Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes I-II (1841)
Date: 2023-10-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's literature -- Periodicals

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Title: Robert Merry's Museum, Volumes I-II (1841)

Author: Various

Editor: Samuel G. Goodrich

Release date: October 11, 2023 [eBook #71854]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Bradbury & Soden, 1842

Credits: Carol Brown, Linda Cantoni, Jude Eyelander, Katherine Ward, Anne Celnick, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT MERRY'S MUSEUM, VOLUMES I-II (1841) ***

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM:

VOLUMES I. II.

Boston:

PUBLISHED BY BRADBURY & SODEN,

10, SCHOOL STREET.

1842.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

INDEX

TO THE

FIRST VOLUME.

FROM FEBRUARY TO JULY 1841, INCLUSIVE.

Address to the Reader, | page 1
About Labor and Property, | 3
Anecdote, | 102
Absence of Mind, | 126
Antiquities of Egypt, | 149
A Drunkard’s Home, | 152
Architecture of Birds, | 158
A Philosophical Tea-pot | 171
Astonishing Powers of the Horse | 172
A Good Reply, | 187
Chinese Spectacles, | 18
Contentment, | 50
Curious way of Keeping Accounts, | 189
Death of the President, | 127
Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy; a Dialogue, | 145
Hogg’s Father, | 102
Hunting Wild Animals in Africa, | 111
Hymn, | 159
Importance of Attention; a Dialogue | 174
Instinct, | 190
John Steady and Peter Sly, a Dialogue | 38
My First Whistle, | 4
My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry, | 9, 33, 65, 129, 161
Music—Jack Frost, a Song, | 32
Madagascar, | 168
Napoleon’s last Obsequies | 51
Night, | 101
Owls and Eagles, | 5
Origin of ‘The House that Jack Built,’ | 7
Origin of Words and Phrases, | 35
Our Ancestry, | 53
Plain Dealing, | 26
Peach Seeds, | 37
Professions and Trades, | 94
Peter Pilgrim’s account of his Schoolmates, No. 1, | 107
Pet Oysters, | 187
Poetry and Music, | 192
Queen Elizabeth of England, | 103
Swallows, | 15
Story of Philip Brusque | 19, 47, 73, 97
Spring is Coming; a Song, | 64
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America, | 116, 140, 141, 181
Something Wonderful, | 141
The Sociable Weavers, | 2
The Human Frame likened to a House | 18
The Sailor’s Family, | 21
The Groom and the Horse, | 23
The Druids, | 24
The Re-entombment of Napoleon | 27
The Pelican, | 36
The Three Friends, | 41
The Fox and the Tortoise, | 43
The Travels, Adventures and Experiences of Thomas Trotter, | 44, 81, 120, 138
The Month of March, | 60
The Child and the Violets, | 62
The Great Northern Diver, or Loon | 71
The Spectre of the Brocken | 79
Trifles, | 80
The New Custom House, Boston, | 86
The New Patent Office, Washington | 89
The River; a Song, | 96
The Sun, | 101
The Kingfisher and the Nightingale | 125
The April Shower,—a Song, | 128
The Artist’s Cruise, | 133
The Boastful Ass, | 157
Travelling Beehives, | 158
The Secret, | 158
The Logue Family, | 159
The Humming Birds, | 167
The Moon, | 173
The Horse and the Bells, | 178
The Crane Family, | 179
The Shetland Pony, | 188
Varieties, | 30, 62, 127, 190
What is Truth? | 28
What sort of Heart have you got? | 90
What is Poetry? | 95

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Address to the Reader.

Kind and gentle people who make up what is called the Public—permit a stranger to tell you a brief story. I am about trying my hand at a Magazine; and this is my first number. I present it to you with all due humility—asking, however, one favor. Take this little pamphlet to your home, and when nothing better claims your attention, pray look over its pages. If you like it, allow me the privilege of coming to you once a month, with a basket of such fruits and flowers as an old fellow may gather while limping up and down the highways and by-ways of life.

I will not claim a place for my numbers upon the marble table of the parlor, by the side of songs and souvenirs, gaudy with steel engravings and gilt edges. These bring to you the rich and rare fruitage of the hot-house, while my pages will serve out only the simple, but I trust wholesome productions of the meadow, field, and common of Nature and Truth. The fact is, I am more particular about my company than my accommodations. I like the society of the young—the girls and the boys; and whether in the parlor, the library, or the school-room, I care not, if so be they will favor me with their society. I do not, indeed, eschew the favor of those who are of mature age—I shall always have a few pages for them, if they will deign to look at my book. It is my plan to insert something in every number that will bear perusal through spectacles.

But it is useless to multiply words: therefore, without further parley, I offer this as a specimen of my work, promising to improve as I gain practice. I have a variety of matters and things on hand, anecdotes, adventures, tales, travels, rhymes, riddles, songs, &c.—some glad and some sad, some to make you laugh and some to make you weep. My only trouble is to select among such variety. But grant me your favor, kind Public! and these shall be arranged and served out in due season. May I specially call upon two classes of persons to give me their countenance and support—I mean all those young people who have black eyes, and all those who have not black eyes! If these, with their parents, will aid me, they shall have the thanks and best services of

ROBERT MERRY.

A Tree with Nests of Sociable Weavers upon it.

The Sociable Weavers.

Men find it convenient to devote themselves to different trades. One spends his time in one trade, and another in another. So we find the various kinds of birds brought up and occupied in different trades. The woodpecker is a carpenter, the hawk a sportsman, the heron a fisherman, &c. But in these cases we remark, that the birds do not have to serve an apprenticeship. It takes a boy seven years to learn to be a carpenter; but a young woodpecker, as soon as he can fly, goes to his work without a single lesson, and yet understanding it perfectly.

This is very wonderful; but God teaches the birds their lessons, and his teaching is perfect. Perhaps the most curious mechanics among the birds, are the Sociable Weavers, found in the southern part of Africa. Hundreds of these birds, in one community, join to form a structure of interwoven grass, (the sort chosen being what is called Boshman’s grass,) containing various apartments, all covered by a sloping roof, impenetrable to the heaviest rain, and increased year by year, as the increase in numbers of the community may require.

“I observed,” says a traveller in South Africa, “a tree with an enormous nest of these birds, to which I have given the appellation of Republicans; and, as soon as I arrived at my camp, I despatched a few men with a wagon to bring it to me, that I might open the hive and examine the structure in its minutest parts. When it arrived, I cut it to pieces with a hatchet, and saw that the chief portion of the structure consisted of a mass of Boshman’s grass, without any mixture, but so compact and firmly basketed together as to be impenetrable to the rain. This is the commencement of the structure; and each bird builds its particular nest under this canopy, the upper surface remaining void, without, however, being useless; for, as it has a projecting rim and is a little inclined, it serves to let the water run off, and preserves each little dwelling from the rain.

“The largest nest that I examined was one of the most considerable I had anywhere seen in the course of my journey, and contained three hundred and twenty inhabited cells, which, supposing a male and female to each, would form a society of six hundred and forty individuals. Such a calculation, however, would not be exact. It appears, that in every flock the females are more numerous by far than the males; many cells, therefore, would contain only a single bird. Still, the aggregate would be considerable; and, when undisturbed, they might go on to increase, the structure increasing in a like ratio, till a storm, sweeping through the wood, laid the tree, and the edifice it sustained, in one common ruin.”

About Labor and Property.

All the things we see around us belong to somebody; and these things have been got by labor or working. It has been by labor, that every article has been procured. If nobody had ever done any labor, there would have been no houses, no cultivated fields, no bread to eat, no clothes to wear, no books to read, and the whole world would have been in a poor and wild state, not fit for human beings to live happily in.

Men possess all things in consequence of some person having wrought for these things. Some men are rich, and have many things, although they never wrought much for them; but the ancestors, or fathers and grandfathers, of these men, wrought hard for the things, and have left them to their children. But all young persons must not think that they will get things given to them in this way; all, except a few, must work diligently when they grow up, to get things for themselves.

After any one has wrought to make a thing, or after he has a thing given to him, that thing is his own, and no person must take it from him. If a boy get a piece of clay, and make the clay into a small ball or marble to play with, then he has labored or wrought for it, and no other boy has any right to take it from him. The marble is the property of the boy who made it. Some boys are fond of keeping rabbits. If a boy have a pair of these animals, they are his property; and if he gather food for them, and take care of them till they have young ones, then the young rabbits are his property also. He would not like to find, that some bad boy wished to take his rabbits from him! He would say to the bad boy, “I claim these rabbits as my property; they are mine. You never wrought for them; they are not yours.” And if the bad boy still would take the rabbits, then the owner would go to a magistrate, and tell him of the bad boy’s conduct, and the bad boy would be punished. All things are the property of some persons, and these persons claim their property in the same way that the boy claims the marble that he has made, or the rabbits that he has reared. It is very just and proper that every person should be allowed to keep his own property; because, when a poor man knows that he can get property by working for it, and that no one dares to take it from him, then he will work to have things for his own use. If he knew that things would be taken from him, then he would not work much, and perhaps not at all. He would spend many of his days in idleness, and live very poorly.

When one person wishes to have a thing which belongs to another, he must ask permission to take it, or he must offer to buy it; he must never, on any account, take the thing secretly, or by violence, or by fraud; for that would be stealing, and he would be a thief. God has said, “Thou shalt not steal;” and every one should keep his hands from picking and stealing. Some boys think, that, because they find things that are lost, they may keep these things to themselves. But the thing that is found is the property of the loser, and should be immediately restored to him without reward; it is just as bad as stealing to keep it, if you can find the owner.

My First Whistle.

Of all the toys I e’er have known,
I loved that whistle best;
It was my first, it was my own,
And I was doubly blest.

’Twas Saturday, and afternoon,
That school-boys’ jubilee,
When the young heart is all in tune,
From book and ferule free.

I then was in my seventh year;
The birds were all a singing;
Above a brook, that rippled clear,
A willow tree was swinging.

My brother Ben was very ’cute,
He climbed that willow tree,
He cut a branch, and I was mute,
The while, with ecstasy.

With penknife he did cut it round,
And gave the bark a wring;
He shaped the mouth and tried the sound,—
It was a glorious thing!

I blew that whistle, full of joy—
It echoed o’er the ground;
And never, since that simple toy,
Such music have I found.

I’ve seen blue eyes and tasted wines—
With manly toys been blest,
But backward memory still inclines
To love that whistle best.

The Harpy Eagle.

Owls and Eagles.

It has been remarked, that, as mankind apply themselves to various trades and pursuits, some being carpenters, some house-builders, some hunters, some fishermen, so we find that the animal tribes appear to be severally devoted to various professions. And as we find among men bold, open pirates, who rob by day, and secret thieves, who plunder by night; so, among animals, we find those that seem to have taken up similar vocations.

The eagles, for instance, are daylight robbers; and it is wonderful to observe, how well adapted they are for the life they are designed to lead. They are strong of wing, with powerful talons to grasp their prey, and a sharp, hooked beak, calculated, like the knife of a butcher, to cut their food in pieces. Their eye is keen and long-sighted, so that they can mark their victim afar off; and their flight is swift, so that they may strike down upon it with certainty. Thus qualified to pursue a life of rapine and plunder, their very air and bearing correspond with their profession. They have a bold, haughty, and merciless look. The description in the thirty-ninth chapter of Job, portrays the character of these birds in a few sentences, and it is impossible to mend the description: “Doth the eagle mount up at thy command,” saith the inspired writer, “and make her nest on high? She dwelleth and abideth on the rock, upon the crag of the rock, and the strong place. From thence she seeketh the prey, and her eyes behold afar off. Her young ones, also, suck up blood; and where the slain are, there is she.”

The Eagle Owl.

Thus, if the eagles are the open, daylight robbers, the owls are the secret thieves and plunderers by night. And it is interesting to observe how well these creatures, also, are fitted for their vocation. In order to see at night, they need large eyes, and, accordingly, they have large heads to accommodate these organs. Their business is to steal upon their prey in the darkness and silence of the night. Accordingly, they are covered with an abundance of light, yielding feathers, so that they may glide through the air on a noiseless wing, and come upon their victim unheard and unsuspected. If you have ever seen an owl at evening, or during a cloudy day, (for it is seldom that they venture abroad in the sunshine,) you must have noticed, that he skims along as if he were almost as buoyant as a soap-bubble. How different is this from the whistling rush of the pigeon, or the whirring flight of the partridge!

Among the owls there are at least fifty kinds; and, taken all together, they are a most curious and interesting family. Among these, the largest is the great eagle owl, which is found in Europe. Its home is among the deep recesses of mighty forests, and the clefts of rocks amidst the mountains. From its lonely retreat, where it reposes in silence during the day, it issues forth, as the dusk of evening throws a yet deeper gloom over the dark pine forest or rocky glen, to prowl in quest of prey. On silent wing it skims through the wood, and marks the fawn, the hare, or the rabbit nibbling the herbage. Suddenly wheeling, it sweeps upon the unsuspecting victim, and, if not too large, bears it off in its talons. Other and less noble game is also to be reckoned as its prey, such as rats, mice, squirrels, and frogs. These are swallowed entire, after being merely crushed into a mass by the efforts of the bill; the bones, skins, feathers, or hair, rolled into a ball, are afterwards ejected from the stomach.

In our American forests, we have an owl very similar to the one I have described, both in looks, size, and habits. These large owls seldom approach the abodes of men; but the little barn owl is more familiar. He often takes up his residence in a barn, and, hiding in some nook by day, sallies forth at night, making prey of such little animals as he can find. He is very useful in destroying rats and mice. Mr. Waterton says that he has seen one of these little owls bring a mouse to its nest of young ones, every twelve or fifteen minutes during the evening. It is also stated, that this bird will sometimes take up its residence in a pigeon-house, and live there, without giving the pigeons the least disturbance, or even taking their young ones.

The ancients called the owl the bird of wisdom, because he looked so sober and solemn. Many superstitious people now-a-days look upon him with foolish dread. The owl is frequently mentioned in the Bible; but the most interesting allusion is that of Isaiah, chap. xiii., in which the prophet foretells the coming destruction and desolation of Babylon, then a great and powerful city. His words are, “Wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there.” This prophecy has been literally fulfilled. Many years after the time of Isaiah, Babylon was destroyed, and the place became a scene of desolation. Travellers tell us, that now the place is surrounded with caverns, which are the refuge of jackals and other savage animals, and that in these cavities there are numbers of bats and owls.

Origin of “The House that Jack
Built.”

The following curious article shows that the idea of the popular legend of “The House that Jack built,” is of ancient date, and derived from the Jews. That famous story is in fact modelled after an ancient hymn, conceived in the form of a parable, sung by the Jews at the feast of the passover, and commemorative of the principal events of the history of that people. The original, in the Chaldee language, is known to scholars; and, as it may not be uninteresting to my readers, I will furnish the literal translation, which is as follows:

1. A Kid, a Kid, my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

2. Then came the Cat, And ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

3. Then came the Dog, And bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

4. Then came the Staff, And beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

5. Then came the Fire, And burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

6. Then came the Water, And quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

7. Then came the Ox, And drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

8. Then came the Butcher, And slew the Ox, That drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

9. Then came the Angel of Death, And killed the Butcher, That slew the Ox, That drank the Water, That quenched the Fire, That burned the Staff, That beat the Dog, That bit the Cat, That ate the Kid, That my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

10. Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!

9. And killed the Angel of Death,

8. That killed the Butcher,

7. That slew the Ox,

6. That drank the Water,

5. That quenched the Fire,

4. That burned the Staff,

3. That beat the Dog,

2. That bit the Cat,

1. That ate the Kid that my Father bought for two pieces of money.

A Kid, a Kid.

The following is the interpretation:

1. The Kid, which was, among the Jews, one of the pure animals, denotes the Hebrews. The Father by whom it was purchased is Jehovah, who is represented as sustaining this relation to the Hebrew nation. The two pieces of money signify Moses and Aaron, through whose mediation the Hebrews were brought out of Egypt.

