added, in surprise:—

“You recollect the good shot at the bird-shooting, who for four miles

round was reckoned the best sportsman, who every time carried off the

prize, and who was envied by the young men because the girls showed him

the preference? I am he, Jan Slaets of the hill.”

“Very possibly,” said the host, incredulously; “at the same time, do not

take it amiss, my good sir, if I do not remember you. Our village has no

longer a bird-shooting; the shooting-ground is converted into private

property, and for a year past has been unoccupied, owing to the death of

the possessor.”

Deterred by the cold reception of the host, the traveler gave up the

attempt to make himself known; but as he prepared to go further, he

said, calmly:—

“In the village here there live a good many of my friends who cannot

have forgotten me. You, Peter Joostens, were very young at that time. I

am persuaded that the brick-maker, Paul, will rush to my arms the moment

that he sees me. Does he yet live in the clay dale?”

“The brick-yard became, many years ago, a prey to the flames; the

clay-field is cultivated, and bears now the finest hay. The meadow now

belongs to the rich Mr. Tirt.”

“And what has become of Paul?”

“After their misfortunes, the whole family went away. . . I do not know

certainly, perhaps he, too, is dead. But I observe that you talk of our

grandfathers’ time, and it will be difficult to get answers to all your

questions unless you go to the grave-digger. He can reckon up for you on

his fingers what has happened for a hundred years past, or more.”

“I can believe that; Peter Jan must have reached his ninetieth year.”

“Peter Jan? That is not the name of the grave-digger; his name is Lauw

Stevens.”

A glad smile illumined the countenance of the traveler.

“God be praised,” he exclaimed, “that he has at least left one of my

comrades still in life!”

“Indeed! was Lauw your friend, sir?”

“Not exactly my friend,” replied the traveler, shaking his head: “we

were always at loggerheads. Once, in the heat of our strife, I flung him

from the little bridge into the brook, so that he ran great risk of

drowning; but above thirty years are flown since then. Lauw will be glad

to see me again. Give me now your hand, good Joostens; I shall often

come to drink a glass of ale with you here.”

He paid, took his knapsack under his arm, and went out. Behind the inn

he took his way through a young pine-wood. His interview with the host,

although not very animating, had, nevertheless infused comfort into the

heart of the traveler. Memories from his childhood transported him;

memories at every step crowded upon him, and gave him new life. True,

the young wood could say nothing to him; in its place stood formerly a

tall pine-wood, whose trees had concealed so many birds’-nests, under

whose shade the refreshing bilberries had ripened. It had fared with the

wood as with the inhabitants of the village—the old trees had fallen,

or were cut down, and a new generation, who were strange and indifferent

to him, had taken their places. But the songs of the birds which

resounded on all sides were still the same; the wind murmured

complainingly as before through the branches; the cricket sang as it

used to do, and the fresh aroma of the wood still filled the air. All

objects had changed, but the work of eternal nature had continued in its

principal features the same. Thoughts like these arose in the traveler’s

soul, and now glad and inspirited he continued his way without looking

up from the ground till he came out of the wood.

Here opened before his eyes the wide extent of fields and meadows,

amongst which the brook’s silvery thread coursed playfully its way. In

the background, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, the pointed

spire of the church lifted aloft its gilded vane, which gleamed in the

sunshine like a morning-star; and still beyond it the windmill whirled

its red wings.

Overcome by an unspeakable emotion, the traveler stood still—his eyes

filled with tears, he let his knapsack fall, and stretched out his arms,

while his countenance glowed with love and rapture. At the same moment

the bells rang for Angelus. The traveler fell on his knees, sunk his

head deep upon his bosom, and continued thus for a considerable time,

immovable though trembling. A prayer streamed up from his heart and

lips; this was evident as he cast his eyes full of inward thankfulness

toward heaven, and lifted his clasped hands to God. He then took up

again his knapsack, and said, with his gaze riveted on the

church-tower—“Thou at least hast not become changed, thou little

church, in which I was baptized, in which I celebrated my first

communion, in which all looked to me so wonderful and so holy. Yes, I

shall see them again, the Sacred Virgin in her garments of gold, and her

silver diadem; St. Anthony with the little friendly swine; St. Ursula

and the devil with the red tongue, of which I so often dreamed! and the

organ, upon which the sexton played so beautifully, while we sung with

all our hearts—

‘Ave Maria

Gratia plena.’”

The last words the traveler sung aloud, while a tear trickled down his

cheek. Silent and dreaming he went on till he came to a little bridge,

which led over a brook into a meadow. There his countenance brightened,

and he said with emotion—“Here I first pressed Rosa’s hand! Here our

eyes confessed for the first time that there is a happiness on earth

which seizes irresistibly our hearts, and opens heaven to the young! As

now, so then shone the yellow iris flower in the sunshine; the frogs

croaked, full of the enjoyment of life, and the larks sang above our

heads.”

He went over the bridge and said aloud to himself—“The frogs which

witnessed our love are dead; the flowers are dead; the larks are dead!

Their children now greet the old man, who like a spectre returns home

from the past times. And Rosa, my beloved Rosa! livest thou still?

Perhaps . . . . probably married and surrounded by children. Those who

stay at home forget so soon the unhappy brother who wanders over distant

lands in sorrow and care.” . . . . His lips moved as if he were

smiling:—“Poor pilgrim!” he sighed, “there wells up again in my heart

the old jealousy, as if my heart yet remained in its first spring. The

time of love is long gone by! . . . . But so be it; if she only knows

me, and remembers our former relation, I shall not repent the long

journey of eighteen hundred miles, and will then willingly lie down in

my grave, and sleep by the side of my ancestors and friends!”

A little farther, and near the village, he went into a public-house, on

whose sign there was a plough, and bade the hostess bring him a glass of

ale. In the corner by the fire sat a very old man, who stared into the

fire as immovably as a stone. Before the hostess had returned from the

cellar, the traveler had recognized the old man. He drew his chair close

to him, seized his hand, and said gladly—

“Thank God, who has let us live so long, Baes Joos! We yet remain from

the good old time. Don’t you know me again? No! The audacious lad that

so often crept through your hedge, and stole your apples before they

were ripe?”

“Six-and-ninety years,” muttered the old man, without moving.

“Very likely, but tell me, Baes Joos, is the wainwright’s Rosa living

yet?”

“Six-and-ninety years!” repeated the old man with a hollow voice.

The hostess came with the ale, and said—“He is blind and deaf, sir,

don’t give yourself the trouble to talk with him; he cannot understand

you.”

“Blind and deaf,” exclaimed the stranger, disconcerted. “What

irrepairable devastations time commits in the space of thirty years! I

walk here in the midst of the ruins of a whole race of men.”

“You were asking after the wainwright’s Rosa?” continued the hostess;

“our wainwright has four daughters, but amongst them is no Rosa. The

eldest is called Lisbeth, and is married to the footman; the second is

named Goude, and makes caps; the third is Nell; and the youngest, Anna:

the poor thing is short-sighted.”

“I am not speaking of these people,” exclaimed the stranger, with

impatience; “I mean the family of Kobe Meulinck.”

“Ah, they are all dead long ago, dear sir!” was the hostess’s reply.

Deeply agitated, the traveler paid for his ale, and left the

public-house with a feverish impetuosity. Out of doors he pressed his

hand upon his eyes, and exclaimed in despair:—“God! even she! my poor

Rosa—dead! Always, always the inevitable word—dead! dead! Then shall

no one on earth recognize me! Not one kind eye shall greet me!”

With a staggering step, as if he were drunk, he plunged into the wood,

and pressed his throbbing head against a tree, that he thus might by

degrees recover himself. He then directed his course toward the village.

His way led him across the solitary church-yard, where he remained

standing with bare head at the foot of a crucifix, and said:—“Here,

before the image of the Crucified One, Rosa gave me her word that she

would remain true to me, and wait for my return. Sorrow overwhelmed us;

upon this bench fell our tears; in deep grief she received the gold

cross, my dearly purchased pledge of love. Poor beloved one! Perhaps now

I stand by thy grave!”

With this sorrowful observation he sank motionless upon the bench, where

he long continued sitting, as if unconscious. His eye wandered over the

church-yard, and the small mounds of earth which covered the freshest

graves. It grieved him to see how many of the wooden crosses were fallen

with age, without the hand of a child troubling itself to raise again

these memorials in a father’s or a mother’s place of rest. His parents,

too, slept here under the earth, but who could show him the spot which

their graves occupied?

In this manner he sat long, sunk in gloomy reverie; the unfathomable

eternity weighed heavily on his soul, when a human step awoke him out of

his dreams. It was the old grave-digger, who, with his spade on his

shoulder, came along by the church-yard wall. Misery and indigence might

be read in his whole exterior: his back was bent, and through his

constant labor with the spade had become crooked; his hair was white,

and wrinkles ploughed his brow; though strength and spirit still spoke

in his eye.

The traveler recognized at the first glance Lauw—his rival, and would

have willingly sprung toward him; but the bitterly disappointed hopes

which he had already experienced held him back, and inspired him with a

resolve to say nothing, but to see whether Lauw would know him again.