2. The Cat denotes the ancient Assyrians, by whom the ten tribes were carried into captivity.

3. The Dog is symbolical of the ancient Babylonians.

4. The Staff signifies the Persians, a powerful nation of antiquity.

5. The Fire indicates the Grecian empire, under Alexander the Great.

6. The Water betokens the Romans, or the fourth of the great monarchies, to whose dominion the Jews were subjected.

7. The Ox is a symbol of the Saracens, who subdued Palestine and brought it under the Caliphs of Bagdad.

8. The Butcher, that killed the Ox, denotes the Crusaders, by whom the Holy Land was wrested out of the hands of the Saracens, for a time.

9. The Angel of Death signifies the Turkish power, by which the land of Palestine was taken from the Crusaders, and to which it is still subject.

10. The commencement of the 10th stanza is designed to show, that God will take signal vengeance on the Turks, immediately after whose overthrow the Jews are to be restored to their own land, and to live under the government of the long-expected Messiah.

My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

I am inclined to think, that, among the various pleasures of life, talking is one of the greatest. Eating and drinking are very good things, especially when one is hungry and thirsty, and has a good meal before him. But they are very short in their duration. The heartiest supper is over in a few minutes, and drinking, in as many seconds. Beside, these are selfish pleasures, and afford only the single satisfaction of an immediate appetite. But talking is not confined to self, nor is it limited to the body. It exercises the mind, and extends alike to the speaker and the listener.

The love of talking exhibits itself in very infancy. The little prattler, even before he can speak words, tries to amuse you with his inarticulate gabble. And when he has learned a word, with what glory does he repeat it to you! A young soldier touches off a cannon with less exultation than the infant pronounces his first articulate syllable.

And then, look at a group of children! How eager are they to speak to each other! How their little tongues rattle! Sometimes all will speak at once, whether anybody listens or not. It is often hard to get a word in edgewise among such a set of orators.

Suppose some child has been away, and comes home with a piece of news. How does he rush into the room, scarcely taking time to hang up his hat or cap, and with staring eyes and ruddy cheeks, set forth the wondrous tale! Suppose a child has seen something new, as a lion or an elephant; how does he talk of it to his companions! Or, suppose he has been rambling in the woods, and has seen an eagle, or a gray squirrel, or a woodchuck,—something he had never seen before,—how eager is he to talk about it!

Thus it is with the young; they love to talk of things that interest them; and thus it is with those who have passed from the morning of life toward its setting sun. It may be that old people are less talkative than young ones; but still we all love to speak to others of that which excites our own feelings, or occupies our minds. Talking, then, is one of the great pleasures of life, and God has no doubt made it so for good and wise purposes. How large a portion of the happiness of life would be cut off, if we were all dumb!

For myself, I was a great rattler in youth, and, even now that my hair is grizzled with years, I must confess that I am not greatly altered in this respect. My life has been a varied one, and I have seen a good deal of the world. I cannot pretend to be so great a traveller as Peter Parley, nor can I match him in telling stories to babies. But still, give me a good listener, and something to speak about, and I can talk from sunrise to sunset.

I love better to talk to youth than to others. Those who are from eight to sixteen years old, are my chosen friends. I always find some way of entertaining them. Several bright-eyed girls and boys are in the habit of coming to see me, and I tell them my long stories. They come again and again, and I infer that they are pleased with them. I tell them sometimes of giants and fairies; but it is curious, that, while most young people prefer these tales of fancy, I succeed much better in pleasing my listeners by talking to them about things that really exist, or have really happened. Truth, after all, is more attractive than fiction, if it is only dressed in a proper guise.

My own adventures seem to give my listeners the most pleasure; for I have been all over the United States; have been a soldier, and seen service; have been a pedler, and travelled thousands of miles on foot; have met with strange accidents and hairbreadth escapes from danger; and have had my share of what is called hard luck. Still, I have reason to thank Heaven that my heart is happy, and my mind cheerful. I love sunshine as well as when I was a boy, and see much more occasion to laugh than to cry. I have indeed my serious moods, for there are some subjects that demand seriousness and reverence. Religion claims some of our time, and much of our thought. The Sabbath is with me a day of solemn reflection and prayer. I bend over the Bible, with a feeling that I am listening to the voice of God. These things make me serious, but not sad. As the sun seems to shine brighter, when it comes out from a cloud, so my heart is ever more serene and cheerful, for its communion with holy things.

But this is enough for an introduction. I am now going to tell the story of my own life, which I hope may prove both amusing and instructive.

CHAPTER II.

About my Birth.—The Death of my Parents.—My first Journey.—My Wonder at seeing the Country.—Lambs.—I find out where Milk comes from.—Reflections and good Advice.

I was born in the city of New York, in the year 1790. My parents were both English people. At first, they were in poor circumstances, but my father became a merchant, and acquired some property. He died, however, in the midst of success; and in a few months after my mother followed. I was thus left an orphan, at the age of six years, but with a fortune of about ten thousand dollars.

My mother had a brother living in the small town of Salem, situated upon the eastern border of the State of New York, and touching the line of Connecticut. He kept a tavern; and, as it was upon the great road that was then the route between Boston and New York, he had a good situation and a thriving business.

To the care of this uncle I was committed by my mother’s will, and immediately after her death I was taken to my uncle’s residence. I had never been out of the city of New York, and had never seen the country. I had supposed the world one great city, and never fancied that there were hills, and forests, and rivers, and fields without any houses. I still remember my journey from New York to Salem very well. I remember that the sight of so many new things, put the recollection of my father and my mother out of my mind, and banished the sorrow I had felt at seeing my parents laid into the coffin, and carried away, to return to me no more. I was delighted at everything I met, and particularly remember some lambs that I saw playing on a hill-side. They were scampering about, jumping from rock to rock, and chasing each other at full speed. I had never seen a lamb before, and I thought these the prettiest creatures that were ever made. I have since seen lions and tigers, and many other strange creatures; but I have never met with any animal, that excited in me half the admiration that I felt when I saw those little lambs.

I suppose some of my young friends in the country will laugh at what I am now going to tell them; but it is nevertheless true. As I was going from New York to Salem, we stopped one night at a small inn. When we arrived at this place, the sun was an hour high, and I had some time to play about the house. As I was running around, peeping at every new and strange thing, I saw some cows in the barn-yard. I had seen cows before, but still I went up to the gate and looked through, and there I saw a woman, sitting upon a little stool, and milking one of the cows. Now I had never seen a cow milked before, nor, indeed, did I know where milk came from. I had not thought about it at all. If I had been asked the question, I should probably have said, that we got milk as we do water, by pumping it from the cistern, or drawing it out of the well.

I looked at the woman for some time, wondering what she could be about. When she had done, she came out of the yard, and I saw that her pail was full of milk. “What is that that you have got?” said I. “It is milk,” said the woman. “Where did you get it?” said I. “I got it from the cow, you little simpleton!” said the woman; and then she went into the house.

I did not like to be called a simpleton, for I had come all the way from the great city of New York, and supposed that I knew everything. I soon found, however, that I was ignorant of many useful things that children of my age in the country were well acquainted with.

The little incident, however, that I have just related, was not without its use to me. It set me thinking about other things, and I began to ask questions about every article of food and dress,—where they came from, and how they were made; and, in this way, I obtained a great deal of knowledge. I would recommend it to my young readers to follow my example in this respect. They will find it very amusing to study into these matters. Let them one day inquire about hats, what they are made of, where the materials come from, how they are obtained, and how they are wrought into hats. Another day, let them take up the subject of coats, and learn all about the cloth, the buckram, silk, twist, and buttons, that are used in making them. So let them go through with dress; and then they may inquire about bread, and other articles of food; and then they may learn all about the furniture in the house. From this subject, they may go on and learn how houses are built. I can assure my young readers, that, in this way, they may spend their time very pleasantly, and become well acquainted with all those useful things with which we are surrounded. If I had done this before I went to Salem, I should have known where milk came from, and not been called simpleton by a milkmaid.

CHAPTER III.

Wise Observations.—Story of the Hat.

I fancy that some of my readers imagine, that it would be a dull business to study into the history of hats and coats, bread and butter, and such other common-place things. But there is an old proverb which says, “Look ere you leap;” and another which says, “Think twice and speak once.” These admonish us never to be over-hasty in speaking or acting; and, on the present occasion, I shall endeavor to show, that this good rule has been transgressed by those who despise my advice about hats and coats, bread and butter.

Here, Philip! give me a hat; let it speak for itself. Come, old hat, tell us your story! tell us what you are made of; where the materials of which you are made were obtained, how they were put together, and the price at which you were sold. Come, old beaver, speak out! What! dumb? Not a word? Then I will speak for you. So here is

THE STORY OF THE HAT, SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD BY ITSELF.

“I am made partly of wool, which is the hair of sheep, and partly of furs, of different kinds. There is some beaver’s fur, some musquash’s, and some wildcat’s in me.

“I suppose that everybody knows how we get wool,—by shearing it from the sheep’s back; but we do not get furs in the same way. Musquashes, beavers, and wildcats are not tame, like sheep, and they will not let you take them into a barn, and shear off their nice, soft fur. These creatures live far away from the abodes of men; they seek the distant solitudes beyond the hills and mountains, and those who would catch them must go and find them in these wild retreats.

“Sometimes, it is true, a beaver is found nearer to our houses, and now and then a wildcat, that has strayed from his native forest, is found in the neighboring woods. The musquash builds his habitation on the banks of streams, and is not very uncommon even in districts frequented by man.

“But these animals are, on the whole, so scarce, that, in order to obtain a supply of their fur, a great many hunters and trappers spend their time in roaming through the mountains, valleys, and prairies of the far West, in order to obtain them. These people meet with a great many strange adventures. Sometimes they will follow the branch of a river for five hundred miles, in a boat, during which time they will not meet with a human habitation, save the wigwams of the Indians. Sometimes they will sleep at night upon the ground, with no covering but a blanket; sometimes they will meet with a party of Indians, and have a fight with them. Sometimes they will meet with friendly Indians, who receive them into their lodges, and entertain them kindly; sometimes they are confronted by a grizzly bear, who places himself in their path, and must receive at least a dozen bullets in his breast before he is killed. Sometimes they will roam over wide deserts, and suffer very much for want of water. Sometimes they will be in the midst of a vast prairie, the grass of which is on fire, and then they have the greatest difficulty to escape from the flames. Sometimes they are robbed of all their furs by hostile Indians, and sometimes they meet with Indians who sell them large quantities of fur.

“After a great many cares, and trials, and dangers, and often after an absence of two years, the fur-hunter comes back with his load of skins; and a pretty figure he is. The clothes he carried with him are worn out, and he is now attired in the skins of various wild beasts. On his head you see the grizzled fur of a raccoon, with his tail hanging down behind. His coat is made of a wolf’s skin, and his vest of the skin of an otter. But his trowsers are the drollest part of his attire. They are made of a bear’s skin, and each leg looks like a great, shaggy, black dog, standing upright! Altogether, the hunter is a most curious object. He looks like three or four wild animals all sewed into one!

“What a great variety of adventures has this man met with in his wanderings of two years. How many pleasant stories could he tell, if he would sit down of a long winter night, and recount all that happened to him; all about the bears, the foxes, the wolves, and the wild Indians that he saw. How much this poor man must have suffered; what toil, hunger, thirst, danger and privation; and all this, that master Philip might have a hat; all this to get furs to make hats of.

“The wool and fur being obtained, these are prepared by the hatter, who, in the first place, makes a sort of cap, shaped something like a sugar-loaf. This is then soaked in hot water, and, being put upon a block, the crown is made of a proper shape. The whole is stiffened with gum, colored, dressed, put in boxes, and sent to the hat-seller. The price paid for me was two dollars. Philip has worn me for about a year, but I am in a sad condition. The hole in my crown was made by a stick, which went through me one day when Philip threw me at a red squirrel on the fence. The rent on my brim was caused by a saucy fellow, that tried to pull me off one day; but I chose to be torn, rather than see Philip insulted by having his hat knocked off; for, though the boy has his faults, I like him better than anybody else.”

Such is the story of the hat. My object in giving it to you is, to show, that the commonest article of daily use has its history, if we will only inquire into it.

CHAPTER IV.

Arrival at my Uncle’s.—The Village.—Bill Keeler.—My first Day at School.—Trouble.

I must now return to the story of myself. The morning after I left the little tavern where I discovered how milk was obtained, we proceeded on our journey, and at evening arrived at my uncle’s house. It was an old-fashioned building, painted red, with a large sign swinging in front, upon one side of which was the picture of a stout barn-yard cock, and on the other side was the head of a bull. So my uncle’s tavern went by the name of the “Cock and Bull.”

I soon became acquainted with the family, and in a few weeks was quite familiar with the main street and all the by-lanes in the village. My uncle had no children, but there was living with him a boy about ten years old, by the name of Bill Keeler. He became my principal companion, and, being a very knowing sort of lad, gave me an insight into many things, which I could not otherwise have understood.

After I had been at my uncle’s about six months, it was concluded to send me to school. I was now seven years of age, but, strange as it may seem to boys and girls of the present day, I did not know my letters, and, what is more remarkable, I had a great dislike to the idea of going to school. I believe it is the case that all people who grow up ignorant acquire a settled dislike to learning and learned people. As an owl can see best in the dark, because the light seems to put his eyes out, so ignorant people love ignorance and darkness, because truth and knowledge offend and distress them. I mention these things as a warning to my reader against growing up in ignorance, and thereby becoming a lover of darkness, rather than light.

Well, I went to school for the first time, and I remember all about it to this day. The schoolhouse was situated in a large space, where four roads met. It was a bleak and desolate hill-side, partly covered with heaps of stones, thrown out of the path, or gathered from the neighboring fields. There were a few groups of tangled briers and stunted huckleberry bushes amid these heaps of stones. On the lower side of the hill, there was an old gnarled oak growing out of a heap of splintered rocks, at the foot of which there bubbled forth a small stream of pure water. This fountain went by the pretty name of “Silver Spring.”

Bill Keeler led me into the school, which was then kept by Mistress Sally St. John. She looked at me through her spectacles, and over her spectacles, and then patted me on the head, told me I was a good boy, and sent me to a seat. In about an hour I was called up, the spelling-book opened, and the alphabet being placed before me, the mistress pointed to the first letter, and asked me what it was.

I looked at the letter very carefully, and then gazed in the face of Mistress St. John, but said nothing. “What’s that?” said she, peremptorily, still pointing to the first letter of the alphabet. Now I hadn’t been used to being scolded, and therefore felt a little angry at the manner in which the school-mistress addressed me. Beside, at that moment I saw Bill Keeler at the other end of the room, looking at me with a saucy twinkle in his eye, which made me still more angry.

“What’s that?” again said the school-mistress, still sharper than before. It was time for me to do something. “I’ll not tell you!” said I. “Why not?” said the school-mistress, greatly amazed at my conduct. “Because I didn’t come here to teach you your letters; but I came here to learn them.”

The school-mistress shut up her book. Bill Keeler rolled up his eyes, and made his mouth into a round O. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress. I turned to go. “Stop!” said the school-mistress, fetching me a slap on the side of the head; at the same moment she opened the book, and again presented the alphabet to my view. “Look, there!” said she, pointing with her finger to the top letter; “do you see that?” I answered, “Yes.” “Well, that’s A,” said she. “That’s A?” said I, doubtingly. “Yes,” said the mistress sharply. “I don’t believe it!” said I. “Why don’t you believe it?” said she. “Because I never heard of it before,” I replied. “Go to your seat!” said the school-mistress; and away I went.

Such was my first day’s schooling. In the evening, Mistress St. John called upon my uncle, and told him I was the most stupid creature she ever saw, and very ill-mannered beside; and she hoped I would by no means be permitted to come again to her school. My uncle was greatly offended, not with me, but with the school-mistress. He declared I should not go near her again; and, for more than a year, I was permitted to amuse myself in my own way. I was greatly pleased with all this at the time, but I have since often thought how severely I was punished for my ill behavior at school. For more than a year, I was left to run about in idleness, getting bad habits, and losing the precious time that should have been devoted to the acquisition of knowledge. Thus it always happens, that, soon or late, we are made to suffer for our misconduct.