The grave-digger remained standing some paces from him, contemplated him

awhile with common curiosity, and then began to mark out a long square

with his spade, and to prepare a new grave. From time to time, however,

he continued to cast stolen glances at the man who sat before him on the

bench, and a secret melancholy joy gleamed in his eyes. The traveler,

who deceived himself as to the expression in the grave-digger’s

countenance, felt his heart begin to beat, and expected that Lauw would

come forward and name his name.

But the grave-digger still continued to look him sharply in the face,

and then put his hand into his coat-pocket. He drew out a little old

book, bound in dirty parchment, to which was attached a strap with a

lead pencil. He turned round and appeared to write something in the

book.

This action, accompanied by a triumphant glance, astonished the stranger

so much that he stood up, advanced to the grave-digger, and asked him in

surprise, “What do you write in your book?”

“That is my affair,” answered Lauw Stevens; “for a confounded long time

there has stood a vacant place in my list: I make a cross by your name.”

“You know me, then?” exclaimed the traveler, with the liveliest joy.

“Know you?” answered the grave-digger, jeeringly; “that I cannot exactly

say; I only remember, as if it were yesterday, that a jealous fellow

flung me into the brook, and nearly drowned me, because the wainwright’s

Rosa loved me. Since that time many an Easter taper has burnt—”

“_You!_ did wainwright’s Rosa love?” said the stranger, interrupting

him; “that is not true, let me tell you.”

“You know that well enough, you jealous fool. Did not she wear for a

whole year the blessed ring of silver that I brought with me from

Scherpenheuvel, till you yourself took the ring by force, and cast it

into the brook?”

The traveler’s countenance brightened into a melancholy smile.

“Lauw! Lauw! the recollection of the old times makes children of us

again. Believe me, Rosa never loved you as you fancy. She took your ring

out of friendship, and because it had been blessed. In my youth I was

rude and harsh, and did not always act in the best manner toward my

comrades; but should not the four-and-thirty years which have operated

so annihilatingly on men and things, have calmed down our evil passions?

Shall I, in the only man who has recollected me, find an irreconcilable

enemy? Come, give me your hand; let us be friends; I will make you

comfortable for your whole life.”

But the grave-digger drew angrily his hand back, and answered in a

caustic tone—

“It is too late to forget. You have embittered my life, and there passes

no day but I think of you. Is that, think you, to bless your name? You,

who contributed so much to my misfortune, may easily guess.”

The traveler struck his trembling hands together, and lifting his eyes

toward heaven, exclaimed—

“God! hatred alone recognizes me! hate only never forgets!”

“You have done well,” continued the grave-digger, “to come back to rest

amongst your departed ancestors. I have kept a good grave for you. When

the headstrong long Jan lies under the earth, the rain will wash misery

from his corpse.”

The traveler trembled in every limb at this rude jest. Anger and

displeasure kindled in his eyes. But this hasty emotion quickly

vanished; dejection and pity took their place.

“You refuse,” he said, “to extend your hand to a brother who returns

after four-and-thirty years; the first greeting which you give to an old

comrade is bitter mockery? That is not well of you, Lauw. But let it be

so; we will speak no more of this. Tell me only where my late parents

are laid.”

“That I don’t know,” said the grave-digger; “it is full five-and-twenty

years since, and since that time the same spot has certainly been thrice

used for new graves.”

These words made the traveler so sorrowful, that his head sunk on his

bosom, and with an immovable look he continued lost in his melancholy

thoughts.

The grave-digger proceeded with his labor, but he also seemed to linger

over it, as if a gloomy thought had taken possession of him. He saw the

deep suffering of the traveler, and was terrified at that thirst of

revenge which had caused him thus to torture a fellow-mortal. This

change of mood showed itself even upon his countenance; the bitter

mockery disappeared from his lips, he contemplated for a moment with

increasing sympathy his afflicted comrade, advanced slowly toward him,

seized his hand, and said in a low, but still heart-touching voice—

“Jan, my dear friend, pardon me what I have said and done. I have

behaved cruelly and wickedly to thee; but thou must remember, Jan, that

I have suffered so much through thee.”

“Lauw!” exclaimed the stranger with emotion, and shaking his hand, “that

was the violence of our youth. See how little I thought of thy enmity,

for I felt myself infinitely happy when I heard thee name my name. And

for that I am grateful to thee, though thy bitterness has gone to my

heart. But tell me, Lauw, where is Rosa buried? She will rejoice in

heaven, when she sees us thus as reconciled brothers stand upon her last

resting-place.”

“How?—Rosa buried!” exclaimed the grave-digger. “Would to God that she

were buried, poor thing!”

“What meanest thou?” cried the traveler: “does Rosa yet live?”

“Yes, she lives,” was the answer, “if that terrible fate that she has to

endure can be called life.”

“Thou terrifiest me. For God’s sake tell me what calamity has happened

to her?”

“She is blind.”

“Blind? Rosa blind! Without eyes to see me? Wo, wo is me!”

Overwhelmed by anguish, he advanced with uncertain steps to the bench,

and sunk down upon it. The grave-digger placed himself before him, and

said—

“For ten years has she been blind—and begs her daily bread. I give her,

every week, two stivers: and, when we bake, we always remember her with

a little cake.”

The traveler sprung up, shook powerfully the grave-digger’s hand and

said—

“A thousand thanks! God bless thee for thy love to Rosa! I pledge myself

in his name to reward thee for it. I am rich, very rich. By evening we

will see one another again. But tell me now, at once, where Rosa is to

be found: every moment is to me a hundred years of suffering.”

With these words, he drew the grave-digger along with him, and directed

his steps toward the church-yard gate. Arrived there, the grave-digger

pointed with his finger, and said—

“See there, by the side of the wood, there rises a smoke from a low

chimney. That is the house of besom-binder Nelis Oom: she lives there.”

Without waiting for further explanation, the traveler hastened through

the village toward the indicated spot. He was soon at the dwelling. It

was a low hut, built of willow-wands and clay, but on the outside neatly

white-washed. Some paces from the door, four little children were

playing and amusing themselves, in the bright sunshine, with planting in

circles blue corn-flowers and red poppies. They were bare-foot and

half-naked: the eldest, a boy of about six years old, had nothing

whatever on but a linen shirt. While his little brother and sisters

looked at the stranger with fear and shyness, the boy let his eyes rest

steadily on the unknown one, full of curiosity and wonder.

The stranger smiled at the children, but advanced without delay into the

hut, in one corner of which a man was busy making besoms, while a woman

sat with her spinning-wheel by the hearth. These people could not be

more than thirty years of age, and at the first glance might be

perceived their contentment with their lot. For the rest, all around

them looked as clean as country life within such narrow space will

allow. The stranger’s entrance obviously surprised them, although they

received him with kindness and offered him their services. They were

clearly of opinion that he wanted to inquire his way, for the husband

put himself in readiness to go and show it him. But he asked with

evident emotion whether Rosa lived there: and the husband and wife cast

astonished looks at each other, and could scarcely find words to answer

him.

“Yes, good sir,” said the man at length: “Rosa lives here; but at

present she is gone out a-begging. Do you wish to speak with her?”

“God! God!” exclaimed the traveler. “Cannot you quickly find her?”

“That would be difficult to do, sir: she has gone out with Trientje, to

make her round for the week; but we expect her in an hour’s time, she

never stays out.”

“Can I wait for her here, good friends?”

Scarcely had he uttered the words, before the man hastened into the next

room, and fetched thence an easy-chair, which—although of rude

workmanship—appeared more inviting than the still ruder chairs which

stood in the outer room. Not satisfied with this, the wife took out of a

chest a white cushion, which she laid in the chair, and requested the

stranger to sit down. He was astonished at the simple but well-meant

attention, and returned the cushion with many thanks. He then sat down

in silence, and let his eyes glance round the room, as if to discover

something which might speak of Rosa. As his head was thus turned aside,

he felt a small hand gently thrust into his, and his fingers stroked. He

looked round curiously to discover who bestowed on him this mark of

friendliness, and he met the blue eyes of the boy, who—with heavenly

innocence—looked up to him, as if he had been his father or brother.

“Come here, Peterken,” said the mother; “thou shouldst not be so

forward, dear child.”

But Peterken did not seem to hear this warning, and continued to hold

the hand of the stranger, and look at him. The stranger found the

friendship of the child unaccountable, and said—

“Dear child, thy blue eyes penetrate deep into my soul. As thou art so

friendly, I will give thee something.”

He put his hand into his pocket, and took out a little purse, with

silver clasp and pearls, that changed color in the light, and gave it to

him, after he had dropped into it some pieces of money. The boy gazed on

the purse with great delight, but did not let go the stranger’s hand.

The mother approached, and desired the child to go away.

“Peterken,” said she, “thou wilt not be rude: thank the gentleman, and

kiss his hand.”

The boy kissed his hand, stooped his head toward him, and said—in a

clear voice—

“Many thanks, tall Jan.”

A clap of thunder could not have so startled the traveler as his own

name thus pronounced by the innocent child. Tears started involuntarily

from his eyes: he lifted the boy upon his knee, and now gazed deeply

into his face.