(To be continued.)

Swallows.

Of these birds there are several kinds, but I am going to speak of only one or two of them now. The common barn swallow is one of the most interesting. It does not come much among us at the north, till the settled warm weather of May. A straggler now and then appears before, which has led to the adage, “One swallow does not make summer.”

The flight of the swallow is often low, but distinguished by great rapidity, and sudden turns and evolutions, executed as if by magic. Over fields and meadows, and the surface of pools and sheets of water, all the day may this fleet, unwearied bird be seen, skimming along, and describing, in its oft repeated circuit, the most intricate mazes. The surface of the water is indeed its delight; its insect food is there in great profusion; and it is beautiful to observe how dexterously it skims along, and with what address it dips and emerges, shaking the spray from its burnished plumage, as, hardly interrupted by the plunge, it continues its career. Thus it feeds, and drinks, and bathes upon the wing.

Bank Swallows.

The swallow breeds twice a year, and constructs its nest of mud or clay, mixed with hair and straw; the clay is tempered with the saliva of the bird, (with which nature has supplied it,) in order to make it tenacious and easily moulded. The shell or crust of the nest, thus composed, is lined with fine grass or feathers, firmly fixed against the rafters of barns or out-houses. The writer has heard of a pair that yearly built in the rafters of a wheelwright’s shop, undisturbed by the din of the hammer or the grating of the saw. The propensity which these birds, in common with their family, exhibit to return to the same spot, and to build in the same barn year after year, is one of the most curious parts of their history. During their sojourn in foreign climes, they forget not their old home, the spot where they were bred, the spot where they have reared their offspring; but, as soon as their instinct warns them to retrace their pilgrimage, back they hasten, and, as experiments have repeatedly proved, the identical pair that built last summer in the barn, again take up their old quarters, passing in and out by the same opening.

It is delightful to witness the care which the swallow manifests towards her brood. When able to leave the nest, she leads them to the ridge of the barn, where, settled in a row, and as yet unable to fly, she feeds them with great assiduity. In a day or two they become capable of flight, and then they follow their parents in all their evolutions, and are fed by them while on the wing. In a short time they commence an independent career, and set up for themselves.

The notes of the swallow, though hurried and twittering, are very pleasing; and the more so as they are associated in our minds with ideas of spring, and calm serenity, and rural pleasures. The time in which the bird pours forth its melody is chiefly at sunrise, when, in “token of a goodly day,” his rays are bright and warm.

“The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed,”

unite alike to call man from his couch of rest, and to praise “the God of seasons as they roll.”

After the work of rearing the young, ere autumn sears the leaf, the swallow prepares to depart. Multitudes, from various quarters, now congregate together, and perch at night in clusters on barns or the branches of trees, but especially among the reeds of marshes and fens, round which they may be observed wheeling and sinking and rising again, all the time twittering vociferously, before they finally settle. It was from this circumstance that some of the older naturalists supposed the swallow to become torpid and remain submerged beneath the water during winter, and to issue forth from its liquid tenement on the return of spring; a theory utterly incompatible with reason and facts, and now universally discarded. The great body of these birds depart about the end of September.

The Holy Scriptures make frequent allusions to this interesting bird. Jeremiah, reproaching the Jews for their turning away from God, alludes to the swallow as obeying His laws, while they who have seen his glory rebelled: “Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.” viii. 7.

The Psalmist notices the partiality of this bird for the temple of worship, the sanctuary of God: “Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.” Psalm lxxxiv. 3. Hezekiah, king of Judah, wrote of himself, “Like a crane or a swallow, so did I chatter.” Is. xxxviii. 14. In these casual notices we at least trace out that the habits, migration, and song of the swallow, were known to the inspired writers; a circumstance of no little value, since a false assertion that the facts of natural history are not correctly stated in the Bible, has long been among the weak engines used by the infidel against the validity of that book, “which maketh wise unto salvation.”

The Sand Martin, or Bank Swallow, is a most curious bird of this family. It is the least of the tribe, and the first to arrive, appearing a week or two before the swallow, and often while the weather is severe. Its flight is vacillating, but it is equally fond of skimming over the surface of the water. This bird, unlike its race, mines deep holes in sand or chalk cliffs, to the depth of two feet, or even more, at the extremity of which it constructs a loose nest of fine grass and feathers, artificially put together, in which it rears its brood.

The sand martin is of a social disposition; hence flocks of them unite to colonize a favorite locality, such as a precipitous bank or rock, which they crowd with their burrows. Professor Pallas says, that on the high banks of the Irtish, their nests are in some places so numerous, that, when disturbed, the inmates come out in vast flocks and fill the air like flies; and, according to Wilson, they swarm in immense multitudes along the banks of the Ohio and Kentucky.

What, it may be asked, are the instruments by which this little creature is able to bore into the solid rock, and excavate such a chamber? Its beak is its only instrument. This is a sharp little awl, peculiarly hard, and tapering suddenly to a point from a broad base; with this tool the bird proceeds to work, picking away from the centre to the circumference of the aperture, which is nearly circular; thus it works round and round as it proceeds, the gallery being more or less curved in its course, and having a narrow funnel-shaped termination. The author of “The Architecture of Birds” informs us that he has watched one of these swallows “cling with its sharp claws to the face of a sandbank, and peg in its bill, as a miner would do his pickaxe, till it had loosened a considerable portion of the sand, and then tumbled it down amongst the rubbish below.”

The Human Frame likened to a House.

Man’s body’s like a house: his greater bones

Are the main timbers; and the lesser ones

Are smaller joists; his limbs are laths daubed o’er,

Plastered with flesh and blood; his mouth’s the door;

His throat’s the narrow entry; and his heart
Is the great chamber, full of curious art.
His stomach is the kitchen, where the meat
Is often put, half sod, for want of heat.
His spleen’s a vessel nature does allot
To take the scum that rises from the pot;
His lungs are like the bellows, that respire
In every office, quickening every fire;
His nose the chimney is, whereby are vented
Such fumes as with the bellows are augmented;

His eyes are crystal windows, clear and bright,

Let in the object, and let out the sight;
And as the timber is, or great or small,
Or strong or weak, ’tis apt to stand or fall.

Chinese Spectacles.

Mr. Davis, in his account of China, tells us that the people there do not make glass that is fine enough for spectacles, and therefore they use pieces of rock crystal for the purpose. The rims of the spectacles are of immense size and width, and give a very wise appearance to the wearer. The spectacles are attached to the head by silken strings slung over the ears, as represented in the picture.

View of the Bastile.

Story of Philip Brusque;

SHOWING THE NATURE AND NECESSITY OF GOVERNMENT AND LAWS.

CHAPTER I.

Early Life of Philip Brusque.—He engages in the French Revolution.—Is at length suspected by Robespierre, and obliged to fly.—Enters on board a Ship, and is cast away upon an uninhabited Island in the Indian Ocean.—Description of the place.—Philip fancies that he is now happy, having found perfect Liberty.

Philip Brusque was a young Frenchman, who engaged very heartily in the revolution that began to agitate France about the year 1789. He was young, ardent and discontented. Though he had little education, he had still read many of the papers and pamphlets of the day. These had filled his mind with a horror of kings, and the most intoxicating dreams of liberty. Knowing little of political government, except that of France, and which he saw to be corrupt and despotic, he adopted the idea that all government was bad, and to this he attributed nearly all the evils of society. With the ardor of a young but heated fancy, he looked forward to the destruction of the monarchy as certain to bring a political millennium, when every man should walk forth in freedom and happiness, restrained by no law except the moral sense of man, and the innate perception and love of human rights.

With these views, which were then common among the French people, and which artful disorganizers had disseminated, in order thereby to acquire power, Philip arrived at Paris. He was soon engaged in several of the debating clubs of that great metropolis, and being possessed of natural eloquence, he speedily became a leader. He was present at the destruction of the Bastile, and his own vigorous hand battered down more than one of the iron doors of that horrid prison. Looking upon these gloomy walls, with their dark chambers, and the chains and instruments of torture which were found there, as at once emblems and instruments of that tyranny which had cursed his country for ages, Philip felt a high inspiration in witnessing its demolition. As one portion after another of the massy wall was hurled to the earth, he seemed to fancy that a whole nation must breathe more freely; and in seeing the pallid wretches delivered from the dungeon, where some of them had been imprisoned for years, he seemed to think that he saw the spirit of his country set at liberty.

The Bastile was soon but a heap of ruins. The whole fabric of the French monarchy, which had existed for twelve centuries, in a few brief years had shared the same fate. Louis XVI. had been beheaded, and his beautiful queen had been brought to the block. In all these scenes Brusque had taken a part. He was present at the execution of Marie Antoinette. He had no respect for majesty, but he was not yet lost to a sense of decency in respect to woman. The shocking and brutal insults offered to the queen, worse than anything ever witnessed among savages, disgusted Philip. He was indeed sick of blood, and he ventured to speak his sentiments aloud. His words were repeated to Robespierre and the rest of the bloody men who then held the sway. Philip became suspected, and he was obliged to fly to save his life. He reached the coast of France with difficulty, and entering on board a merchant ship as a sailor, set out upon a voyage to China.

Nothing remarkable happened for some time; but when the ship had doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and entered the Indian Ocean, a violent storm arose. The vessel contended bravely with the waves for a time, but at length her masts were swept away, the helm was broken, and the hull of the ship rolled like a log amidst the tumbling waters. She then drifted for a time at the mercy of the winds, and at length came near a small island. She then struck on a rock, and went to pieces. All the crew were drowned except the hero of our story, who seized upon a plank, and, after two days of toil and suffering, reached the shore of the island.

He landed upon a pebbly beach, but he was so exhausted as only to be able to draw himself up from the waves. There he lay for a long time, almost unconscious of existence. At length, his strength returned, and he began to think over what had happened. When his reason was, at last, fully returned, he fell upon his knees, and thanked Heaven for his preservation. It was the first prayer he had uttered for years, for Philip Brusque had been told by the French revolutionists that there was no God, and that prayer was a mere mockery. But now he prayed, and felt in his heart that there was indeed a God, that claimed gratitude and thanksgiving from the lips of one who had been saved from death, while his companions had all been drowned.

Philip was soon able to look about the island and make observations. It was a lovely spot, about four miles in circuit, and pleasantly varied with hills and valleys. It was almost covered with beautiful trees, on some of which there were delicious fruits. Birds of bright feathers and joyous notes glanced through the forests, and sweet perfumes were wafted on the warm, soft breezes. Philip walked about the island, his delight and wonder increasing at every step. And what seemed to please him most of all was, that the island was without a single human inhabitant except himself.

“Now,” said Philip, in the fulness of his heart, “I shall be happy. Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. Here is no prison like the Bastile; here is no king to make slaves of his fellow-men; here is no Robespierre to plot the murder of his fellow-citizens. Oh liberty! how have I worshipped thee, and here, in this lone island, I have now found thee. Here, I can labor or rest, eat or drink, wake or sleep, as I please. Here is no one to control my actions or my thoughts. In my native country, all the land belongs to a few persons, but here I can take as much land as I please. I can freely pick the fruit from the trees according to my choice or my wants. How different is my situation from what it was in France! There, everything belonged to somebody, and I was restrained from taking anything, unless I paid for it. Here, all is free; all is mine. Here I can enjoy perfect liberty. In France, I was under the check and control of a thousand laws; here, there is no law but my own will. Here, I have indeed found perfect liberty.”

(To be continued.)

The Sailor’s Family.

There once lived in Ireland a sailor, who had a wife and one child. He was poor, but still he provided a small house for his family, had it decently furnished, and, as he always brought them money when he came home from his voyages, they were quite comfortable.

He was very fond of his little boy, and he, too, was very fond of his father. The sailor used to go in a ship to the West Indies, and, when he returned, he always brought back some nice oranges and other good things for his little son.

Well, the Irishman, whose name was Kelly, had once been gone on a voyage to the West Indies for several months, and his family were expecting every day that he would return. Whenever the door was opened, the boy looked up to see if it was not his father who had come.

Four months passed away, and no news came. And now Mrs. Kelly had become very much afraid that something had happened to her husband. She feared that the vessel had been cast away upon some rocky shore, or that it had sunk in the deep sea, or that some other misfortune had occurred, by which her husband had perished.

The boy, too, became very uneasy, and was every day expressing his wonder that his father did not come back. At length, a man, who lived near by, came into the house, and told Mrs. Kelly that he had brought sad news. He then went on to tell her that the vessel in which her husband sailed, had been driven ashore in a gale of wind, and dashed to pieces upon a rocky island, and it was supposed that all on board had perished.

Some persons from another vessel had landed upon the island, and found papers and pieces of the wreck upon the shore, by which they knew it was the vessel in which Kelly had sailed. The island was small, and there was no person upon it.

This was sad intelligence to the poor sailor’s wife, and it was long before she could find it in her heart to break the news to her child. When he heard it, he shed many tears, and peace returned no more to the sailor’s home.

Being deprived of the assistance of her husband, Mrs. Kelly was obliged to make great exertions to support herself and child with comfort. She was, however, very industrious, and, for a time, she got along pretty well.

At length she was taken sick, and a little girl was added to her family. When she was partially recovered, she found herself poor, and a good deal in debt to her landlord. He was a cruel man; he took away her furniture for what she owed him, and then turned the widow and her family into the street.

The poor woman was still unwell; and it was with great difficulty that she walked about a mile to the house of a farmer, whom she knew, hoping that he would render her assistance. But he would give her nothing.

She was now in great distress, and did not know where to find even shelter. Sad, sick, and almost broken-hearted, she crept toward a stable, and sat down upon some straw. Here she remained for some time, with her infant in her arms, and her boy’s head resting on her lap.

Where could she now look for aid? She had no friends, from whom she could expect assistance. At length her thoughts turned to that good Being, who is ever the friend of the poor and the distressed. To him she prayed fervently, and so deeply was her mind absorbed in this act of devotion, that she did not notice a man who at the moment was passing by, on the public road.

He was on foot, and seeing the woman and her children, stepped toward them, to observe them more carefully. When Mrs. Kelly had finished her petition and opened her eyes, the man was standing before her.

She instantly perceived that he was a sailor, and that his countenance bespoke amazement; and then it struck her that he seemed to bear a wonderful likeness to her lost husband. At length he spoke her name, and the poor woman, betwixt fear and joy, would have fallen through faintness to the ground. Kelly supported her, for it was he!

When she recovered, mutual explanations took place. She told her story, and he related his, which was this. The ship in which he sailed was wrecked upon the island, and all perished save himself and two others. These were taken off the island, by a vessel going to the East Indies. As soon as he could, he left this ship, and got into a vessel that was going to England; and thus, after an absence of eight months, returned to his country. I need not attempt to describe the happiness that now filled again the hearts of the sailor’s family.

The Groom and the Horse;

A FABLE, TO SHOW THE DISADVANTAGES OF DECEPTION.

A groom, whose business it was to take care of a certain horse, let the animal go loose into the field. After a while, he wanted to catch him, but the brute chose to run about at liberty, rather than be shut up in the stable; so he pranced round the field and kept out of the groom’s way. The groom now went to the granary, and got the measure with which he was wont to bring the horse his oats. When the horse saw the measure, he thought to be sure that the groom had some oats for him; and so he went up to him, and was instantly caught and taken to the stable.

Another day, the horse was in the field, and refused to be caught. So the groom again got the measure, and held it out, inviting the horse, as before, to come up to him. But the animal shook his head, saying, “Nay, master groom; you told me a lie the other day, and I am not so silly as to be cheated a second time by you.”

“But,” said the groom, “I did not tell you a lie; I only held out the measure, and you fancied that it was full of oats. I did not tell you there were oats in it.”

“Your excuse is worse than the cheat itself,” said the horse. “You held out the measure, and thereby did as much as to say, ‘I have got some oats for you.’”