“So, dost thou know me, thou blessed angel! me, whom thou never saw’st

before! Who taught thee my name?”

“Blind Rosa,” was the answer.

“But how is it possible that thou hast known me? It must be God himself

who has enlightened thy childish mind.”

“O, I know you very well,” said Peterken. “When I lead Rosa about to

beg, she always talks of you. She says that you are tall, and have dark,

fiery eyes; and that you will come back again, and bring us all such

beautiful things. And so I was not afraid of you, good sir; for Rosa had

bade me to love you, and you are to give me a bow and arrow.”

The child’s simple confidence made the traveler perfectly happy. He

kissed him hastily, and with tenderness, and said in a solemn tone—

“Father—mother—this child is rich! I will bring him up and educate

him, and richly endow him. It shall be a blessing to him to have

recognized me!”

Joy and amazement overwhelmed the parents. The man stammered forth—

“Ah! you are too good. We, ourselves, thought that we knew you, but we

were not so certain of it, because Rosa told us that you were not so

rich a gentleman.”

“And you, too, knew me, my good people!” exclaimed the traveler. “I find

myself amongst friends. Here I have relations and a family . . . while

hitherto I have only found death and forgetfulness!”

The wife pointed to a smoky image of the Virgin, which stood upon the

chimney-piece, and said—

“Here, every Saturday evening, burns a light for the return of Jan

Slaets, or for the repose of his soul!”

The traveler directed his eyes in devotion toward heaven, and with a

voice full of emotion, said—

“Thanks be to thee, O God, rich in love, that thou hast made affection

more powerful than hate! My enemy has shut my name within his heart,

with the dark feeling of his spite; but my friend has lived in memory of

me, has inspired all around her with her love, has kept me here present,

and made me the favorite of this child, while eighteen hundred miles

separated me from her. O God be praised, I am rewarded to the full.”

A long silence followed before Jan Slaets could subdue his emotion,

which inspired the people of the house with respect. The husband

returned to his work; but held himself ready to hasten to the service of

his guest. He, with little Peterken still upon his knee, asked quite

calmly—

“Good mother, has Rosa lived long with you?”

The wife—as if preparing herself for a long explanation—took her

wheel, set it by his side, and began—

“I will tell you, good sir, how it has gone on. You should know that

when the old Meulinck died, he divided his property amongst his

children. Rosa, whom nothing in the world could induce to marry—I need

not tell you the reason—gave her share wholly up to her brother; and

only asked, in return, to live with him during her life-time. At the

same time, she employed herself in making ornamental articles, and by

this means acquired a great deal of money. There was no need to leave

this to her brother, and she employed all her gains in doing good. She

attended the sick, and paid for a doctor when it was necessary. She had

always a pleasant word to encourage the suffering, and some delicacy to

offer the sickly. We had scarcely been married six months, when my

husband came home one day dreadfully ill of inflammation on the lungs:

the cough which you now hear is the consequence of it. We have to thank

our merciful God and the good Rosa, that our poor Nelis is not now lying

in the church-yard. If you could have but seen, dear sir, what she

wholly and solely out of love did for us! She brought us additional

bed-clothes; for it was cold, and we were wretchedly poor. She sent for

two physicians from the next parish, and had them to consult with the

doctor here on my husband’s condition. She watched by him; alleviated

his sufferings and my trouble by her affectionate conversation, and she

paid all that was necessary for food and medicine; for Rosa was esteemed

by everybody, and when she requested the ladies of the estate, or the

peasantry, to assist the poor, she was never refused. Six whole weeks

was our Nelis confined to his bed, and Rosa protected and assisted us,

till he—by degrees—could resume his work again.”

“How I long to see the poor blind one!” sighed the traveler.

The husband raised his head from his work: tears glanced in his eyes,

and he said with emotion—

“If my blood could give her her sight again, I would freely spend the

last drop of it.”

This exclamation powerfully affected Jan Slaets: the wife observed it,

and with her hand gave a sign to her husband to be silent. She then

continued—

“Three months after, God gave us a child—the same that sits upon your

knee. Rosa, who bore it to the font, desired that it might be christened

Johan, but Peter, my husband’s brother, who was godfather—a good man,

but somewhat self-willed—insisted that it should be called Peter, after

him. After a long discussion, the boy received the name of Johan Peter.

We call him Peterken, after his godfather—who still insists on its

being so, and who would be angry if it were otherwise; but Rosa will not

hear him called so: she calls him constantly Janneken. The boy is proud

of it, and knows that she calls him Jannekin because it is your name,

good sir.”

The traveler pressed the boy with transport to his breast, and kissed

him passionately. With silent admiration he gazed into the boy’s

friendly eyes, and his heart was deeply moved. The wife went on—

“Rosa’s brother had engaged with people in Antwerp, to collect

provisions in the country round, and ship them to England. Trade was to

make him rich it was said, for every week he sent two carts to Antwerp.

In the beginning, all went well; but a bankrupt in Antwerp reduced all

the gain to nothing, for poor Tirt Meulinck, who was bound for him;

scarcely could he pay half his debts. Through grief on this account he

is dead. God be merciful to his soul!

“Rosa, after this, lived at Nand Flinck’s, the shopkeeper, in a little

room. The same year, the son Karl—who had been away as a recruit—came

home with bad eyes, and—fourteen days after—the poor young man became

blind. Rosa, who was sorry for him, and only listened to her own heart’s

suggestions, attended him during his illness, and led him by the hand,

in order to amuse him a little. Alas! she herself took the same

complaint, and from that time she has never seen the light of day. Nand

Flinck is dead, and his children are scattered about. Blind Karl lives

at a farm-house near Lierre. Then came Rosa to live with us, and we told

her how gladly we saw her with us, and how willingly we would work all

our lives for her. She accepted our invitation. Six years are now flown,

and God knows that she has never received from us a cross word: for she

is herself all affection and kindness. If it be a question of doing

something for her, the children are ready to fight which shall get to do

it first.”

“And yet she begs,” said the traveler.

“Yes, good sir,” said the wife, with a certain pride; “but that is her

own fault. Do not imagine that we have forgotten what Rosa has done for

us: and had we suffered hunger, and must have taken the yoke upon us, we

would never have obliged her to beg. What think you then of us? Six

months we kept her back from it; but beyond that point we could not

prevail. As our family was increasing, Rosa, the good soul, thought she

would become a burden to us, and wished on the contrary to help us. It

was impossible to hinder her from it: she became sick of sorrow. When we

saw that—after the half-year—we gave way to her desire. For a poor

blind person it is, nevertheless, no shame. At the same time, though we

are poor, we do not make a gain of what she earns by begging. She will,

ever and anon, compel us to take part with her; we cannot always be at

strife with her, poor thing! but we give it her double back again.

Without her knowing it, she is better clad than we are, and the food we

set before her is better than our own. There always stands at the fire a

separate little pan for her. See here: to her potatoes, she has a couple

of eggs and melted butter. Of the remainder of her gains, I believe,

from what I can learn by her words, that she is laying up a little hoard

till our children are grown up. Her love deserves our gratitude, but we

cannot oppose her will.”

The traveler had listened in silence to the whole relation, but a happy

smile upon his lips, and a mild lustre in his moistened eye, showed how

much his heart was moved. The wife had ceased to speak, and occupied

herself again with her wheel. The traveler remained awhile sunk in deep

thought, when, setting the boy hastily down, he advanced toward the

husband, and said in a commanding tone:

“Have done with your work.”

The besom-maker did not comprehend his meaning, and was startled at his

unusual tone.

“Give over your work, and give me your hand, farmer Nelis.”

“Farmer?” said the besom-maker, astonished.

“Yes,” exclaimed the traveler; “fling the besoms out of the door; I will

give you a farm, four milch cows, a calf, two horses, and all that is

necessary for housekeeping. You do not believe me,” continued he, and

showed the besom-maker a handful of money. “I tell you the truth, I

could at once give you the necessary sum; but I respect and esteem you

too much to offer you money. But I will make you the proprietor of a

farm, and protect your children both before and after my death.”

The good people looked at each other with the tears streaming from their

eyes, and did not seem rightly to comprehend what was passing. While the

traveler was about to make them fresh promises, Peterken pulled him by

the hand as if he had something to communicate.

“What wilt thou, dear child?”

“Herr Jan,” answered the boy, “see, the peasants are coming home from

the field; I know now where I shall find Rosa. Shall I run and tell her

that you are come?”

The traveler seized Peterken’s hand, and drew him with impatience toward

the door, as he said, “Come, come, lead me to her!” And while he made

his adieu to the people of the house with his hand, he followed the

child, who went with rapid pace through the midst of the village. So

soon as they came to the first house, the people ran in wonder from shop

and yard to look after them, as if they were something extraordinary.

And truly, they presented a singular spectacle; the child with his

little shirt and bare feet, who laughing and playful skipped along

holding by the hand of the unknown one. The astonished people could not

comprehend what the rich gentleman, who at least seemed to be a baron,

had to do with the besom-binder’s Peterken. Their astonishment still

increased as they saw the stranger stoop down and kiss the child. The

only thought which occurred to some of them, and over which they now

gossiped at every door, was that the rich gentleman had purchased the

child of his parents to bring him up as his own son. People from the

city who have no child of their own are often wont to do so; and the

besom-maker’s Peterken was the handsomest child in the village, with his

large, blue eyes and his light, curly hair. At the same time it was

extraordinary that the rich gentleman took the child with him in his

bare shirt.

The traveler strode rapidly forward. The whole village seemed to him to

be magically illuminated; the leafy trees shone in their clear verdure,

the low huts smiled at him, the birds sung with a transporting harmony,

the air was filled with a balsamic odor and the warmth of life.

He had turned his attention from the child to enjoy this new happiness.

During this time, he had fixed his eye on the distance to transpierce

the dark wood which, at the other end of the village, seemed to close up

the way.

Hastily, the child pulled him by the hand with all his power, and cried:

“See there!—there comes Rosa with our Trientje!”

And actually there came forward, by a house upon a great by-road, an

elderly blind woman led by a child of five years old.

Instead of rapidly accompanying the child the traveler remained

standing, and contemplated with pain and sorrow the poor blind one, who,

at a distance, approached with unsteady steps. Was that his Rosa, the

handsome, amiable girl, whose image still lived so young and fresh in

his heart? But this contemplation lasted only a moment: he drew the

child along with him, and hastened toward his friend. When he had

arrived at about fifty paces from her, he could no longer command

himself, but cried out in the highest transport—“Rosa! Rosa!”

The instant that this sound reached the blind one’s ear, she drew her

arm from that of her leader, and began to tremble as if she were seized

with a fit of the ague. She extended her arms, and with the cry—“Jan!

Oh, Jan!” sprang forward to meet him. At the same time she drew up a

ribbon which hung round her neck, and exhibited with an agitated mien a

golden cross.

The next instant she fell into Jan Slaets’s arms, who, amid

unintelligible words, attempted to kiss her. But the blind one prevented

him gently with her hands, and as this wounded his feelings, she seized

his hand and said:

“Oh, Jan! Jan! I swoon with delight . . . but I am bound by an oath

. . . come with me . . . we will go together to the church-yard.”

Jan Slaets did not comprehend Rosa’s meaning, but in the tone of her

voice lay something so solemn, and at the same time sacred, that without

opposition he complied with the wish of his friend. Without taking heed

of the people of the village who surrounded them, he led her to the

church-yard. Here she directed her course to the seat beside the cross,

and obliged him to kneel by her side while she said—

“Pray with me; I have vowed it to God.”

She, at the same time, elevated her clasped hands, breathed forth a warm

prayer, and then flinging her arms round her friend’s neck, she kissed

him, and sank exhausted but smiling on his breast.

During this time, Peterken skipped about amongst the villagers, who

stood in wonder about, clapping his hands, and crying one time after

another, “That is tall Jan! That is tall Jan!”

* * * * *

On a fine autumn day of the year 1846, the diligence rolled along the

great highway from Antwerp to Turnhout, at the regular hour. In haste

the conductor drew up not far from a solitary inn, and opened the door

of the carriage. Two young travelers sprang laughing and exulting out

upon the road, and stretched their arms like escaped birds who again in

full freedom try their wings. They gazed around them on the trees, in

the beautiful blue autumn air, with a joy which we experience when we

have left the city, and with every breath can enjoy free nature. At the

same instant, the younger traveler turned his eyes upon the fields, and

exclaimed with transport—“Listen! listen!”

And in truth, there came through the wood the indistinct tones of a

distant music. The air was quick and lively, you might almost fancy that

you heard the accompanying dance. While the younger one in silence

pointed with his finger, his companion said in an almost ironical tone:

“In the shade of the lindens, to the trumpet’s joyous note,

In the dance a gay crowd doth exultingly float;

And amid all the throng, like ocean waves flying,

There is no one who thinketh of suffering and dying.”

“Come, come, dear Jan, don’t rejoice thyself so beforehand. Probably,

they are celebrating the election of a new burgomaster.”

“Nay, nay, that is no official joy. Let us too go there and see the

peasant girls dance—that is so charming.”

“Let us first drink a glass of ale with Peter Joostens, and ask him what

is going on in the village.”

“And give ourselves up to the unexpected jollification, eh? So be it.”

The two travelers entered the inn, and thought they should die of

laughter the moment they put their heads into the room. Peter Joostens

stood erect and stiff beside the fire. His long, blue, holyday coat hung

in rich folds almost down to his heels. He greeted the well-known guests

with a heavy smile, in which a certain feeling of shame manifested

itself, and he dared not move himself, for at every motion his stiff

shirt collar cut his ears.

At the entry of the travelers, he exclaimed with impatience, but without

turning his head—“Zanna! Zanna! hasten thee: I hear the music, and I

have already told thee that we shall come too late.”

Zanna came running in with a basket full of flowers. She looked so

charming with her crimped lace cap, her woollen gown, her rose-colored

bodice, the large, golden heart at her breast, and her ear-rings. Her

face was flushed with the bloom of the most joyous anticipation, and

resembled a rose which opens its closed bud.

“A beautiful peony which blows on a fine summer day,” observed the

younger companion.

Zanna had fetched the two desired glasses of ale, and now hastened out

of the door with her flowers, singing and laughing. Still more

impatiently shouted Peter Joostens with all his might:

“Lisbeth! if thou dost not come directly, I will go away without thee,

as sure as I stand here.”

An old clock which hung by the wall pointed at the same instant to nine,

and struck with a hoarse tone, “Cuckoo! cuckoo!”

“What wretched taste is that!” said one of the travelers; “have you sold

the handsome clock, and hung this up to plague yourselves the whole year

through with its death-note?”

“Yes, yes,” said the host, smiling; “make yourself merry, at your

pleasure, over this bird; it brings me in yearly fifty Dutch guilders—a

good crop that needs no tillage.”

Four cannon shots were heard at the same moment.

“O heavens!” shrieked Peter Joostens; “the feast has begun. The women

take my life with their hunting here and there.”

“But, Peter Joostens,” asked one of the travelers, “what is this that is

going on in the village? Is it the wake?—that would be odd on a

Thursday—or is the king coming to the village?”

“It is a very extraordinary thing,” replied the host; “it is an

unheard-of thing. If you knew the story, you might fill a whole book

with it, without any invention. And the old cuckoo here has its place in

Blind Rosa’s story.”

“Blind Rosa!” said the younger traveler, astonished; “what a charming

title! That would make a fine counterpart to ‘The Sick Youth.’”

“Nay, that wont do,” said the elder; “if we go out together to collect

material for stories, we must honorably divide the spoil.”

“Well, we can hereafter draw lots for it,” said the younger, half

regretfully.

“In the meantime,” observed the elder, “we actually know nothing. Pull

down your detestable shirt collar from your ears, Peter Joostens, and

begin and regularly tell us all; and for your reward you shall have a

book as soon as it is printed.”

“Now I have no time for it,” answered the host; “I hear my wife coming

down stairs; but come along with us to the village, and on the way I

will tell you why the cannon are fired and the music plays.”

The hostess entered the room, and dazzled the travelers’ eyes by her

dress, so did it blaze in all the colors of the rainbow. She rushed up

to her husband, pulled up his shirt collar again higher than ever, took

his arm, and issued out of doors with him. The two travelers accompanied

them, and Peter Joostens related on the way to his attentive hearers the

whole story of Tall Jan and Blind Rosa; and though he had almost talked

himself out of breath, he became besieged with all sorts of questions.

They learned of him, however, that Herr Slaets bought of him the old

cuckoo clock, that it might hang in its former place in the inn; that

tall Jan had been four-and-thirty years in Russia, and in the fur trade

had become a very rich man. That he had bought an estate, and meant to

live upon it with Blind Rosa and the besom-maker Nelis’s family, whose

children he had already adopted. That he had given the grave-digger a

considerable sum of money; and, finally, that this evening there was to

be held a grand folks-feast on the estate, for which occasion a whole

calf was to be roasted, and two whole copper-fulls of rice furmety to be

boiled.

Peter Joostens ceased as they came behind a house upon a great by-road.

And now the travelers listened no longer, for they were resolved to be

present, and see all the gayety which offered itself to their gaze.

All the houses in the village were adorned with green boughs, bound

together with garlands of white and many-colored flowers, and between

these, over the heads of the spectators, hung every where festoons, with

small lamps and with large red letters. Here and there stood a stately

May-pole, with hundreds of little flags glittering with tinsel, and

adorned with garlands of bird’s-eggs and pieces of glass. Along the

sides of the way the boys and girls had laid wreaths of flowers upon

silver-white sand, and bound them together at regular distances, showing

the alternating initials J. and R. for Jan and Rosa, the invention of

the schoolmaster.

Amongst all this ornament thronged a swarm of spectators from the

neighboring villages to witness this extraordinary wedding. The young

travelers went from one group to another, and listened to what the

people said. But before the procession, which came over the fields,

arrived at the village, they hastened to the church, and placed

themselves in front of it on a mound, so that they might overlook the

whole.