Actions speak as well as words. Every deceiver, whether by words or deeds, is a liar; and nobody, that has been once deceived by him, will fail to shun and despise him ever after.

The Druids.

The Druids were a remarkable race of priests, who first came into Europe with the Celts, the first settlers of that quarter of the globe, and who seem to have exercised almost unlimited sway in civil and religious matters. Of their origin and history very little is known; but the early writers have given such accounts of them as to make it evident that their influence among the Gauls and Britons was very great. At the time they flourished, Christianity had not penetrated into those countries, and the religion of the Druids was exercised there without check or control. The best account of them is given by Julius Cæsar, who conquered Gaul and a part of Britain about fifty years before Christ; but these countries were so wild and uncultivated, and the manners of the people so barbarous, that all the intelligence he could collect respecting this singular race of men, is far from satisfying our curiosity.

The Druids appear to have exercised the office of civil magistrates, as well as that of ministers of religion. Neither their laws nor precepts of religion were committed to writing, but were preserved in poems, which were learned by heart, and recited on special occasions. They had the power of life and death over the multitude; and such was the superstitious terror with which they inspired the people, that their orders were always implicitly obeyed. The most characteristic part of their religious worship was their veneration for the oak tree, and the mistletoe, which is a plant that grows on the trunks of the oak. No ceremony was performed by the Druids without some part of this tree being used to consecrate it. They wore garlands of oak leaves upon their heads, for they believed that everything which grew upon this tree came from heaven.

The ceremony of gathering the mistletoe was always performed with much solemnity, and in such a manner as to strike the multitude with awe. This plant is very rare, and when any of it was discovered, the Druids set out with great pomp to procure it. This was always done on the sixth day of the moon, a day which they deemed of particular sanctity. When they arrived at the oak on which the mistletoe grew, a great banquet and sacrifice was prepared under the tree. Two white bulls were tied by the horns to the trunk of the tree. One of the priests, clad in a white garment, then mounted the tree, and with a golden knife cut off the mistletoe, which was received by another priest in a white cloak. They then offered up their prayers and sacrifices. The mistletoe, besides being an object of religious veneration, was considered an antidote to poison, and to possess many other virtues.

The Druids performed their worship in the deepest recesses of the woods, far from human dwellings; a circumstance which added to the superstitious awe with which the common people regarded them. One of these spots is described by the poet Lucan. This wood, according to his account, had never been touched by the axe since the creation. The trees of it grew so thick and were so interwoven, that the rays of the sun could not penetrate through the branches, and a damp and chilling darkness reigned throughout. Nothing was to be seen in the neighborhood except a multitude of altars, on which human victims had been sacrificed, and the blood of which had stained the trees of a horrid crimson. Ancient traditions affirmed that no bird ever perched upon their branches, no beast ever walked under them, no wind ever blew through them, and no lightning ever struck them.

The idols which these gloomy recesses contained, were a species of rude and shapeless trunks, having some resemblance to the human figure, and covered with a tawny yellow moss. If the superstitious belief of the multitude might be credited, these mystic groves were frequently shaken by some unearthly movement, and dreadful sounds issued from the caverns and hollows which abounded in them. Sometimes, we are told, the woods would be wrapt in a flame of fire without being consumed; and sometimes the oaks would be twined round with monstrous dragons. At the hours of noon and midnight the priests entered these gloomy abodes, to celebrate their mysteries with trembling and terror. Such appalling accounts of these frightful regions, probably originated with the Druids themselves, who wished to deter the multitude, by every sort of dreadful description, from penetrating into the secrets of their superstitious practices.

Plutarch informs us that a Roman commander named Demetrius was sent by one of the emperors to an island of the Druids, for the purpose of making discoveries, but that the Roman adventurers were repulsed by a strange phenomenon. Immediately on their arrival, says the account, the heavens grew black; the winds arose; strange apparitions were seen in the sky; a dreadful tempest sprung up, and the heavens were filled with fiery spouts and whirlwinds. The Romans desisted from their attempt, in the dread of being destroyed for their sacrilegious invasion of a consecrated spot. Probably all this was nothing more than an ordinary thunder-storm, which the fright of the Romans magnified into a supernatural occurrence.

The Druids were also addicted to the horrid practice of sacrificing human victims. These were sometimes criminals who had offended either the laws or the religious prejudices of the Druids. It often happened that, when a man’s life was in danger, from sickness or any other cause, the Druids undertook to secure his safety by a human sacrifice to their false deities. When criminals could not be found, innocent persons were taken for victims. Huge hollow piles of osier twigs, bark or hay were erected, and filled with these unhappy wretches; after which the whole was set on fire and consumed. Under the guidance of the Druids, the people at their funerals burnt the bodies of the dead, and threw into the blazing pile all their most valuable property, and even their servants and slaves. Sometimes the near relatives of the deceased burnt themselves with their friends, in the manner practised at the present day by the Hindoo widows.

The Druids extended their worship over the greater part of the modern kingdom of France, which was then named Gaul, the southern part of the island of Great Britain, and the island of Hibernia, now Ireland. Their most celebrated abode was the island of Mona, now called Anglesey, on the coast of Wales. In this island are some remains of the Druidical superstition, consisting of immense blocks of stone, supposed to have been altars. The celebrated structure in the south of England, known by the name of Stonehenge, is also considered a remnant of Druidical architecture, though we are not positive that the Druids ever performed their worship in temples.

From all the accounts transmitted to us by the ancient writers, it is pretty evident that the Druids were possessed of considerable knowledge for so barbarous an age, and that they made all possible use of this knowledge to perpetuate their authority and keep the rest of the people in ignorance of the true character of their religious mysteries. Their influence, wherever they prevailed, was very great. When the Romans invaded Britain, they found the inhabitants almost entirely subject to their control. The Druids offered an obstinate resistance to the Romans, and incited the Britons, on many occasions, to revolt against them. The Romans perceived at length that the subjugation of the island would never be effected until the Druids were entirely extirpated. They therefore waged a war of extermination against them, put them to death in every quarter, and the last of the race having fled for shelter to Anglesey, the Romans crossed over to that island, destroyed their idols, cut down their groves, and burnt the priests to death, as they had been accustomed to burn their victims. Such was the end of the race and religion of the Druids.

Plain Dealing.—An impertinent fellow asked Lord Guilford, who that plain lady was before him. “That lady,” said his lordship, “is my wife. It is true, she is a plain woman, I am a plain man, you are a plain dealer, and that is the plain truth.”

Hospital of the Invalides, where Napoleon’s body is now entombed. Paris.

The Re-entombment of Napoleon.

Of all the great and remarkable men of modern times, Napoleon Bonaparte was the most wonderful. He was a son of a lawyer of Corsica, an island in the Mediterranean sea, belonging to France. From a humble station he rose to be the emperor of France, and the greatest general of modern times. He hurled kings from their thrones, and put others in their places. He dismembered empires, and created new ones. He made the whole earth ring with his mighty deeds. But one thing he could not do—he could not conquer himself. His ambition led him on from one step of injustice to another, till the embattled armies of Europe appeared in the field against him. He was defeated, dethroned, and taken on board a British ship to the rocky and lonely island of St. Helena, where he died in 1821.

After being entombed for almost twenty years, the king, Louis Philippe, sent out a ship to bring back his body to France, to be re-entombed in the capital of the empire of which he once swayed the sceptre. The hearts of many of the French people adore the name of Napoleon; and the ceremony of his re-entombment, which has just taken place at Paris, is the theme of the fallowing lines.

Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!
Come in long procession, come!
Come with sword and come with lance,
Children of heroic France;
Come from castle’s frowning wall,
Come from the ancestral hall,
Come, poor peasant, from thy shed,
Cowled monk and crowned head!
From the hamlet’s green retreat,
From the city’s crowded street,
From the proud Tuilleries’ door
Let the royal escort pour;
Duke and baron, king and queen,
Gather to the august scene;
In your purple pomp arrayed,
Haste to swell the grand parade.
Brow of snow and locks of gold,
Matron, maiden, young and old!
Sound the trumpets, roll the drum,
For Napoleon’s ashes come!

Sound the trumpet, roll the drum!
Let the cannon be not dumb;
Charge your black guns to the brim,
Invalides! to welcome him!
War-worn veterans, onward march
To Etoiles’ towering arch.
Let the column of Vendome,
Let the Pantheon’s soaring dome,
Champs de Mars and Elysees,
Hear the clang of arms to-day;
Let the Luxembourg once more
Hear Napoleon’s cannon roar.
Bring the eagles forth that flew
O’er the field of Waterloo,
Bring his tattered banners, red
With the blood at Jena shed,
Scorched with fire and torn with steel,
Rent by battle’s crushing heel,
When the fight o’er Moscow pealed,
And Marengo’s sanguine field;
Sound the clarion’s wildest strain,
For the conqueror comes again!

Sound a sad funereal wail
For the warrior stark and pale!
Hussar and dark cuirassier,
Lancer and fierce grenadier;
Soldiers of the Seine and Rhone,
Join the universal moan.
Conscripts who have never yet
In the front of battle met,
Join your sorrows to the grief
Of these veterans for their chief!
Veterans, raise your brows the while,
As of yore by Rhine and Nile;
Show the frequent ghastly scar
Won in following him to war;
Tell the fields where you have bled,
Left a limb, or heart’s-blood shed;
And remembering each brave year,
March on proudly by his bier——
Forth with drooping weapons come
To the rolling of the drum!

Let the city’s busy hum
Cease when rolls the muffled drum;
Let no light laugh, no rude sound,
E’er disturb the hush profound!
Only let the swinging bell
Of St. Roche peal out its knell.
Silence! on his rolling car
Comes the favored Child of war!
Not as in the olden days,
With his forehead bound with bays,
With the bright sword in his hand,
Encircled with his ancient band.
Long the sceptre and the crown
At the grave hath he laid down.
Now with coffin and with shroud
Comes the chieftain once so proud.
On his pale brow, on his cheek,
Death hath set his signet bleak,
And the dead alone doth crave
Rest and silence in the grave.
Sound the trumpet, roll the drum,
Bear his ashes to the tomb!

What is Truth?

Truth is conformity to fact, in a statement or representation. If I say that London is the largest city in the world, my statement conforms to fact, and is therefore true. If I say that Boston has more inhabitants than New York, my statement does not conform to fact, and therefore is not true. There is one thing more to be considered, which is, that the statement must conform to fact in the sense in which it is meant to be understood. If I say a thing which is literally true, but which is not true in the sense in which I mean it to be understood, then I am guilty of falsehood, because I intend to deceive. The following story will illustrate this.

Two boys, who had been studying geography, were walking together one evening, when one of them exclaimed, “How bright the sun shines!” The other boy immediately replied that, as it was evening, the sun did not shine. The first boy insisted that it did shine; whereupon a dispute arose, one of the boys insisting that the sun did shine, the other that it did not. At last, they agreed to leave the point to their father, and accordingly they went to him and stated the case. They both agreed that it was nine o’clock at night; that the stars were glittering in the sky; that the sun had been down for nearly two hours; and yet John, the elder of the boys, maintained that, at that moment, the sun was shining as bright as at noon-day.

When his father demanded an explanation, John said that the geography he had just been studying, stated that when it was night here, it was day in China—“and now,” said he, “of course the sun is shining there, though it is night here. I said that the sun shines, and so it does.”

To this the father replied as follows: “What you say now, John, is true, but still, what you said to James was a falsehood. You knew that he understood you to say that the sun shone here—you meant that he should so understand you; you meant to convey a statement to his mind that did not conform to fact, and which was therefore untrue. You had a reservation in your own mind, which you withheld from James. You did not say to him that you restricted your statement to China—that was no part of your assertion. Truth requires us not only to watch over our words, but the ideas we communicate. If we intentionally communicate ideas which are false, then we are guilty of falsehood. Now you said to James that which was untrue, according to the sense in which you knew he would, and in which you intended he should, receive it, and therefore you meant to violate the truth. I must accordingly decide against John, and in favor of James. John was wrong, and James is right. The sun did not shine as John said it did, and as James understood him to say it did.”

There are many other cases which illustrate this “truth to the letter and lie to the sense.” Some years since, during the laws against travelling on the Sabbath, a man was riding on horseback near Worcester, in Massachusetts. It chanced to be of a Sunday morning, and the traveller was soon stopped by a tythingman, who demanded his reason for riding on the Lord’s day, and thus violating the law.

“My father lies dead in Sutton,” said the other, “and I hope you will not detain me.”

“Certainly not,” said the tythingman, “under these circumstances;” and accordingly he allowed the man to proceed. About two days after, the traveller was returning, and happened to meet the tythingman in the road. The two persons recognised each other, and accordingly the following conversation ensued:

“You passed here on Sunday morning, I think, sir,” said the tythingman.

“Yes, sir,” said the traveller.

“And you told me you were going to your father’s funeral—pray when did he die?”

“I did not say I was going to my father’s funeral—I said he lay dead in Sutton, and so he did; but he has been dead for fifteen years.”

Thus you perceive that while the words of the traveller were literally true, they conveyed an intentional falsehood to the tythingman, and therefore the traveller was guilty of deception. I know that people sometimes think these tricks very witty, but they are very wicked. Truth would be of no value, if it might be used for the purposes of deception; it is because truth forbids all deception, and requires open dealing, that it is so much prized. It is always a poor bargain to give away truth for the sake of a momentary advantage, or for the purpose of playing off an ingenious trick. To barter truth for fun or mischief is giving away gold for dross. Every time a person tells a lie, or practises a deception, he inflicts an injury upon his mind, not visible to the eye of man, but as plain to the eye of God as a scar upon the flesh. By repeated falsehoods, a person may scar over his whole soul, so as to make it offensive in the sight of that Being, whose love and favor we should seek, for his friendship is the greatest of all blessings.

Varieties.

A Child’s Affection for a Kitten.—A short time since, a little girl, daughter of Mr. Alexander Rice, lost her life through her affection for a kitten. She had followed a small boy to the river, weeping bitterly because he was about to drown a kitten for which she had formed a strong attachment; and no sooner was it tossed into the water, than the agonized child took off its shoes, and, raising its clothes, walked into the river with a firm and determined step, towards the object of her affection; but, before reaching it, she suddenly sank into deep water, and her gentle spirit returned to the God who gave it.

A Musical Mouse. —One evening, as some officers on board a British man-of-war were seated round the fire, one of them began to play a plaintive air on a violin. He had scarcely played ten minutes, when a mouse, apparently frantic, made its appearance in the centre of the floor. The strange gestures of the little animal strongly excited the attention of the officers, who, with one consent, resolved to let it continue its singular actions unmolested. Its exertions now appeared to be greater every moment; it shook its head, leaped about the table, and exhibited signs of the most ecstatic delight. It was observed, that in proportion to the gradation of the tones to the soft point, the feelings of the animal appeared to be increased. After performing actions, which so diminutive an animal would, at first sight, seem incapable of, the little creature, to the astonishment of the spectators, suddenly ceased to move, fell down, and expired, without any symptoms of pain.

Travelling Cats.—A lady residing in Glasgow, Scotland, had a handsome cat sent to her from Edinburgh. It was conveyed to her in a close basket, and in a carriage. She was carefully watched for two months, but, having produced a pair of young ones at the end of that time, she was left at her own discretion, which she very soon employed in disappearing with both her kittens. The lady at Glasgow wrote to her friend in Edinburgh, deploring her loss; and the cat was supposed to have formed some new attachment, with as little reflection as men and women sometimes do.

About a fortnight, however, after her disappearance at Glasgow, her well-known mew was heard at the street-door of her old mistress in Edinburgh, and there she was, with both her kittens! they in the best state, but she very thin. It is clear, that she could carry only one kitten at a time. The distance from Glasgow to Edinburgh is forty miles; so that, if she brought one kitten part of the way, and then went back for the other, and thus conveyed them alternately, she must have travelled one hundred and twenty miles at least. Her prudence must likewise have suggested the necessity of journeying in the night, with many other precautions for the safety of her young.