They beheld the procession with a feeling almost bordering on veneration

. . . and it really was so beautiful and touching that the heart of the

younger one beat with poetic rapture. More than sixty young girls from

five to ten years of age, came clad in white, and with childhood’s

enchanting smile, like little bright clouds floating through the azure

heaven. Upon their free locks, hanging around their fresh countenances,

rested garlands of monthly roses, which seemed to contend in beauty with

the vermeil lips of the children.

“It is like a saga of Andersen’s,” said the younger of the companions;

“the sylphs have quitted the bosoms of the flowers. Innocence and

simplicity, youth and joy . . . what an enchanting picture!”

“Ah, ah!” said the other, “there come the peonies! and Zanna Joostens

goes first.”

But the younger one was too much affected to notice this unpoetic

speech. He gazed with delight on the taller maidens, who in full

splendor, beaming with life and health, followed the lesser ones. What a

train of full-grown young women in snow-white lace caps! How their

blushes added to the sweetness of their countenances! How enchanting was

the modest smile about their lips, resembling the gentle curling of the

waters which the zephyr on a summer’s evening produces on the surface of

an inland lake.

Ah! there comes Blind Rosa with Herr Slaets, her bridegroom! How happy

she must be! She has suffered so much! She has been reduced even to the

beggar’s staff. For four-and-thirty years she has succored and nourished

her soul with a hope that she herself regarded as vain . . . and now he

is there, the friend of her childhood, of her youth. Led by his hand,

she now approaches the altar of that God who has heard her prayers. Now

shall the vow made by the cross in the church-yard be accomplished, and

she shall become Jan Slaet’s wife. On her breast glitters the simple

gold cross which Tall Jan gave her. Now she listens to the joyful

congratulations, to the song and music which celebrate his return. She

trembles with emotion, and presses his arm closer to her side, as if she

doubted whether her happiness was real.

After them came Nelis with his wife and his children; they are all clad

as wealthy peasantry. The parents go forward with bowed heads, and wipe

the tears of wonder and thankfulness from their eyes, so often as they

look upon their blind benefactress. Peterken bears his head proudly

erect, and shakes his light locks, which play about his neck. He leads

his sister by the hand.

But what troop is that? The remnant of the camp which the power of time

has laid waste. About twenty men followed the children of Nelis. They

really present a singular spectacle; they are all gray-haired men or

bald. Most of them support themselves on their staves; two go on

crutches, one is blind and deaf, and all are so worn out and exhausted

by long years of weary labor, that one might imagine that death had by

force brought them again from their graves.

Lauw Stevens went first, and stooped so that his hands nearly touched

the ground; blind Baes from Plogen supported himself on the miller’s

grandfather. These old men constituted the remains of the generation

which lived when tall Jan flourished in the village, and by his youthful

courage always asserted for himself the first place. After them came the

people of the village, men and women, who were invited to the wedding.

The train entered the church . . . the organ was heard accompanying the

solemn hymn. The younger traveler drew his companion aside in the

church-yard. He stooped down, turned round, and presented to the other

his closed hand, out of which the ends of two bents of grass protruded.

“In such haste? why so?” asked the other.

“Proceed,” said the younger; “the subject pleases me, and I would

willingly know whether it will fall to me or not.”

The elder one drew a bent; the younger let his fall upon the ground, and

sighed, “I have lost!”

* * * * *

This is the reason, good reader, why the elder of the travelers has told

you the story of Blind Rosa. It is a pity; for otherwise you would have

read in beautiful poetry, what you have now read in prose. But fortune

another time may be more auspicious to you.

* * * * *

=I DREAM OF ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL.=

=BY MISS M. E. ALILSON.=

I dream of all things beautiful—

The glad, bright stars above,

As one by one they deck the heavens,

Like angel-smiles of love;

Of moonbeams as they softly rest

Upon the quiet lake,

And from its darkened brow the gloom

Of falling shadows take.

I dream of all things beautiful—

The blush of op’ning flowers,

When first their petals bright unclose

In spring-time’s leafy bowers;

Of dew-drops when they silently

At evening’s twilight close,

Stoop down and kiss the leaflets fair

Of sweet unfolding rose.

I dream of all things beautiful—

The brooklet on its way,

As sparkling bright it sings of joy

The live-long summer day;

Of shady woods where glad, free winds

Are whisp’ring softly now,

Where many birdlings, blithe and gay,

Sing sweet from ev’ry bough.

I dream of all things beautiful—

The shell of ocean’s caves,

That softly parts its rosy lips

And drinks the dewy waves;

Of emerald isles that glisten

Like gems upon the deep,

Where whispering winds their music

Untiring vigils keep.

I dream of all things beautiful—

A home beyond the seas,

Where flowers ever waft their scents

Upon the sleepy breeze;

Of summers lovely and undying,

Bright skies of cloudless blue,

Where nature smiles forever bright,

In robes of loveliest hue.

I dream of all things beautiful—

Sweet music soft and low,

When wakened ’neath a skillful touch,

Its gentle numbers flow;

Of low, sweet words, when angels near

Are whisp’ring sweet of Heaven,

Where contrite hearts shall find their chains

Of sin and darkness riven.

* * * * *

=ANECDOTES OF OSTRICHES.=

“Givest thou the goodly wings unto the peacocks, or wings and

feathers unto the ostrich?

Which leaveth her eggs in the earth, and warmeth them in the

dust?

And forgetteth that the foot may crush them, or that the wilde

beast may break them.

She is hardened against her young ones as though they were not

hers; her labour is in vain, without fear.

Because God hath depriveth her of wisdom, neither hath he

imparted to her understanding.”

Field’s Bible, 1653.

The alleged stupidity of the ostrich and indifference to its young, is,

perhaps, the very oldest popular error in existence, and it is

principally founded on the above passages in Job. It appears, however,

that these passages are open to a different interpretation to that put

upon them in the authorized versions of the Old Testament. The word

which has been translated “leaveth” her eggs, in the sense of abandoning

them, signifies in the original “deposits,” and _tekhammem_ signifies

actively that she heateth them, namely, by incubation, which is, indeed,

the fact. In the sixteenth verse, the bird is said to be “hardened

against her young ones as though they were not hers;” and the same want

of affection is alluded to in the third verse of the fourth chapter of

Lamentations, “the daughter of my people is become cruel, like the

ostriches in the wilderness;” but, in fact, the idea is altogether

erroneous. Recent observations show that no bird has a greater affection

for its young than the ostrich, that the eggs are carefully watched and

tended, and when the offspring have chipped their shells, and for some

days are unable to run, they are regularly supplied with grass and water

by the old birds, who are eager to defend them from harm. Thunberg

especially mentions that he once rode past a place where a female was

sitting on her nest, when the bird sprang up, and pursued him, evidently

with a view of preventing his noticing her eggs or young. Every time he

turned his horse toward her, she retreated ten or twelve paces, but as

soon as he rode on again, she pursued him, till he had gone a

considerable distance from the place where he started her.

The idea of the stupidity of the ostrich seems to have been universally

entertained, being taken for granted without investigation. Job, as we

have seen, alludes to it; and Pliny, writing from common report, says,

“A wonder this is in their nature, that whatsoever they eat—and great

devourers they be of all things without difference or choice, they

concoct and digest it. But the veriest fools they be of all others; for

as high as the rest of their body is, yet if they thrust their head and

neck once into any shrub or bush, and get it hidden, they think then

they are safe enough, and that no man seeth them.” Many a pretty nursery

tale has been written from this, and many a wise saw founded on it; and

yet the hiding of the head is, after all, a mere myth. Sparrman, when in

South Africa, expressly inquired in those parts where ostriches most

abound, and “never once heard mention made of the ostrich hiding its

head when it finds it cannot make its escape.” The truth is, the ostrich

does nothing of the sort; he tries to escape as well as he can, and

continues his efforts, till knocked on the head by the hunter, or driven

by him, as we shall presently see, to a place where he may be captured.

Conflicting accounts have been published respecting the whole process of

breeding and incubation of the ostrich. Ælian states that as many as

eighty eggs have been found in one nest,[2] fifty or sixty have been

certainly discovered, and the question has been whether these are the

produce of one female or many?

The balance of opinion inclines to the belief that one male ostrich

attaches himself to three or four females, and that all these deposit

their eggs in one nest. This, according to Burckhardt, who carefully

investigated the subject, is commonly made at the foot of some isolated

hill, by the simple process of scratching a hole in the sand; the eggs

are then placed close together, half buried in the sand, and a narrow

trench is drawn round this to carry off any water. During the extreme

heat of the day, the parent birds are instinctively aware that the

warmth of the sun renders their attention unnecessary; but as soon as

the shades of evening fall they each take their turn upon the nest. The

cockbird, however, sits during the night, and Lichtenstein says that

great numbers of the smaller beasts of prey, as jackals and wild cats,

who will run any risk to procure the eggs, are found crushed to death

around the nests; for the male rushes on them, and tramples them with

his powerful feet until life is extinct.

The nests are never completely deserted, and the parent birds relieve

each other in keeping watch on the summit of the neighboring hill. When

the Arabs descry an ostrich thus engaged, they conclude that some eggs

must be near; and on their approach, the old birds retire, although it

is not uncommon, especially in South Africa, for them to show fight.

Having discovered the nest, the Arabs dig a hole in the ground near it,

in which they place a loaded gun, having a long burning match fastened

to the touch-hole; the gun is pointed toward the nest, and is carefully

covered over with sand and stones. The birds after a time return and

resume their places on the eggs; the gun in due time explodes, and next

morning the Arab is rewarded by finding one or perhaps both of the

ostriches dead. This is the common mode of killing them practiced in the

deserts of Northern Arabia.

It is said that some addled eggs are generally found outside the nest,

and that the flies bred by their decomposition, furnish the callow young

with food.

Such may be the case, and if so, it affords a striking illustration of

that happy adaptation of means to ends visible throughout the whole

economy of nature; but probably the primary reason for these being

ejected from the nest is, that more eggs are laid than can be

conveniently covered by the bird when sitting, and that she therefore

instinctively throws out the surplus; thus at once getting rid of a

useless superabundance, and providing a magazine of food for her future

tender young.

Various are the purposes to which ostrich’s eggs are applied:—first,

they are in great favor as a culinary luxury, and are much sought after

by the captains of merchant vessels touching at the African ports, being

purchased by them of the slave herdsmen, whose perquisites they

generally are, for about sixpence each. A good sized egg weighs eleven

ounces, is near seven inches in depth, and holds five pints and a

quarter; consequently it is considered to afford a meal which will

perfectly satisfy four hungry white men, or eight of the more moderate

blacks. The yelk is very rich and luscious, and makes a most enviable

omelette, but gourmands agree that the native mode of cooking them is

perfect. The Hottentots bury the eggs in hot ashes, and through a small

hole in the upper end, the contents are continually stirred until they

acquire a certain consistence, which the sable cooks know by experience

indicates the right moment for removing them from the ashes to the

sackcloth, which covers the traveler’s primitive table. They are then

eaten with biscuit, and washed down with copious draughts of corn

brandy.

The eggs are frequently found to contain small oval pebble-like bodies,

about the size of a marrowfat pea, of a pale yellow color, and

exceedingly hard. Barrow found as many as twelve in one egg: and they

are converted into buttons by the dandified Hottentots, and perhaps also

the Boers.

The porcelain character of the shell and its shape, well adapt it for

cups, and such vessels are frequently elegantly mounted in silver, and

sometimes in chased gold. The ancient Egyptians used them in their

places of worship, and, together with the plumes, insisted on their

forming part of the tribute paid by conquered countries where ostriches

abounded. They were probably suspended in the temples, as they still are

in the Coptic churches, the Copts regarding them as emblems of

watchfulness.

When the allied sovereigns were in London, in the days when the Prince

Regent was in full possession of his powers of entertainment, and we may

add of appetite, a marvelous and unaccountable evaporation of oil took

place nightly in the murky lamps, which then served to make darkness

visible. In vain were the lamps replenished—they _would_ go out, and

the glass receptacles were invariably found empty. The contractor was in

despair; the churchwardens took the matter up, and the minds of the

parishioners were as gloomy as their streets. One night, however, the

mystery was unexpectedly cleared up. A worthy old watchman, or

“Charley,” as the class was familiarly called, comfortably wrapped in

his sixteen-caped great coat, feeling himself tired with his exertions

in informing the sleeping world that it was “past ten o’clock and a

cloudy night,” sat down on a step in the shade to take five-and-twenty

winks, but just as he was composing his thoughts previous to dropping

off, he was startled by seeing a strangely dressed, bearded figure

approach a lamp, and after a hasty look round, actively swarm up the

post, take out the lamp, snuff the wick with his fingers, and drink the

oil! Here was a discovery! Away posted the guardian of the night and

reported what he had seen, but the inspector roundly told him that he

must have been either drunk or asleep, for he shrewdly remarked, “’Taint

likely that them beggars of furriners would go a-drinking ile when they

could get brown stout or Tipper Hale.” Notwithstanding the utter

improbability of the thing, a watch was set, and, sure enough, it turned

out that the mysterious strangers were the Cossacks, who nightly

indulged in deep libations of train-oil at the parish expense.

A not less puzzling disappearance of oil took place some years ago from

the lamps in a certain Eastern church, and so pertinaciously did the

lamps go out, that the priests felt a supernatural influence, and

apprehending something terrible, gave orders for a general penance and

scourging of backs. The minds as well as the backs of the obedient

congregation were, however, infinitely relieved by the accidental

discovery (by a dyspeptic priest who could not sleep through heartburn)

that the extinguishing of the lamps was attributable to natural and not,

as feared, to supernatural causes. A colony of rats had taken up their

quarters in the church, and following the example of the gallant Captain

Dalgetty, looked at once to the procuring of “provend.” An enterprising

member of one of the foraging parties scrambling down a rope by which

one of the lamps was suspended, was fortunate enough to hit upon some

uncommonly nice oil. The news of this glorious discovery spread, and all

the rats chorussed,

“Black rats and white, brown rats and gray

Scramble down the lamp-rope, ye that scramble may.”

Accordingly, the colony flocked to these oleaginous mines with as much

eagerness as another description of colonists are now flocking to mines

of gold. The result has been described, but in the end the rats were no

match for the priests, who, as soon as the rogues were found out,

lighted upon the expedient of passing each of the ropes through an

ostrich egg. A most effectual and tantalizing barrier was now opposed to

the predatory excursions of our furry friends. In vain they sniffed and

squeaked; each, as he attempted “to round the cape,” slid off the smooth

egg and was smashed on the stones beneath.

The ostrich is a very prudent, wary bird, for which reason the quaggas

generally attach themselves instinctively to a troop of these birds,

trusting implicitly to their caution for the discovery of danger. This

alliance was remarked by Xenophon, who says, “the country was a plain

throughout, as even as the sea, and full of wormwood. Of wild creatures

the most numerous were wild asses, (quaggas,) and not a few ostriches,

besides bustards and roe-deer, (gazelles,) which our horsemen sometimes

chased!”[3]

This bird was not sacred among the ancient Egyptians, but there is

reason to believe that it was so with the Assyrians. It has not only

been found as an ornament on the robes of figures in the most ancient

edifices at Nimroud, but it was frequently introduced on Babylonian and

Assyrian cylinders, always accompanied by the emblematical flower. The

Romans appear to have regarded it as a delicacy, for Apicius left a

receipt for a particular sauce for dressing it; and it is recorded of

Heliogabalus, that he had the brains of six hundred of these birds

served up as a dish at one of his feasts. But in trencher feats the

pseudo-emperor Formius far outdid either, as it is related by Vopiscus,

that be devoured a whole ostrich to his own share at a single sitting.

It was broadly asserted by Aristotle, that the ostrich was partly bird

and partly quadruped; and by Pliny, that it might almost be said to

belong to the class of beasts; ridiculous as such assertions might be

supposed, they were not altogether without foundation according to the

knowledge of the times. The common name by which the ostrich was

designated by the Greeks and Romans, and also by the nations of the

East, was the _camel bird_. Indeed, the total want of feathers on its

long and very powerful legs, and the division of the feet into two toes

only, connected at their base by a membrane, are very similar to the

legs and long, divided hoof of the camel: nor does the resemblance cease

here, for there is another singularity in their external conformation,

which affords a still more remarkable coincidence. Both camel and

ostrich are furnished with hard, callous protuberances on the chest, and

on the posterior part of the abdomen, on which they support themselves

when at rest, and they both lie down in the same manner, by first

bending their knees, then applying the anterior callosity, and lastly

the posterior, to the ground. When to this we add the patience of thirst

of both, and their inhabiting the same arid deserts, the two may well be

compared with each other.

The ostrich is altogether destitute of the power of flight, and

accordingly the wings are reduced to a very low state of development,

merely sufficient, in fact, to aid it when running at speed. The sharp

keel of the breast-bone, which, in birds of rapid flight, affords an

extensive surface for the attachment of the muscles moving the wings, is

not required, and the surface of the bone is therefore flat, like that

of a quadruped, but the muscles of the legs are of extraordinary

magnitude.

The family of birds, of which the ostrich forms the leading type, is

remarkable for the wide dispersion of its various members: the ostrich

itself spreads over nearly the whole of the burning deserts of

Africa—the Cassowary represents it amid the luxuriant vegetation of the

Indian Archipelago. The Dinornis—chief of birds—formerly towered among

the ferns of New Zealand, where the small Apteryx now holds its place;

and the huge Æpyornis strode along the forest of Madagascar. The Emu is

confined to the great Australian continent, and the Rhea to the southern

extremity of the western hemisphere; whilst nearer home we find the

class represented by the Bustard, which—until within a few years—still

lingered upon the least frequented downs and plains of England.