A Musical Pigeon.—Bertoni, a famous instructor in music, while residing in Venice, took a pigeon for his companion, and, being very fond of birds, made a great pet of it. The pigeon, by being constantly in his master’s company, obtained so perfect an ear for music, that no one who saw his behavior could doubt for a moment of the pleasure the bird took in hearing him play and sing.

Swiftness of Birds.—A vulture can fly at the rate of one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Observations on the coast of Labrador convinced Major Arkwright, that wild geese could travel at the rate of ninety miles an hour. The common crow can fly twenty-five miles, and swallows ninety-two miles, an hour. It is said, that a falcon, belonging to Henry the Fourth, was discovered at Malta, twenty-four hours after its departure from Fontainebleau. If true, this bird must have flown, for twenty-four hours, at the rate of fifty-seven miles an hour, not allowing him to rest a moment during the whole time.

A Brave Irishman.—An Irishman, who was a soldier of the Revolution, and of Warren’s brigade, was suddenly stopped near Boston by a party, during a dark night; a horseman’s pistol was presented to his breast, and he was asked to which side he belonged. The supposition that it might be a British party, rendered his situation extremely critical. He replied, “I think it would be more in the way of civility, just to drop a hint which side you are pleased to favor.” “No,” testily said the first speaker; “declare your sentiments, or die!” “Then I will not die with a lie in my mouth. American, to extremity! Do your worst, you spalpeen!” The officer replied, “We are your friends; and I rejoice to meet with a man so faithful to the cause of his country.”

Searching for hidden Gold.—Kidd was a famous sea robber on the American coast, and many people believe that he buried large pots or chests of gold, somewhere along the shore. A number of laborers, believers of this legend, at work in a field, accidentally discovered, upon the top of a large stone, an inscription in ancient characters, which, on deciphering, read as follows:

“Take me up, and I will tell you more.”

Eager for the money, and entertaining no doubt of their being close upon it, they immediately set about raising the stone. After tugging and toiling several hours, they finally succeeded, and with some difficulty read on the bottom,

“Lay me down as I was before.”

Ready Wit.—A countryman the other day, for information, asked an Hibernian, who was busily engaged in the street driving down stones, “Pat, when will you get this street done?” “How did you know my name was Pat?” inquired the Irishman. “Why, I guessed as much.” “Then,” replied Pat, “since you are good at guessing, you may guess when the street will be finished.”

Monument of Affection.—There is a monument near Copenhagen, erected by Count Schimmelman, called “The Weeping Eye.” That nobleman’s grief for the death of his wife was so excessive, that he caused a statue to be erected over a spring, and made the water spout from the eye, as a continual flood of tears.

JACK FROST, A SONG

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Andante.

1

Who hath killed the pretty flow’rs,
Born and bred in summer bowers;
Who hath ta’en away their bloom
Who hath swept them to the tomb?
Jack Frost, Jack Frost.

2

Who hath chased the birds so gay,

Lark and linnet, all away?

Who hath hushed their joyous breath,

And made the woodland still as death?

Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

3

Who hath chilled the laughing river?

Who doth make the old oak shiver?

Who hath wrapped the world in snow?

Who doth make the wild winds blow?

Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

4

Who doth ride on snowy drift
When the night wind’s keen and swift—
O’er the land and o’er the sea—
Bent on mischief—who is he?
Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

5

Who doth strike with icy dart,

The way-worn traveller to the heart?

Who doth make the ocean-wave—

The seaman’s home—the seaman’s grave?

Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

6

Who doth prowl at midnight hour
Like a thief around the door,
Through each crack and crevice creeping,
Through the very key-hole peeping?
Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

7

Who doth pinch the traveller’s toes?

Who doth wring the school-boy’s nose?

Who doth make your fingers tingle?

Who doth make the sleigh bells jingle?

Jack Frost—Jack Frost.

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

My own Adventures.

(Continued from page 15.)

CHAPTER V.

About Bill Keeler.—The Fox-Trap, and Mistress Sally St. John.—A Hunting Excursion.—Extraordinary large Game!—A remarkable Story to come.

The little town of Salem was situated at the foot of a mountain, consisting of wild and broken ridges, forming the boundary between the states of New York and Connecticut. Being now almost entirely at liberty, I spent a great part of my time in rambling among the mountains. In these excursions, Bill Keeler was my almost constant attendant. My uncle, disposed to humor me in everything, allowed me to dispose of my time as I chose, and permitted Bill to leave his work or school, whenever I desired his company, and this was almost every day.

This boy was, in general, very good-natured. He was ingenious in making whistles, and setting snares and traps for quails, partridges, and rabbits; in cutting fish-poles, attaching the hook to the line, digging worms for bait, and putting the bait on the hook. He had also a knack of putting the hook and line into the water in such an insinuating manner, that he always caught more and bigger fish than any one else. He was a dexterous swimmer, expert in strapping skates, formed the best flying kites in the village, made bows and arrows to perfection, and could gather more chestnuts, butternuts, and shagbarks, than any boy in the town.

All these various accomplishments rendered Bill Keeler a delightful companion to me, who, having been brought up in the city, had little acquaintance with those arts, so well understood by boys in the country. He was particularly devoted to me, partly because of his good nature, and partly because my uncle was so indulgent to me, that all around had caught his habit of yielding to my wishes.

But although Bill was thus clever, and thus obliging to me, he was so restless and enterprising, as always to be in some scrape or other. One day, he had seen the burrow of a woodchuck in a field behind the house of Mistress Sally St. John. So he took a large fox-trap, and sunk it to the level of the ground, in the very path where the woodchuck was accustomed to go. He then sprinkled it over with earth, so as to make it appear as if no trap was there. Next morning, pretty early, Bill went to see his trap, expecting of course to find that he had caught the woodchuck. But what was his dismay, on approaching the place, to find Sally St. John herself, standing bolt upright, screaming and piping with all her might, and throwing up her hands in despair! Bill went near enough to see that she had one foot fast in the trap. He then turned about, and left the poor school-mistress to be extricated by her neighbors. For this Bill got a sound flogging from my uncle, but he felt well compensated by being released from school for a month; for, during that period, poor Sally was too lame to resume her duties at the schoolhouse.

My companion’s next exploit was equally serious. If there was anything on earth that he loved better than another, it was gunpowder. Why he had such a fancy for it, I cannot tell, unless because it was a noisy, tearing, dangerous thing, like himself. But be this as it may, he spent more than half the little money he could get in buying it. Every day he was touching off some old pistol-barrel, rammed full of powder; or he was trying to split a pepperidge log with it, by filling some knot-hole, and exploding it. But his greatest delight was to get my uncle’s gun, one of the real old “King’s arms,” taken at the battle of Princeton, and go forth with as big a feeling in him as that which inspired Nimrod, the first hunter that history tells about.

Well, one afternoon he got the gun, and he and I went among the mountains to hunt for something. Pretty soon we saw a squirrel, but Bill was so intent on killing a bear, a raccoon, or some large animal, that he scorned to shoot a squirrel. So we went on, and met with various kinds of small game, but none worthy of the attention of my heroic friend. We proceeded for some time, and finding no large game, Bill determined to shoot a squirrel if he could meet with one. But no squirrel was now to be seen. He gradually lowered his pretensions, until, at length, he was so anxious to shoot something, that he drew up at a wren, and was on the point of discharging his piece at it, when the bird flew away, and we saw no more of it.

It was now evening, and we were at a considerable distance from home. We walked along as fast as we could, and Bill, who was never out of spirits, beguiled the time by telling what he would have done, if something had fallen in his way. “If a wolf had come along in the woods,” said Bill, drawing up the old piece, and taking aim at a mullen stalk, “and if he had come near enough, how I would have peppered him!”

Just at that instant we heard a rustling sound in a meadow, that we were passing. It was too dark to see distinctly, but Bill peeped through the rail-fence, and, saying to me with an emphatic whisper, “Be still; I see one!” he cocked the gun and brought the heavy old piece to a level with his eye. After a long, portentous aim, during which I winked so hard as nearly to put my eye out—whang! it went, and Bill was stretched backward upon the grass in an instant, by the kicking of the gun! He very soon got up, however, and jumped over the fence to pick up his game. He was gone but a minute, and when he came back he only said, “Well, I peppered him!” “Peppered what?” said I. “No matter,” said he; and that was all I could get out of him. But the next morning one of Deacon Kellogg’s cows was found in a thicket, shot through the head, and dead as a hatchet! Bill was obliged to confess, and my uncle settled the affair by paying thirteen dollars and forty-two cents. It was not till several years after, that Bill would tell me what he took the cow for when he fired at her. He then said, that his fancy was so full of shooting a wolf, and he was so ravenous to shoot something, that he really took the poor old cow to be a wolf, or a creature very like one.

The next event of my life, that seems worth recording, was very interesting to me. But I must reserve this story for another chapter.

(To be continued.)

Origin of Words and Phrases.

A tailor of Samarcand, a city of the East, chanced to live near a gate that led to the public burying-place; and, being a fanciful fellow, he hung up by his shopboard a little earthen pot, into which he dropped a small stone, whenever a corpse was carried by. At the end of every moon, he counted the contents of the pot, and so knew the number of the deceased. At length, the tailor died himself, and, some time after, a person unacquainted with his decease, observing his shop to be deserted, inquired what had become of him. “Oh,” said a neighbor, “the tailor has gone to pot, as well as the rest!” And this is the origin of the phrase, “to go to pot.”

Few words have so remarkable a history as the familiar word “bankrupt.” The money-changers of Italy had, it is said, benches or stalls in the burse or exchange, in former times, and at these they conducted their ordinary business. When any of them fell back in the world, and became insolvent, his bench was broken, and the name of broken bench, or banco rotto, was given him. When the word was first adopted into the English, it was nearer the Italian than it now is; being bankerout, instead of bankrupt.

Though any man can put his pony to the canter, few are able, in general, to explain the word by which they designate the animal’s pace. The term canter is a corruption, or rather an abbreviation, of a Canterbury gallop, which signifies the hand-gallop of an ambling horse. The origin of the phrase is as old as the days of the Canterbury pilgrims, when votaries came at certain seasons to the shrine of Thomas à Becket in that city, from all parts of the nation. Mail-coaches and railroads being then unknown, the pilgrims travelled on horseback, and from their generally using easy, ambling nags, the pace at which they got over the ground came to be called a Canterbury gallop, and afterwards a canter.

The word dun first came in use, it is said, during the reign of Henry the Seventh of England. It owes its birth to an English bailiff, by the name of Joe Dun, who was so indefatigable and skilful at his business of collecting debts, that it became a proverb when a person did not pay his debts, “Why don’t you Dun him?” that is, “Why don’t you send Dun after him?” Hence originated the word, which has so long been in universal use.

The Pelican.

There is nothing more interesting than to study into the works of nature, and remark their infinite variety. It is also pleasing to discover in all this variety, that each individual thing is adapted to fill a particular place in the scale of creation, and that it is often adapted to its end with wonderful ingenuity. The pelican affords a striking instance of this. It is made to live the life of a fisherman, and, being endowed with a strong appetite, we shall see how well he is fitted to his vocation, and how curiously he is provided with the means of securing and storing his prey.

This bird, of which there are several kinds, all being about the size of the swan, is found in almost every part of the globe. Its neck somewhat resembles that of the swan, but its bill, and the pouch beneath, render it entirely different from all other birds. This bill is fifteen inches long, and at its lower edges hangs a bag, which, it is said, will hold fifteen quarts of water. When this is not in use, the bird wrinkles it up under his bill. The upper mandible is of a dull yellow in the middle, with a reddish tinge towards the edges, and a blood-red spot at the extremity. From this color of the bill, resembling blood, arose the idea, formerly entertained, that the bird fed its young with its blood. In disgorging the food, the full pouch is pressed against the chest, and the red spot on the bill comes against the delicate plumage of the breast, giving the bird an appearance of tearing away its feathers and drawing own blood.

Some years ago, there were a male and female pelican in the menagerie at the Tower of London. The female built herself a nest, in which she laid three eggs. She then commenced sitting with the utmost patience, never leaving her eggs for a moment. When the male was fed, following the plan dictated by nature, even in confinement, he crammed his pouch in the first place with double the portion of the food offered to him, and then emptied half the quantity into the female’s pouch. This process over, they disgorged and devoured their food at leisure.

In his natural state, the pelican is very inactive, sitting for hours in the same posture. When he feels the calls of hunger, he raises himself over the surface of the sea, and holding one eye downwards, watches with keenness for the appearance of his finny prey. When a fish approaches near the surface, he darts downwards with great swiftness, and never fails in securing his prize. In this way, he continues his labors, ascending and descending, putting one fish after another into his pouch, until he has laid up enough for a meal. Being a large and clumsy bird, he rises in the air with great difficulty; and we may suppose that the long repose in which he indulges, and which has gained him a sad character for indolence and inactivity, is really rendered necessary by the toilsome nature of his fishing.

Pelicans are said sometimes to assemble in large numbers, and, rising in the air, hover about in a circle, gradually drawing nearer and nearer, thus driving the fish in the water beneath into a narrow space. They then plunge into the water suddenly, pick up their victims with great rapidity, and store them in their pouches. If this be true, it is certainly a very judicious plan, adopted probably by the oldest and most experienced fishermen among them.

The pelican is capable of domestication, and some degree of instruction. The natives in some parts of South America are said to turn their fishing powers to good account, as the Chinese do those of the cormorant. They train them to go out on the water and fill their pouches with fish; and, on their return, they are made to disgorge their contents for the benefit of their masters, receiving a part only for their share.

There is one instance on record of a pelican which possessed a strong taste for music, evincing great pleasure in singing and in the sound of the trumpet. When thus excited, it stretched out its neck, and turned its ear to the musician, remaining perfectly attentive and motionless as long as the music lasted.

We are told of one also which belonged to the ancient Roman emperor, Maximilian, which actually attended the army when on its march, and lived to the age of eighty years.

The voice of the pelican is harsh and discordant, and is said to resemble that of a man in deep complaint. David speaks of it thus: “By reason of my groanings my bones cleave to my skin; I am like a pelican in the wilderness.”—Psa. cii. 6.

Peach Seeds.—A gentleman having given a quantity of peaches to some foreign laborers on a railroad, in the vicinity of one of our cities, one of them was asked how he liked them. He said the fruit was very good, but the seeds scratched his throat a little when he swallowed them.

John Steady and Peter Sly.

A DIALOGUE.

Peter. Ho, John, don’t stumble over that log! I don’t think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go to school.

John. Nor I; but I am in such a scrape!

Peter. What’s the matter?

John. Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson.

Peter. I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin?

John. Here, at the top of the page; and I learned over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter.

Peter. Well, that’s all right.

John. Are you sure?

Peter. Certain, as can be.

John. Well, now! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think; there is poor George Gracie has been getting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about it, we found we had been studying in different places. But he was so sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong.

Peter. I know it; I know all about it.

John. Why! did you tell him wrong?

Peter. No, no; I never tell a lie, you know. But yesterday, when the master gave out the lesson, George was helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he misunderstood what the master said; and then he began groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going home; I laughing to myself all the time!

John. What! did you find out his blunder and not set him right?

Peter. Set him right! Not I. I scolded about the hard lesson, too.

John. There, that’s the reason he was so positive. He said you had got the same lesson he had.

Peter. But I never told him so; I only let him think so.

John. Ah, Peter, do you think that is right?

Peter. To be sure it is. Don’t you know he is at the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day, I am sure of the medal? A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder.

John. Lucky for you, but very unlucky for him; and I must say, I don’t call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly!

Peter. I don’t care what you call it, John. It is none of your affair, as I see; let every fellow look out for himself, and the sharpest one will be the best off.

John. Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn, now; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don’t come out at the little end, and come out pretty small too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter.

Peter. That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that.

(Enter George Gracie.)

John. Here, George, stop a minute; here’s bad news for you.

George. What’s the matter?—no school to-day?

John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all.

George. O, John, John! don’t tell me so!

John. It’s true; and that sneaking fellow that sits whittling a stick, so mighty easy, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.

George. Oh, Peter! how could you do so?

Peter. Easily enough. I don’t see that I was under any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next.

George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson.

Peter. But I did not tell you so; you can’t say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie.

John. But you will lie;—you will come to that yet, if you go on so.

Peter. Take care what you say, sir!

George. Come, come, John; don’t quarrel with him. He will get the medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven o’clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal. But it can’t be helped now.

Peter. Poor fellow! don’t cry! I declare there are great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really.

John. For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him! You are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.

George. Come, John; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage of anybody.

(Exit George.)

Peter. The more fool you! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence.

John. There is the master, coming over the hill; now if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story!

Peter. You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages tale-bearers.

John. I know that, very well; and I would almost as soon be a cheat as a tell-tale; but the master will find you out, yet, without anybody’s help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a fellow in it that don’t scorn you, Peter Sly.

Peter. And who cares, so long as the master——

John. Don’t be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.)

Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but there’s the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.

(Enter master, taking out his watch.)

Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.

Peter. Yes, sir.—What now? he looks rather black.

(Aside.)

Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?

Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir.

Master. And why do I wish them to study?

Peter. Why,—to please their parents, I suppose, sir.

Master. I wish them to study for the very same reason that their parents do;—that they may get knowledge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it.

Peter. Yes, sir; she does.

Master. And why? What does the medal say to her? Of what is it a sign?

Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.

Master. Is that what it says? I think it only shows, that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy.

Peter. Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.

Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and I know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his class, and get medals for a time, without being the best scholar. You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (Peter hangs his head in silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes; by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things, is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life; and, under this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object, as to care not by what unjustifiable means he obtains it. That shows wickedness,—want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description?

Peter. Yes, sir; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed it.

Master. The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if, by them, you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly disgraced.

Peter. What, sir! when I have not told a lie!

Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am satisfied, that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you; that, through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt of men, and the anger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your heart as that of a liar. Go into school; and as I am convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances which took place, that you had no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry; but I watch against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and unwavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feelings; and am happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause of doubt of having succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from his heart the base man[oe]uvres which you adopt; and, before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in!

The Three Friends.

Two sisters, named Amy and Anna, were once sitting together upon a grassy bank, when a large dog came between them, and thrusting his nose familiarly into their hands, snugged down, as if desirous of making one of the party. The two girls caressed him fondly, and called him “good Dash” and “pretty Dash”—and many other titles of affection they bestowed upon him. At length the younger of the girls said, “Amy, I have heard that Dash once saved my life: will you tell me how it happened?” “With pleasure,” said Amy; and accordingly she proceeded as follows:

“About five years ago, Anna, when you were not more than two years old, we were living in Vermont, near one of the streams that empties into Connecticut river. The snow was very deep that winter, and when it came to go away in the spring, it made a great freshet. The melted snow came down the hills and mountains, and filled the rivers, which overflowed their banks, and overspread the valleys and swept everything before them.

“The little river near our house suddenly rose above its borders, and came thundering along, tearing away trees and bridges and mills and houses. At last it seemed to threaten our dwelling, and father and mother began to prepare to leave it and fly to the neighboring hills for security. In the preparation for flight, you was put into a large basket with some clothes stuffed round you, and set down upon a little bridge of planks near the house, while our parents and myself were gathering together a few things to take with us. As father put you on the bridge, he noticed that Dash seemed to look on with interest and anxiety, for the waters made a terrible roaring all around us; and he observed also, on looking back, that Dash had taken his seat on the bridge by your side.

“You had not been left more than ten minutes, when we heard a frightful noise, and going to the door, we saw, with terror and amazement, that the water had suddenly risen and surrounded the house. Nothing could save us but instant flight. Father took me in his arms, and with mother clinging to him, he started for the bridge where you had been placed; but he soon perceived that the bridge had been carried away by the rush of the waters, and neither you nor Dash was to be seen. It was no time for delay or search, for the waves were rising rapidly, and it was with the utmost difficulty that father was able to take mother and me to the hill. There at length we arrived, and leaving us to take care of ourselves, father went in search of you. He was absent nearly four hours—and I never shall forget the anxiety with which we waited his return. We were without shelter; the earth was damp and the air chill; but we were so absorbed in fear for you that we thought not of our own sufferings. At last we saw father coming, at a considerable distance. He had you in his arms, and Dash was leaping and frolicking at his side. I was never so happy; I shall never, never be so happy again, as I was when I saw father coming, and saw that you was safe!

“At length father reached us; though it was a matter of some difficulty, on account of the water, which had choked up the valley. I need not tell how heartily mother and myself kissed you when we got hold of you. We shed a great many tears, but you only laughed, and seemed to think it all a pleasant frolic. When we could compose our feelings, father told us the story of your escape. It seems that the waters rose suddenly while we were in the house, and lifting the planks of the bridge, carried you and Dash and the basket upon them, down the stream. The current was very swift, and you must have sailed along at a terrible rate; but faithful Dash kept his place at your side. You had gone about two miles, when the dog and basket were seen by some people standing on the shore. Dash saw them at the same moment, and he set up a very piteous howl, but they did not understand him. When he saw that there was no relief to be had from them, he leaped into the water, and seizing one end of one of the planks in his mouth, began to swim with all his might, and push the planks toward the land. He was so powerful and so skilful, that he very soon gave them a direction toward a little island, which was not distant, and in a few moments they struck against the shore, and were held fast by running between some small trees. The dog again set up a howl, and the people before mentioned, now thinking something was the matter, entered a boat and went to the island, where they found you fast asleep in the basket, and dry as a biscuit!”

When Amy had reached this point of her story, Anna put her arms around the dog’s neck, and with her eyes swimming in tears, kissed him over and over again. She said nothing, however, for her heart was too full. Her sister then went on to tell the rest of the story—but as the reader will easily guess it all, I need not repeat it here. If any of my young readers are curious to know all about it, I shall be at their service, whenever they will give me a call.

Attachment to our Country.—When Gulliver was in Lilliput, he lay down to sleep. In the morning he found himself fastened down to the earth by a thousand little cords which the Lilliputians had thrown over him. Every man is thus attached to some spot on earth by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually throwing around him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is that which makes us love the place where our fathers are entombed. When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, “What!” they replied, “shall we say to the bones of our fathers, ‘Arise, and go with us into a foreign land?’”

The Fox and the Tortoise;

A FABLE, TO SHOW THE ADVANTAGES OF HONESTY.

A fox that had been robbing some hen-roosts, and had therefore excited the indignation of the people, was one day pursued by a party of hunters, and sorely pressed by their hounds. At last he came to a secluded spot, and having for the time eluded his enemies, he sat down to take breath. Near by there chanced to be a tortoise, and as birds and beasts always talk in fables, it was a matter of course that the two animals on the present occasion should fall into conversation.

“You seem,” said the tortoise, “to be very much out of breath: pray let me ask you what is the matter?”

“Matter enough!” replied the fox. “I occasionally slip into the farmers’ hen-roosts, and take away a few of their fowls, or now and then I carry off a fat goose or a stray lamb; and behold, I am hunted by all people with all their hounds, as if I was the greatest rascal on the face of the earth! Whew! how hot I am. These villanous hounds put me in a terrible tremor. One of them came so close as to snap at my throat with his long ugly teeth, and I really thought my last hour was come. What a terrible life it is I lead: I cannot stir abroad but some hound is on my track, or some bullet whistles near my heart. Even in my den of rocks I have no peace, for I am ever dreaming of the sound of muskets or the baying of hounds.”

As the fox said this, the cry of the hunters and their hounds came near, and to save his life, he was again obliged to take to flight. The humble tortoise, observing all this, remarked very wisely, as follows: “How much better it is to be honest and content with what we can call our own, than to be forever running after forbidden pleasures, thus drawing down upon ourselves the enmity of mankind, and all the disquietude of a guilty conscience.”

The Insincerity of Flattery.—“What little, ugly-looking, red-headed monster is that, playing among those children?” “That, madam, is my eldest son!” “Indeed! you don’t say so; what a beautiful little cherub it is!”

The Travels, Adventures and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER I.

My Birth and Parentage.—The reasons why I became a Traveller.—My first Travels.—Advantage of having good legs.—My first Voyage to the Mediterranean.—The Orange and Lemon Trade.—The Gulf Stream.—Whales.—Portuguese Man-of-War.

Ever since my earliest remembrance I have had a great passion for travelling, seeing foreign countries, and studying foreign manners. I believe this disposition runs in our family, for all the Trotters, I am assured, have been great travellers. My great grandfather, Absalom Trotter, was famous for having the longest legs in the state of Massachusetts, and for making the best use of them. He could beat a horse at a stretch of a month or so; but he died just as the Providence railroad was completed. My great aunt, Peggy Trotter, was also celebrated among her neighbors for an unconquerable propensity to move about. There was not a story circulating in the town, but she was the first to find it out, and the most industrious in communicating it to all her acquaintance. If she had lived till this day, I verily believe the newspaper editors would have hired her to carry expresses; for when she once got hold of a piece of intelligence, it is inconceivable how rapidly she made it fly through all quarters of the town. When she died, people were afraid that news would be scarce forever afterwards; but steamboats came into fashion about that time, so that we have not been without a supply of intelligence from various parts.

I was born in Fleet street, down at the north end, in Boston. My father was a West-India captain, who used to sail in a little schooner from Boston to Guadaloupe. He commonly carried out a load of lumber, that is, pine boards, plank, timber, and shingles; and brought back a cargo of molasses. Every time he returned from a voyage, he brought us oranges, lemons, and pine-apples, fruits which do not grow hereabouts. These rarities always excited my admiration; and I was delighted to sit in the chimney-corner during the long winter evenings, and listen to his description of the West-India islands, where the summer and the fruits and the green fields last the whole year round; and where no snow or ice chills the air, but fresh verdure and bright flowers enliven the landscape from the beginning of the year to the end of it.

The more of these stories I heard, the more I wanted to hear, for it is notorious that there is no passion so insatiable as curiosity. And when our curiosity is directed towards a useful object, the indulgence of it becomes both proper and beneficial. The world is filled with variety, and this variety is evidently designed by Providence to stimulate our curiosity, so that we may be incited to action and the pursuit of knowledge. In this way I became seized with an irresistible inclination to travel and see the world. My neighbor Timothy Doolittle, who had nobody to tell him stories when he was a boy, on the contrary, never cared to move about, or know how the rest of the world lived, or what was doing out of his own chimney-corner. I believe he never in his life walked further than Roxbury Neck; and if anybody should ask him how big the world was, he would say it extended from Bunker Hill to Brookline! Such magnificent notions of the universe will a man have who never stirs abroad.

I could give a long account of my early travels—how they began in very infancy when I first ventured out the front door—how I next rambled down the street, and was amazed to see how large the town was—how I then grew more courageous, and journeyed as far as Faneuil Hall Market; what surprising discoveries I made there; what perilous adventures I met with on the way thither and back—how I next made a still bolder excursion as far as Fort Hill, got overtaken by night, and was brought back by the town crier—how, finally, after a great many hair-breadth escapes and daring exploits, I became so experienced in travelling that I ventured into the country to see what sort of people lived there; and how in a single day I penetrated as far as the Blue Hills, and found the inhabitants of Milton and Dorchester an exceedingly civil, pleasant and good sort of people. I might give the particulars of all these peregrinations at full length, if I had room in these pages. But as it is very probable that most of my readers have travelled the same route and seen pretty much the same things, I have concluded to omit them for the present, and pass on to the narrative of my travels and adventures in foreign countries, which will probably offer more novelty and instruction.

My father died when I was ten years old; and as my mother had been dead several years before, I was left to the care of my aunt Katy Walker. I had little chance of gratifying my roving inclination under her care, for she could not afford me any money, and travelling is expensive. The most I could do was to take long walks now and then, with a staff in my hand, and a pack over my back. In this way I have travelled over nearly all the state of Massachusetts; and can assure my readers, that they will learn more by travelling on foot in a single day than they will in a week by being whirled along in a railroad car. The main thing is to have good vigorous limbs; and a man’s legs will always grow strong if he walks enough. After trudging up and down for some years, a second cousin of mine, Captain Scudder, who used to visit at our house, came one day to tell me that he was about to make a voyage to the Mediterranean, to bring home a cargo of oranges and lemons for the Boston market. He offered to take me with him, and I gladly accepted the proposal. To visit Europe was the great object of my wishes; and the Mediterranean countries had the greatest of all possible attractions for me. I was never tired of thinking of the interesting territories which were situated upon that famous sea—their romantic shores—their beautiful islands—their bright sky—their charming climate—their magnificent cities—their picturesque inhabitants, and the multitude of glorious and ever-memorable historical events connected with them. All these thoughts threw me into a rapture, and my impatience to set out upon the voyage was such, that I deemed every moment lost, till I was on board, and the vessel was fairly under weigh.

We sailed in the brig Swift, bound to Malta. We carried a cargo of logwood, coffee, sugar, beeswax, raw hides, tobacco, cotton, and staves. These articles generally compose the cargo of vessels bound to the Italian ports. The logwood, coffee, sugar, tobacco, and cotton, are productions not raised in those countries. Hides and staves are much cheaper, and more abundant, in our country than in theirs. They have no great pastures and tracts of wild country filled with droves of cattle, as you will find in many parts of America. Forests of large trees are so scarce with them, that wood of every kind bears a high price. Beeswax is an article which they use to a great extent, as their custom is to burn enormously long wax candles in their churches and religious processions.

It was about the middle of December when we set sail. This is considered the best season for a voyage such as we were bound upon. The oranges are ripe in January and February, so that when the vessel arrives out, the fruit is all freshly gathered and ready for shipping. A great deal of care is necessary in the importation of this sort of fruit; for if the weather be too warm, or the oranges have been too long taken from the trees, they will be spoiled on the passage. It very often happens that a vessel arrives at Boston from Sicily in the summer with a load of oranges and lemons, and having had a long passage, the whole cargo is found to be spoiled, and must be thrown away. This most commonly happens in the Italian vessels, which do not sail so fast as the Americans’, and have not crews so expert in navigation.

Well, I was now fairly on board. We hoisted sail; the wind blew fresh from the northwest; we scudded by the castle, we were soon outside of Boston lighthouse. The pilot jumped into his boat and bade us good-by. I looked after him as his little wherry kept bobbing up and down between the waves, till he was too far off to be seen any longer. The steeples of Boston and the neighboring hills gradually sunk in the horizon; night came on, and I could see no more of my native land. We carried all sail through the night, in order to get well off the coast while the wind was fair, as the weather is very variable near the land, and it is highly dangerous to be near the coast in winter. By-and-by we had furious squalls of wind, which tore our sails, and put us in great danger. In a day or two more we crossed the Gulf Stream, which is a long and wide current of water running through the Atlantic, from the Gulf of Mexico nearly across the ocean. I was astonished to find the water in this current blood-warm, although it was the middle of winter; but Captain Scudder informed me that this is always the case, as the water comes from a warm climate. Dreadful thunder-storms also happen here, and a great many ships have been struck and burnt up by lightning in the Gulf Stream.

We were all very glad when we had crossed this remarkable current, for we had nothing but squalls of wind and showers of rain while we were in it. At length we got fairly out into blue water, the sky grew clear, we had a bright sun and a fair wind, and although the sea continued to roll and dash pretty turbulently, yet it was a pleasure to stand on the deck and look at the glorious broad ocean, with its blue waves, crested with white foam, sparkling in the sun. Two or three ships had kept us company off the coast, and for some days we could discern their white sails on the verge of the horizon; but they presently sunk out of sight, and we found ourselves with nothing but sea around and sky above us.