With the Arabs of the desert, the chase of the ostrich is the most

attractive, and eagerly sought, of the many aristocratic diversions in

which they indulge; and we are indebted to General Daumas for a highly

interesting account of their proceedings. The first point attended to,

is a special preparation of their horses. Seven or eight days before the

intended hunt, they are entirely deprived of straw and grass, and fed on

barley only. They are only allowed to drink once a-day, and that at

sunset—the time when the water begins to freshen: at that time also

they are washed. They take long, daily exercises, and are occasionally

galloped; at which time care is taken that the harness is right, and

suited to the chase of the ostrich. “After seven or eight days,” says

the Arab, “the stomach of the horse disappears, while the chest, the

breast, and the croup remain in flesh: the animal is then fit to endure

fatigue.” They call this training _techaha_. The harness used for the

purpose in question is lighter than ordinary, especially the stirrups

and saddle, and the martingale is removed. The bridle, too, undergoes

many metamorphoses: the mountings and the earflaps are taken away, as

too heavy. The bit is made of a camel-rope, without a throat band, and

the frontlet is also of cord, and the reins—though strong—are very

light. The period most favorable for ostrich hunting is that of the

great heat: the higher the temperature, the less is the ostrich able to

defend himself. The Arabs describe the precise time as that, when a man

stands upright, his shadow has the length only of the sole of his foot.

Each horseman is accompanied by a servant called _zemmal_, mounted on a

camel, carrying four goat-skins filled with water, barley for the horse,

wheat-flour for the rider, some dates, a kettle to cook the food, and

every thing which can possibly be required for the repair of the

harness. The horseman contents himself with a linen vest and trousers,

and covers his neck and ears with a light material called _havuli_, tied

with a strip of camel’s hide: his feet are protected with sandals, and

his legs with light gaiters called _trabag_. He is armed with neither

gun nor pistol, his only weapon being a wild olive or tamarind stick,

five or six feet long, with a heavy knob at one end.

Before starting, the hunters ascertain where a large number of ostriches

are to be found. These birds are generally met with in places where

there is much grass, and where rain has recently fallen. The Arabs say,

that where the ostrich sees the light shine, and barley getting ready,

wherever it may be, thither she runs, regardless of distance, and ten

days march is nothing to her; and it has passed into a proverb in the

desert, that a man skillful in the care of flocks, and in finding

pasturage, that he is like the ostrich, where he sees the light, there

he goes.

The hunters start in the morning. After one or two days’ journey, when

they have arrived near the spot pointed out, and they begin to perceive

traces of their game, they halt and camp. The next day, two intelligent

slaves, almost entirely stripped, are sent to reconnoitre; they each

carry a goat-skin at their side, and a little bread: they walk until

they meet with the ostriches, which are generally found in elevated

places. As soon as the game is in view, one lies down to watch, the

other returns to convey the information. The ostriches are found in

troops, comprising sometimes as many as sixty; but at the pairing time,

they are more scattered, three or four couple only remaining together.

The horsemen, guided by the scout, travel gently toward the birds: the

nearer they approach the spot the greater is their caution, and when

they reach the last ridge which conceals them from the sight of their

game, they dismount, and two creep forward to ascertain if they are

still there. Should such be the case, a moderate quantity of water is

given to the horses, the baggage is left, and each man mounts, carrying

at his side a _chebouta_, or goat-skin. The servants and camels follow

the track of the horsemen, carrying with them only a little corn and

water.

The exact position of the horses being known, the plans are arranged:

the horsemen divide and form a circle round the game at such a distance

as not to be seen. The servants wait where the horsemen have separated,

and as soon as they see them at their posts, they walk right before

them: the ostriches fly, but are met by the hunters, who do nothing at

first but drive them back into the circle; thus their strength is

exhausted by being made to continually run round in the ring. At the

first signs of fatigue in the birds, the horsemen dash in—presently the

flock separates; the exhausted birds are seen to open their wings—which

is a sign of great exhaustion—the horsemen, certain of their prey, now

repress their horses: each hunter selects his ostrich, runs it down, and

finishes it by a blow on the head with the stick above mentioned. The

moment the bird falls, the man jumps off his horse, and cuts her throat,

taking care to hold the neck at such a distance from the body, as not to

soil the plumage of the wings. The male bird, whilst dying, utters loud

moans, but the female dies in silence.

When the ostrich is on the point of being overtaken by the hunter, she

is so fatigued that—if he does not wish to kill her—she can easily be

driven with the stick to the neighborhood of the camels. Immediately

after the birds have been bled to death, they are carefully skinned, so

that the feathers may not be injured, and the skin is then stretched

upon a tree, or on a horse, and salt rubbed well into it. A fire is lit,

and the fat of the birds is boiled for a long time in kettles; when very

liquid, it is poured into a sort of bottle, made of the skin of the

thigh and leg down to the foot, strongly fastened at the bottom; the fat

of one bird is usually sufficient to fill two of these legs—it is said

that in any other vessel the fat would spoil. When, however, the bird is

breeding, she is extremely lean, and is then hunted only for the sake of

her feathers. After these arrangements are completed, the flesh is eaten

by the hunters, who season it well with pepper and flour.

Whilst these proceedings are in progress, the horses are carefully

tended, watered, and fed with corn, and the party remain quiet during

forty-eight hours, to give their animals rest; after that, they either

return to their encampment, or embark in new enterprises.

The fat of the ostrich is used in the preparation of the favorite dish

_kouskousson_, and is often eaten with bread. It is also used

medicinally. In cases of fever, for instance, the Arabs make a paste

with it and bread-crumb, which is given to the patient, who must not

drink any thing during the whole day. In rheumatism, and in renal

diseases, the painful parts are rubbed with the grease until it

disappears. The patient then lies down in the scorching sand, his head

being carefully covered, and a profuse perspiration ensuing, the cure is

often complete. In bilious attacks, the fat is melted, salted, and taken

in draughts, with powerful effect, the patient even becoming extremely

thin. The Arab doctors say, “the patient parts with every thing in his

body that is bad, gains a frame of iron, and acquires excellent

eyesight.”

Ostrich fat is sold in the markets, and in the tents of the great a

store is kept to give away to the poor—in value, one pot of this fat is

equivalent to three pots of butter. The feathers of the ostrich are sold

at the _ksours_, at Tougartet: at the time of the purchase of grain, the

ostrich-skins are bought, that of a male selling for four or five

_douros_, that of a female from eight to fourteen shillings. Formerly,

the only use made in the Sahara of the plumes was to decorate the tops

of tents.

To the Arab, the chase of the ostrich has a double attraction—pleasure

and profit: the price obtained for the skins well compensates for the

expenses. Not only do the rich enjoy the pursuit, but the poor, who know

how to set about it, are permitted to participate in it also. The usual

plan is, for a poor Arab to arrange with one who is opulent for the loan

of his camel, horse harness, and two-thirds of all the necessary

provisions. The borrower furnishes himself the remaining third, and the

produce of the chase is divided in the same proportions.

The use of ostrich-fat in medicine dates back to a very remote period:

and Pliny relates that, on a certain occasion, when Cato—surnamed

Uticensis—was accused of selling poison, because “he held cantharides

at three-score sesterces a pound, at the same time ostrich-grease was

sold for eighty sesterces the pound; and, in truth, it is much better

for any use it shall be put unto than goose-grease.”

In the quaint account of “The World encompassed by Sir Francis Drake,”

there is a curious description of the mode of hunting ostriches, as

practiced in those days at the Cape. The history is written by “Mr.

Francis Fletcher, preacher in this employment,” and he thus begins:

“Ever since Almighty God commanded Adam to subdue the earth, there hath

not wanted in all ages some heroic spirits, which—in obedience to that

high mandate—either from manifest reason alluring them, or by some

secret instinct enforcing them thereunto, have expended their wealth,

employed their times, and adventured their persons to find out the true

circuit of the world.” The worthy chaplain being safely arrived at the

Cape, goes on to say, “In this place, the people being removed up into

the country, belike for fear of our coming, we found near unto the

rocks, in houses made for that purpose, great store of ostriches, at

least to the number of fifty, with much other fowl; some dried, and some

in drying, for their provision, as it seemed, to carry with them to the

place of their dwellings. The ostriches legs were in bigness equal to

reasonable legs of mutton: they cannot fly at all; but they run so

swiftly, and take so long strides, that it is not possible for a man in

running by any means to take them, neither yet to come so nigh them as

to have any shot at them with bow or piece. Whereof our men had often

proof on other parts of that coast, for all the country is full of them.

We found there the tools or instruments which the people use in taking

them. Amongst other means which they use in betraying of these

ostriches, they have a great and large plume of feathers, orderly

compact together upon the end of a staff; in the fore-part bearing the

likeness of the head, neck, and bulk of an ostrich, and in the hinder

part spreading itself out very large, sufficient being holden before him

to hide the most part of the body of a man. With this it seemeth they

stalk, driving them into some strait or neck of land close to the

sea-side; where—spreading long and strong nets, with their dogs, which

they have in readiness at all times—they overthrow them, and make a

common quarry.”

The ostrich, like many other of the feathered tribe, has a great deal of

self-conceit. On fine sunny days, a tame bird may be seen strutting

backward and forward with great majesty, fanning itself with its

quivering, expanded wings, and at every turn seeming to admire its

grace, and the elegance of its shadow. Dr. Shaw says that, though these

birds appear tame and tractable to persons well-known to them, they are

often very fierce and violent toward strangers, whom they would not only

endeavor to push down by running furiously against them, but they would

peck at them with their beaks, and strike with their feet; and so

violent is the blow that can be given, that the Doctor saw a person

whose abdomen had been ripped completely open by a stroke from the claw

of an ostrich.