One day, as I was walking on the deck and looking out for a sail, I was surprised to see a stream of water rise up out of the sea at some distance. I pointed it out to the man who was steering at the helm, and was told by him that it was a whale, spouting. I had never seen a whale before, and was anxious to get a nearer view of so wonderful a creature. My wish was soon gratified. Presently he directed his course towards our vessel, and passed by us, spouting up streams of water from his nose in a manner that excited my astonishment. When I contemplated the monstrous bulk of this creature, and the amazing swiftness with which he dashed through the water, I could not repress a feeling of terror. Yet it is well known that men are courageous enough to go out to sea in little boats for the purpose of catching such enormous monsters. The description of the whale fishery is one of the most interesting items in the history of human courage and skill, and shows how the ingenuity of man can triumph over the strength of the mightiest of all the brute creation. The whale is attacked, pursued for miles across his own element, and finally killed and taken by six or eight men in a boat, so small that, if he had but the sense to open his mouth, he might swallow the boat and its crew.

I had another amusement at sea in witnessing the gambols of the shoals of porpoises which now and then came tumbling around us. These fish generally move in single file through the water, and when they meet a ship at sea, they shoot right before her bows, so as almost to strike the vessel; but as they dart with great velocity, they always manage to steer clear. At such times it is highly interesting to watch their movements, as they glance through the water just below the surface. When the sun shines, they glisten in the waves with all the hues of the rainbow, and one would almost imagine they were proud of showing their gaudy colors, for they dart along the ship’s side, as if on purpose to be seen. This diversion is often fatal to them, for the sailors contrive to catch them with harpoons. They are very fat, and yield a large quantity of oil. Their flesh is black, and tastes a good deal like pork; it is much relished by crews that have been long deprived of fresh provisions.

In the course of our voyage, as I was looking over the vessel’s side one bright, sunshiny day, I saw something sailing along on the top of the waves that looked exactly like one of the chip boats which the boys sail in the Frog Pond. The sailors told me it was a fish called the Portuguese man-of-war. I looked upon it with admiration. It was a most curious sort of shell-fish, with a thin white membrane or wing spread in the air for a sail. By the help of this it steered before the wind just like a ship, and kept company with us for two or three miles. When I was looking at it with a spy-glass, it suddenly struck its sail, dove under water, and was out of sight in an instant.

(To be continued.)

Story of Philip Brusque.

(Continued from page 21.)

CHAPTER II.

Brusque discovers that man wants something beside Liberty; he wants Company—Society.

Such were the thoughts of Brusque, as he stood on a little hill in the centre of the island, and looked round upon what now seemed entirely his own. Nor did anything happen to disturb his peace for a long time. There was fruit enough for his support upon the trees, and he found a cave in a rock, which served him for a house and a home. The weather was almost constantly fine, and so mild was the temperature, that he hardly needed a shelter, even at night.

So the time slid on very pleasantly with Philip for about a year. By this time, he began to be a little tired of his own company; nor could the chattering of the macaws and parrots, of which there were many in the trees, entirely satisfy him. He caught some of the young birds, and reared them, and taught them to speak, but still he felt lonely. At last it came to be his custom every day to go upon the top of the highest hill, and look far off upon the ocean, hoping to see a ship, for he yearned in his heart to have some human being for a companion. Then the tears would fill his eyes, and flow down his rough cheeks; and then he would speak or think to himself as follows:

“Liberty is indeed a dear and beautiful thing, but still I want something beside liberty. I want to hear a human voice. I want to look into a human face. I want some one to speak to. I feel as if my very heart would wither for the want of a friend. I feel a thirst within, and I have no means of satisfying it. I feel within a voice speaking, and there is no answer. This beautiful island is becoming a desert to me, without even an echo. O! dear France! O! dear, dear home! How gladly would I give up this hollow and useless liberty for the pleasures of friendship and society. I would be willing to be restrained by the thousand meshes of the law, if I might once more enjoy the pleasure of living in the midst of my fellow-men.”

With these thoughts dwelling in his mind, Philip went to rest one night, and though it was very stormy, he slept soundly. In the morning the feelings of yesterday came back, and with a sad heart he went again to the top of the hill; for the hope of seeing a ship, and of once more being restored to human society, haunted him perpetually. Long he stood upon the hill and looked out upon the sea, now tossing from the tempest of the night, and throwing up a thousand white-caps in every direction. Having gazed upon this scene for more than an hour, he chanced to turn his eyes towards the extremity of the island, where, at the distance of about a mile, he distinctly saw a human being on the shore. He paused but a moment to assure himself that he was not mistaken, and then set off like a deer toward the stranger.

Brusque did not stop in his way, but ran with all his might. When he came near the object of his attention, he saw that it was a man, and without waiting to examine farther, ran toward him with open arms. The man was alarmed, and stooping down, he picked up a stone, and threatened to hurl it at Brusque. The latter now paused, and the parties soon came to an understanding.

The stranger said that he was a fisherman from Mauritius, an island in the Indian Ocean, belonging to the French nation. It is inhabited chiefly by French people, and negroes, who are their slaves. The whole population is about 20,000.

It seems that the fisherman had been driven out to sea by a storm, and, the weather being cloudy and he having no compass, did not know which way to steer for home. Thus he wandered about several days, till, on the preceding night, in an attempt to land upon the island where he now found himself, his little smack was dashed in pieces, and he only saved himself by swimming.

No sooner had he told his story, than Philip put his arms around him and kissed him over and over again. He was indeed delighted, for now he had a companion, for which he had sighed so long. Now, he had a human face to look upon; now, he could listen to a human voice; now, he had some one into whose mind he could pour his own thoughts and feelings. Now, in social intercourse, he could quench that thirst which had parched his soul in solitude.

Full of these thoughts, Philip took the stranger, and led him to his cave. He gathered for him some fresh pine-apples, and some oranges, and placed them before him. When the fisherman began to eat with a hearty appetite, Philip clapped his hands in joy. He then ran to a little spring that was near, and brought some cool water in a gourd shell, and gave it to the fisherman.

Now Philip Brusque was rather a proud man, and it was very strange to see him waiting upon the rough fisherman, as if he were a servant. But Philip was acting according to the dictates of his heart, and so, though a seeming slave, he did not feel that his liberty was violated. He was, in fact, acting according to his own pleasure, and he was seeking happiness in his own way. If Philip had been compelled to serve the fisherman, he would have hated and resisted the task; but now, doing it freely, he found pleasure in it. So true it is that we do things when we are free, with delight, which slavery would turn into bitterness and sources of discontent.

Things went on very well for a few days. The fisherman took up his abode in Philip’s cave, and there he lay a great part of the time. Brusque brought him fruit and water, and all he wanted, and he did it cheerfully for a time. But, by-and-by, the fisherman began to command Brusque to wait upon him, to do this and that, and to bring him this thing and that thing. This immediately changed the face of affairs between the parties. Brusque became angry, and told the fisherman to wait upon himself.

The fisherman made a rude reply, and high words followed. Brusque ordered the fisherman to quit his cave. The fisherman told Brusque to leave it himself. Their faces were full of red wrath. Anger begets anger. The fisherman struck Brusque a blow. Brusque retaliated, and being a powerful man, he instantly stretched the fisherman on the ground. He was completely stunned, and lay without motion, seeming actually to be dead.

Brusque’s anger was too high for the immediate return of reason. He looked on the pale form with a feeling of delight, and spoke some words of triumph between his firm-set teeth. But this feeling soon passed away, and a better one returned. Believing that the fisherman was dead, he now began to feel regret and remorse. Already was that monitor within, called conscience, telling him that he had violated a universal law, a law enacted by the Maker of man, and whispered into every man’s bosom. Already Brusque felt that while a fellow-being was on the island, he was not absolutely free; that this fellow-being had rights as well as himself; that he had a right to his life, and that in taking it away he had done a great wrong to justice, to liberty, and himself.

While these thoughts were passing in his mind, the fisherman moved, and showed signs of returning life. Brusque was again full of joy, and fetching some water, sprinkled it over the man’s face. In a short time he so far recovered as to sit upright, and soon after he was able to walk about. Brusque led him to the cave, where, lying down, the fisherman fell asleep.

Brusque now left him, and walked forth by himself. He was of a reflecting turn, and from his training in the revolution, his reflections often took a political cast. On this occasion, his thoughts ran thus:—

“What a strange creature I am! A few weeks since, I was mad with joy at the arrival of this fisherman; soon he became the tyrant of my life; I then wished him dead; and when I thought I had killed him, my heart smote me, and I was more miserable than if death had stared me in the face. He is now alive again, and I am relieved of a load; and yet, in the midst of this happiness, which seems born of misery, I still feel a strange sadness at my heart.

“When I was alone, I was perfectly free, but I soon found that freedom, without society, was like the waters of the river, near which Tantalus was so chained that he could not drink, thus dying of thirst with a flood before his eyes.

“I therefore yearned for society, and then I had it by the arrival of this fisherman. But he became a torment to me. What then is the difficulty? I believe it is the want of some rules, by which we may regulate our conduct. Though there are but two of us, still we find it necessary to enter into a compact. We must form a government, we must submit to laws, rules, and regulations. We must each submit to the abridgment of some portion of our liberty, some portion of our privileges, in order to secure the rest.”

Full of these thoughts, Brusque returned to the cave, and when the fisherman awoke, he spoke to him on the subject of their quarrel, and then set forth the necessity of laying down certain rules by which the essential rights of each should be preserved, and a state of harmony ensured. To this the fisherman agreed, and the following code of laws being drawn up by Brusque, they were passed unanimously:—

Be it ordained by Philip Brusque, late of France, and Jaques Piquet, of Mauritius, to ensure harmony, establish justice, and promote the good of all parties:

1. This island shall be called Fredonia.

2. Liberty, being a great good in itself, and the right of every human being, it shall only be abridged so far as the good of society may require. But as all laws restrain liberty, we, the people of Fredonia, submit to the following:

3. The cave called the Castaway’s Home, lately occupied by Philip Brusque, shall be alternately occupied for a day and night by said Philip Brusque and Jaques Piquet; the former beginning this day, and the latter taking it the next day, and so forth.

4. Each person shall have a right to build himself a house, and shall have exclusive possession of the same.

5. If two persons wish the same fruit at the same time, they shall draw lots for the first choice, if they cannot agree otherwise as to the division.

6. If any difference arises between the two parties, Philip Brusque and Jaques Piquet, they shall decide such questions by lot.

7. This code of laws shall be changed, or modified, or added to, only by the consent of the parties, Philip Brusque and Jaques Piquet.

All which is done this 27th day of June, A. D. 18—.

This was neatly cut with a penknife on a board which had come ashore from the wreck of Philip’s vessel, and it became the statute law of the island of Fredonia.

(To be continued.)

Contentment.—A gentleman, it is said, had a board put on a part of his land, on which was written, “I will give this field to any one who is really contented;” and when an applicant came, he always said, “Are you contented?” The general reply was, “I am.” “Then,” rejoined the gentleman, “why do you want my field?”

Napoleon’s Last Obsequies.

In the first number of our Magazine we stated that the remains of the late Emperor Napoleon had been conveyed from St. Helena to France, for interment in the Hospital of the Invalides at Paris. This event having caused the display of much splendid pageantry, and public feeling among the French, we have thought it would be interesting to our readers to see a minute and correct account of the events and ceremonies that took place on this remarkable occasion.

The body of the Emperor was found in the earth at St. Helena, where it had been deposited in a tomb of very strong and compact masonry, so that although the workmen began at noon, it was ten o’clock at night before they were able to reach the body. It was enclosed in three coffins, two of mahogany and one of lead, all of which were found in a perfect state, though nearly twenty years had elapsed since they had been laid in the earth.

It is difficult to describe with what anxiety, with what emotions, those who were present waited for the moment which was to expose to them all that death had left of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the singular state of preservation of the tomb and coffins, they could scarcely hope to find anything but some misshapen remains of the least perishable parts of the costume to evidence the identity. But when, by the hand of Dr. Guillard, the satin sheet over the body was raised, an indescribable feeling of surprise and affection was expressed by the spectators, most of whom burst into tears. The Emperor himself was before their eyes! The features of his face, though changed, were perfectly recognised—the hands perfectly beautiful—his well-known costume had suffered but little, and the colors were easily distinguished—the epaulets, the decorations, and the hat, seemed to be entirely preserved from decay—the attitude itself was full of ease; and but for the fragments of the satin lining, which covered as with a fine gauze several parts of the uniform, they might have believed that they saw before them Napoleon still extended on a bed of state. General Bertrand and M. Marchand, who were present at the interment, quickly pointed out the different articles which each had deposited in the coffin, and in the precise position which they had previously described. It was even remarked that the left hand which General Bertrand had taken to kiss for the last time before the coffin was closed up, still remained slightly raised.

The body was now placed in a new leaden coffin or sarcophagus, sent out from France for the purpose, and conveyed with appropriate ceremonies on board a French man-of-war, which immediately sailed for Cherbourg. Great preparations were made in France for its reception. On the arrival of the ship at Cherbourg, a steamboat was ready to convey it up the Seine to Paris. A great number of steamboats and vessels of all sorts were collected together, forming a numerous fleet, under convoy of which the corpse was transported up the river, stopping occasionally at the cities and towns on the way, to allow the inhabitants the opportunity of gratifying their curiosity and displaying their enthusiasm, by paying homage to the remains of the great soldier and chieftain of the French empire. The crowds that assembled all along the banks of the river were immense. The military turned out by hundreds and thousands. All sorts of pageantry, exhibition, and pompous show—consisting of triumphal arches, pyramids, bridges, columns, and other fanciful and imposing devices—contributed to give effect to the solemnities.

On the fourteenth of December, 1840, the procession reached St. Germain, a place within a few miles of Paris. The crowd of spectators which had thronged to the spot from Paris was so immense, that it was impossible to proceed and land the body till the middle of the next day. Two battalions of troops were stationed on the banks of the river; and the stream was covered with vessels decked with laurels and wreaths of immortelles, a bright, unfading, yellow flower, very much in use among the French on funeral occasions.

At the great bridge of Neuilly, three or four miles from Paris, an immense rostral column had been prepared, surmounted by a ball or globe, representing the world, and six feet in diameter. This was crowned by a huge eagle; but owing to the intense cold of the weather, the design was not wholly completed. On the base of this column was the following inscription, containing the last request of Napoleon: “I wish my ashes to repose on the banks of the Seine.” A wharf had been built at this place for the express purpose of landing the coffin, and here the body of Napoleon first touched the soil of France. At the extremity of the wharf a Grecian temple, one hundred feet in height, was erected; and at the end of the bridge of Neuilly was a colossal statue of the Empress Josephine.

From Paris to Neuilly there extends a beautiful broad avenue, ornamented with rows of trees and handsome buildings. Along this road the population of the capital began to throng in immense multitudes before daylight the next morning. It was computed that five hundred thousand persons crowded into this avenue on the morning of the landing of the body. The troops of the National Guard were drawn up on the bank of the river; prayers were said over the corpse, and the coffin was borne to the land by twenty-four sailors. The artillery fired a salute of twenty-one rounds, and the multitudes that thronged the banks of the river rent the air with their shouts. The body was then placed in a magnificent catafalque or funeral car, twenty-five feet in length, with gilt wheels, and decorated with golden eagles. On the car was a pedestal eighteen feet long and seven feet high, richly ornamented and hung with gold and purple cloth. On this pedestal stood fourteen cariatides or columnar human figures of colossal size, supporting with their heads and hands an immense golden shield. The coffin was laid on this shield. On the coffin was placed a rich cushion, sustaining the sceptre, the hand of justice, and the imperial crown, studded with jewels. The whole formed a structure fifty feet in height, and was drawn by sixteen black horses, richly caparisoned, after the manner of the middle ages.

The procession then took up its march for Paris. In the procession was the war-horse of Napoleon, and five hundred sailors who accompanied the corpse from St. Helena. The whole avenue to Paris was lined with troops. Round the great triumphal arch at the entrance of the city, were lofty masts bearing tri-colored pennants surrounded with black crape, and exhibiting each the name of some one of the armies of the Republic or the Empire, as “The Army of the Rhine”—“The Army of Italy,” &c. On entering the city, the crowd was so immense that the procession had great difficulty in forcing its way onward. The number of spectators was estimated at 800,000. This is equal to the whole population of Paris; yet when we take into the account the great numbers that resorted to the capital from all parts of the kingdom to witness so grand and interesting a ceremony, this estimate does not appear very improbable.