The cry of the ostrich has been compared to the voice of a lion; but

when fighting they sometimes make a fierce, angry, and hissing noise,

with their throats inflated, and their mouths open. Dr. Shaw often heard

them groan, as if in the greatest agonies, a peculiarity alluded to in

Micah, i. 8., where it is said, “I will make a mourning like the

_jaanah_ (ostrich);” though the word has been improperly translated

_owl_.

A remarkable illustration of the strength of the ostrich is afforded by

an incident mentioned by Adanson, which took place during his residence

at Podor, a French factory on the southern bank of the river Niger. “Two

ostriches, which had been about two years in the factory, and although

young, were nearly of their full size, were so tame that two little

blacks mounted both together on the back of the largest. No sooner did

he feel their weight, than he began to run as fast as possible, and

carried them several times round the village, as it was impossible to

stop him otherwise than by obstructing his passage. This sight pleased

me so much, that I ordered it to be repeated, and to try their strength,

directed a full grown negro to mount the smallest, and two others the

largest. This burden did not seem at all disproportioned to their

strength. At first, they went a tolerably sharp trot, but when they

became heated a little, they expanded their wings, as though to catch

the wind, and moved with such fleetness, that they scarcely seemed to

touch the ground. Most people have, one time or another, seen a

partridge run, and consequently must know that there is no man whatever

able to keep up with it; and it is easy to imagine that if this bird had

a longer step, its speed would be considerably augmented. The ostrich

moves like the partridge, with this advantage; and I am satisfied that

those I am speaking of, would have distanced the fleetest race-horses

that were ever bred in England. It is true, they would not hold out so

long as a horse, but they would undoubtedly be able to go over the space

in less time. I have frequently beheld this sight, which is capable of

giving one an idea of the prodigious strength of an ostrich, and of

showing what use it might be of, had we but the method of breaking and

managing it, as we do a horse.”

We are much mistaken if there was not an exhibition of ostrich races in

a circus at Paris about two years ago; the birds being ridden by boys,

who managed their feathered steeds with great dexterity.

To have the stomach of an ostrich has become proverbial, and with good

reason; for this bird stands enviably forward in respect to its

wonderful powers of digestion, which are scarcely inferior to its

voracity. Its natural food consists entirely of vegetable substances,

especially grain; and the ostrich is a most destructive enemy to the

crops of the African farmers. But its sense of taste is so obtuse, that

scraps of leather, old nails, bits of tin, buttons, keys, coins, and

pebbles, are devoured with equal relish; in fact, nothing comes amiss.

But in this it doubtless follows an instinct, for these hard bodies

assist, like the gravel in the crops of our domestic poultry, in

grinding down and preparing for digestion its ordinary food. Its

fondness for iron was well-known to our forefathers, and we find

Shakspeare makes _Jack Cade_ say to _Iden_, in the “Second Part of Henry

VI.,”

“But I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my

sword like a great pin.”

An earlier writer, John Skelton, who was poet laureate to Henry the

Seventh, alludes to an idea then prevalent, that the ostrich swallowed

iron for the same purpose that ices are taken in these degenerate days.

The lines are taken from his poem “The Boke of Phyllyp Sparowe,”

“The estryge that wyll eate

An horshowe so great

In the stede of meate,

Such feruent heat

His stomake doth freat,

He can not well fly

Nor synge tunably.”

But there was another and far less selfish reason ascribed for the

partiality of these birds to iron—a reason so philanthropic, indeed,

that it puts mankind to the blush; for there are few, indeed, who would

convert their interiors into a marine-store shop for the benefit of

their fellow creatures. In a singular book by Thomas Scott, published in

1616, a merchant meets with an ostrich in the desert, in the act of

swallowing a heavy meal of iron, and gazing on him with astonishment,

inquires,

“‘What nourishment can from these mettals grow?’

The ostrich answers: ‘Sir, I do not eate

This iron, as you think I do, for meate;

I only keep it, lay it up in store,

To helpe my needy friends the friendlesse poore,

I often meete (as farre and neere I goe)

Many a foundred horse that wants a shoe,

Serving a master that is monylesse,

Such I relieve and helpe in their distresse.’”

_Philomythie, etc._

There was found by Cuvier, in the stomach of an ostrich that died at

Paris, nearly a pound weight of stones, bits of iron and copper, and

pieces of money worn down by constant attrition against each other, as

well as by the action of the stomach itself. In the stomach of one of

these birds which belonged to the Menagerie of George the Fourth, there

were contained some pieces of wood of considerable size, several large

nails, and a hen’s egg entire and uninjured, perhaps taken as a delicacy

from its appetite becoming capricious. In the stomach of another, beside

several large cabbage-stalks, there were masses of bricks of the size of

a man’s fist. Sparrman relates that he saw ostriches at the Cape so tame

that they went loose to and from the farm, but they were so voracious as

to swallow chickens whole, and trample hens to death, that they might

tear them in pieces afterward and devour them; and one great barrel of a

bird was obliged to be killed on account of an awkward habit he had

acquired of trampling sheep to death. But perhaps the most striking

proof of the prowess of an ostrich in the eating way, is that afforded

by Dr. Shaw, who saw one swallow bullet after bullet as fast as they

were pitched, scorching hot from the mould.

In a very amusing article in the eighty-eighth number of “Household

Words,” there are mentioned some of the “wonderful swallows” of an

ostrich, which was not long since in the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s

Park. A carpenter was one day at work in a stable, the side of which was

open to a corner of the cage of the ostrich. A pretty nursery maid

chanced to pass that way, and the carpenter having engaged her in

conversation, ceased his work for a while, and stood smiling and

chatting with his hands behind him, in which he held a gimlet which he

had been using. His back was toward the cage. The ostrich observed the

gimlet, saw that it was nice, and darting forth his head and long neck

between the bars, snapped it out of the carpenter’s hands. The man

turned hastily round, but before he could make an effort to regain his

gimlet, the ostrich gave a toss with his head, the gimlet disappeared,

his neck made a stiff arch for a moment, and the gimlet was safely down.

But the performances of the bird were not to cease with this feat; his

reputation was to have other facts to rest upon. Not long after, he saw

a young gentleman standing near his cage, displaying to a friend a knife

which he had just purchased—it was a many-bladed knife. Directly the

ostrich caught sight of this, he knew that it must be very good indeed.

Watching his opportunity, he made a sudden dart upon it, and caught it

in his beak. The gentleman made a rush at the bars of the cage, but the

ostrich, taking a long stride back, stood out of reach with an insolent

straddle in the middle of his cage, and with one jerk of his neck bolted

the delicious curiosity.

The keepers watched the bird, and examined his cage very narrowly for a

long time; but no traces of his preposterous fancies were ever restored

to sight, neither did the ostrich appear in any degree incommoded.

Three months after these performances, the ostrich, from some unknown

cause or other, got into a bad state of mind with the bars of his cage,

and in a contest which ensued, he broke his back. His death speedily

followed, and a _post mortem_ examination was speedily made, but no

trace whatever either of the gimlet or the many-bladed knife, was

discovered in any part of his wonderful interior.

One of the predecessors of this bird at the Gardens had the ill-luck to

suffer from his taste for such delicacies as gimlets and many-bladed

knives, for he had such difficulty in bolting something of the sort,

that his neck never recovered the unnatural curve it then acquired. His

lady mate regarding this as an outward and visible sign of effeminacy

unworthy of an ostrich, never ceased from that moment to show her

contempt by teasing and worrying him in every possible way, and this

system of hen-pecking persecution was carried to such an extent, that it

was found necessary to separate the pair, without consulting the

authorities of Doctors’ Commons.

Far different was the behavior of a gallant male in the Jardin des

Plantes. He with his spouse had long lived in connubial felicity, when,

unfortunately, the skylight over their heads having been broken, a

triangular piece of glass fell, and was instantly snapped up by the

female, who regarded it as an acceptable offering. Soon after she was

taken ill, and died in great agony. Her body being opened, the throat

and stomach were found dreadfully lacerated by the sharp corners of the

glass. But now comes the pathetic portion of the tale. From the moment

that he found himself bereft of his mate, the survivor had no rest. Day

and night the poor bird was incessantly searching for her, and gradually

wasted away. He was removed from the spot, in the hope that in new

scenes his grief would be forgotten; but no! the arrow had entered into

his soul; his fruitless, unavailing search after his lost one still

continued, so long as strength enabled him to pursue it, and then,

literally constant unto death, he laid himself down and died.

The feathers of the ostrich, which play such an important part in

adorning the persons of the living, and decorating the funereal

processions of the dead, are distinguished in the trade of the

_plumassier_ by several qualities; those of the male are the whitest and

most beautiful, and the feathers of the back, and above the wings, hold

the first place; next those of the wings, and lastly those of the tail.

The down, varying in length from four to fourteen inches, is merely the

feathers of the other parts of the body, and is black in the males, gray

in the females. The finest white feathers of the female have always

their ends a little grayish, which lessens their lustre and lowers their

price. The feathers are imported from Algiers, Tunis, Alexandria,

Madagascar, and Senegal; the first obtaining the highest price, the last

the lowest.