The place destined for the reception of Napoleon’s body was the Hotel des Invalides, a spacious edifice erected by Louis XIV. as a residence for veteran soldiers, and a view of which is given in our preceding number. It is beautifully situated on the river Seine, with a spacious esplanade in front. In the chapel of this building, preparations had been made for the funeral service over the body. The walls were hung with black draperies bordered with silver, and large lustres were placed between the pillars, contrasting their brilliant lights with the dark draperies around them. The pillars were ornamented with gilded trophies, with the names of Napoleon’s victories, Marengo, Austerlitz, Wagram, &c. The galleries above, thronged with countless multitudes of spectators, were also hung with black, with silver and gold emblems, laurels, and golden letters commemorating the principal acts of the Emperor’s life. Above were hung an immense number of standards, taken from the enemy in different battles. In front of the altar was erected a tomb, standing on pillars and surmounted by an eagle. This structure was of gilt wood, and only temporary; it is to be replaced by one of the same shape in marble.

Here were assembled the king, the royal family, and the chief personages of the court, the Archbishop of Paris and other dignitaries of the church, and a great number of generals and veterans of Napoleon’s wars. At two o’clock the procession arrived, and the body of Napoleon was brought into the chapel. This was the most impressive part of the whole ceremony. The steps leading to the choir were lined on both sides by the military and the veteran invalids, so many of whom had fought under the deceased Emperor. The whole of the aisle was filled with troops, and the whole body of the clergy stood in religious silence, waiting to perform the last offices of religion. The drums rolled, the cannons roared, and the muffled drums announced the approach of the body. At the sight of the coffin, surmounted with the imperial crown of Napoleon, the whole body of spectators appeared to be struck by a sudden thrill. Every one rose up and bent forward, but not a word was uttered; a religious silence and awe pervaded the whole multitude!

Mass was then said over the body according to the forms of the Roman Catholic religion, after which Mozart’s celebrated requiem was sung by a choir of musicians. The coffin was then sprinkled with holy water by the Archbishop, and the ceremony concluded. The crowd remained long in the chapel to satiate their curiosity by gazing on the splendid decorations of the place and the long vista of funeral pomp. At length the military succeeded in clearing the chapel of the throngs of spectators; the people dispersed; and the body of Napoleon lay once more in the silence of the tomb!

Our Ancestry.

If you were to visit England, you would hardly imagine that the people there were descended from a variety of nations, some of them as savage and wild as our American Indians. The English people have now a pretty uniform appearance, as if they all descended from one father and mother: they are generally stoutly made, with ruddy cheeks, light skin, light hair, and full blue eyes; though black eyes and brown skins are not uncommon. The people talk one language too—and at first view they seem one great family, descended from one parentage.

But if we visit different parts of the country, we shall begin to remark diversities in the appearance of the people, and especially in their mode of speech. Though they all speak English, yet in one part they use many strange words that are not used in another part, and so singular is the mode of speaking in some places that an American cannot well understand the people. Thus in Lancashire, which includes Liverpool and the vicinity, the people speak very differently from what they do in Yorkshire; and yet in both counties the speech of the common people cannot be understood, till you become accustomed to it.

All this is easily explained when we look into the early history of England; for we then find that the present English people are in fact descended from several different tribes and nations, that settled upon the island in ancient times. This subject is very interesting in itself, and it becomes more so to us from the fact that we too are descended from the English nation, as nearly all our forefathers, who settled America, came from England. Let us therefore give a little attention to this subject.

It appears that the first human beings were created in the valley of the Euphrates, in Asia. Here they increased, and soon spread themselves in various directions over the earth. About two thousand years before Christ, they began to cross the Uralian mountains, which separate Asia from Europe, and to people the latter country. Like our western settlers who are now pushing farther and farther into the wilderness, these Asiatic emigrants continued to spread to the north and west, until the whole northern and middle portions of Europe were occupied by them. The southern portions of that quarter of the globe, Spain, Italy, and Greece, were during this same period filled up by colonists from Asia and Africa.

Thus the whole of Europe was settled, but by very different classes of nations. Those who dwelt along the border of the Mediterranean sea, were acquainted with the arts of civilization; accordingly they settled down in cities, and carried on commerce. But those who entered Europe across the mountains, and who occupied Germany, France, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Russia, and Britain, were of a very different character. They were somewhat like the present Tartars of Asia, half warriors and half husbandmen. They seldom built permanent towns, but usually wandered from one place to another, taking large flocks of cattle with them, upon which they chiefly subsisted. Different tribes or nations often met each other in their migrations, and, as a matter of course, entered into conflict, the strong robbing and making slaves of the weak.

The number of these rude tribes that came from Asia into Europe appears to have been great, and the individuals must have amounted to many millions. Though of one general cast, still they were divided into separate tribes, and spoke different languages, and in some respects differed in religion, manners, and customs.

Of all these Asiatic emigrants, the Celts appear to have been the most numerous. These were the first settlers of ancient Gaul, now France, Spain, Belgium, and the British isles. When Julius Cæsar, the Roman general, made war upon Gaul, about sixty years before Christ, he found the nation to consist wholly of Celts. In general, they were a barbarous people, rude in their mode of life, superstitious in religion, and savage in their feelings. They were divided into three classes: the nobles or warriors, who were the despotic masters of the common people; the Druids or priests, whom we have described in a former number; and the mass of the nation, who performed the common labor of the community.

Among the nobles, there were many claiming to be princes, and these held the first rank; the people at large had no acknowledged rights, and were wholly dependent upon their superiors for protection. There appears to have been no other government than that of the chiefs of the several tribes, though in important expeditions they chose a common leader. The Druids, male and female, exercised supreme authority in religion, and governed to some extent in civil matters. They possessed some knowledge of astronomy and other sciences, which they used to secure their power over the minds of the people.

Among the Celts of France at the time of Cæsar, duels and drunkenness were common; there were many villages and few cities; the houses were circular in form, and made of beams, being laid upon stone, and covered with thatch; the household utensils were few and poor. Few of the people tilled the soil, the greater part subsisting upon their flocks. Their beverage was a kind of beer or mead; the cultivation of the vine was unknown. The rich had gold, obtained from mines and the sands of rivers.

In battle, the rich wore checked or plaid cloaks over their shoulders, but no other garment. The common soldiers were almost naked. They were of high stature and savage features. Their hair was yellow, long, and matted—giving them a terrible aspect. Their blind, headlong courage; their immense numbers; the stunning noise which proceeded from their numerous wild horns and trumpets; their terrible devastations in passing through a country; their sacrifice of captives to their deities; their using the skulls of the slain as trophies and as drinking-cups, all contributed to render them the terror of the western world. On one occasion, 389 B. C., the Celts or Gauls entered Italy, advanced towards Rome, sacrificed in battle the flower of the Roman youth, sacked and burnt the city, and laid siege to the capitol, which was only delivered by a Roman army under Camillus.

At the period of which we speak, Cæsar found these Gauls a most formidable people. For nine campaigns they resisted him; but their long swords of copper could not withstand the steel swords of the Romans; and besides, their soldiers wanted discipline, harmony, and unity of action. Cæsar overcame them at last; and then he turned his armies against the island of Britain.

The people there were Celts, and generally resembled the Gauls. They were, however, in a still more rude and savage state. Along the southern border of the island they were most civilized. Here they wore a dress of their own manufacture, consisting of a square mantle, which covered a vest and trowsers, or a plaited shirt or tunic. Their houses, like those of their Gallic neighbors, were of circular beams, reared upon stone foundations, and covered with straw thatch. They manured their lands with marl; raised abundance of wheat, which they kept in dry pits; and were skilful in training horses, especially for war-chariots.

Farther north, the Britons were much more wild and savage. They either went naked, or were only clothed in skins; they had no bread, and lived entirely on the milk or flesh of their flocks. Marriage was not practised, and children knew not their parents.

Agricultural operations of the Ancient Britons.

Such was the state of things in the year 55 B. C., when Cæsar first crossed the British channel from Calais, and made his descent on Britain. As he approached the cliffs of Dover and Deal, he saw them crowded with armed men, and therefore stood northward and entered Pegwell bay. He was obliged, however, to land in the face of the natives, who had watched his motions, and were here ready to receive him. They filled the air with their hostile arrows; they approached the water’s edge, and rushing into the waves, met and struggled furiously with the Roman soldiers in the sea. But their courage and strength were vain; Roman discipline prevailed, and Cæsar made good his landing. This first attack was followed by other expeditions, and Rome, having taken possession of the island, held it for nearly five hundred years.

During this long period, the manners of the Britons were greatly changed. The arts of Rome were adopted in the country; towns and cities were built; Christianity was introduced; and civilization, to a certain extent, was spread over the island. Thus the original Celtic Britons became mixed with the Romans, and were partially Romanized.

But the Roman empire at last became weakened, and tottered to its fall. The Roman soldiers were called home for the defence of the capital, and Britain was once more left to herself.

The Romans quitted England about the year 410, and for a time, the Britons continued in a feverish state of independence, divided into small republics. But soon these became subject to ambitious leaders, who involved the people in repeated struggles. Constant inroads were also made by the Scots and Picts from the north. To aid in defending the people from these, fifteen hundred Saxons, who came accidentally to the coast from Sweden and Norway, were employed by a British chief named Vortigern. In a few years more Saxons arrived, and in about one hundred and fifty years the whole island was subjected to these intruders. The Britons fought bravely for their liberties, but they were divided among themselves, and were sacrificed piece-meal by the hordes of Saxons that came like successive waves to overspread the country.

The Saxons, though a brave and warlike race, were savage and cruel in the extreme. They drove such of the Britons as resisted to the mountains of Cornwall and Wales, and the adjacent islands, making slaves of those who submitted. Thus they established their dominion, and became not only the ruling people in the country, but the stock which was to give a distinctive character to the nation ever after. They were a mixture of Angles, Picts, and Saxons, and were, taken together, called Anglo-Saxons. It is from this race, chiefly, that the English people, as well as ourselves, derive existence.

Anglo-Saxons.

The Saxons were robust in their make, tall, at least as compared with the Romans, possessed of fair complexions, blue eyes, and, in almost all instances, light or sandy hair. They were distinguished, from the earliest ages, for indomitable courage and great ferocity. In their social state they acknowledged four ranks or classes of men, among whom intermarriages rarely, if ever, occurred; namely, their nobles, their freemen, their freedmen, and their slaves. They were particularly jealous of the honor of their wives. In ordinary times they acknowledged no single chief, but were governed by an aristocracy; from among the members of which, in the event of war, they chose a king. But the authority of the sovereign lasted only while hostilities continued: at their close, he returned to his original station among the nobles.

The Saxons delighted in the perpetration of cruelties, and were themselves regardless of danger. They carried on their predatory warfare chiefly by sea; launching their vessels most cheerfully during the prevalence of the wildest storms, because they took it for granted that their intended victims would, at such moments, be least prepared to escape or to resist them. When the first of these bands arrived in England, they came under the guidance of two nobles, Hengist and Horsa, whom they had themselves elected as leaders in a piratical expedition; and whom they continued to obey, only because the war, in which they became engaged, lasted during the lifetime of those who began it.

Danes.

The religion of the Anglo-Saxons, as they imported it into Britain, was a wild and hideous polytheism, which demanded from its votaries, among other rites, the occasional offering up of human victims. Of some of their gods we retain a remembrance in the names which still attach to the days of the week. They worshipped the Sun, thence our Sunday; the Moon, thence our Monday; Tiw, thence Tuesday; Woden, thence Wednesday; Thurse, thence Thursday; Friga, thence Friday; and Saterne, whence Saturday.

About the year 800, the Danes, a nation of sea rovers and robbers, began to infest England. This country had been divided into seven kingdoms, called the Saxon Heptarchy; but these had been condensed into three, and at last the whole Saxon portion of the nation became subject to one king, for the first time. This king was Egbert. He died in 836, and the sceptre passing into feeble hands, the country was exposed to the incursions of the people whom we have mentioned above.

The Danes came from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, and in many respects resembled the Saxons. They were pirates by profession, who took to themselves the appellation of Sea-kings; and Europe has never produced a race of men more stained with the crimes of treachery and cruelty. Not content, like the generality of savage warriors, to slay, without remorse, all by whom they were opposed in battle, the Sea-kings appeared to delight in the infliction of unnecessary torture; razing to the ground every town of which they obtained possession, and slaughtering men, women, and children indiscriminately upon its ruins.

Normans.

It would lead us beyond our present limits to detail all the struggles with these invaders of Britain. It is sufficient to say that they continued for many years, and spread desolation over the country. The wars occasioned by the Danes were replete with suffering, cruelty, and crime. They were finally checked, and many who had settled in the country were driven away; but others became mingled with the inhabitants, and made another ingredient in the compound of British blood and bone.

The last introduction of foreign people into Britain took place in 1066, when William, Duke of Normandy in France, came with an army, and triumphed over king Harold in the battle of Hastings, and established himself and his family on the throne. Many French people came over with William and settled in the country. The French language became the language of the court and the laws, and French customs were largely introduced among the people.

From this brief sketch, we can see that the English people derive their origin from five races: the Celts, Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Danes, and Normans; and we, descendants of the English, must look back for our first grandfathers and grandmothers to these various nations and tribes. It is from them we derive our blood, our language, and our customs.

It is true that the Anglo-Saxons form the basis of our ancestry: the mixture of the other races with them is not considerable. Our language may afford a pretty fair index to the proportion which the Saxon stock bears to the others. The foundation of our language is Saxon, and consisting chiefly of the short expressive words called monosyllables. To this original stock, we have added words from the Celtic Britons, the Romans, the Danes, and the Norman French. Our language may be compared to a patched garment, the main cloth of which is a Saxon texture; but the patches are furnished by the other nations that have worn it. It is, however, a pretty good language, after all.

The Month of March.

Of all the months, March is the least of a favorite. It has neither the brilliant snows of winter, with its keen and bracing breezes, nor has it the flowers and fruits of the warmer seasons. It is a capricious mixture of cold and warm, wet and dry, sometimes visiting us with storms of sleet and snow, and suddenly changing its temper, it presents us with soft southern breezes, seeming to remind us of spring.

As far south as Virginia, March seems to bring spring with it, and many of the flowers venture to peep forth during this month; but even there, the weather is uncertain. In New England, nothing can exceed its versatility. Often the sun will rise bright and clear, and the hills will seem to breathe the atmosphere of spring. But before noon the scene is entirely changed; dark and heavy clouds come heaving from the west, the cold wind rises to a gale, and the whole air is filled with a whirling storm of snow. And thus the sun that rose on the hills, where spring had apparently began its reign, as it sets, sees these hills re-conquered by winter, and wearing its white livery in token of vassalage. So sudden are these changes, that the birds, weather-wise as they generally are, are often taken by surprise. The blue-birds, sparrows, and robins are always in haste to get back to their birth-places, and accordingly, following the retreat of winter, come northward as fast as the season will permit. But spring and winter are, in March, like two armies, constantly contending—one prevailing one day, and the next day giving way before the other. In these skirmishes of the seasons the birds we mention are often involved, and it is not seldom that they are glad to escape to the south, till the conflict of the elements is over, and the triumphant reign of spring is established.

Nor are the birds alone in suffering from the capricious tricks of the month of March. It sometimes happens that a Vermont farmer, tempted by the solid snow-path, and the appearance of steady cold weather, sets out with his one-horse sleigh upon a journey of a hundred miles, to Boston. Though it is perhaps the middle of March, still the traveller’s sleigh glides along as if upon a railroad, and in two days he reaches Boston. Here he spends a day or two, and then sets out to return. But what a change has come over the scene! The wind has veered from north-west to south-west; the snow is melting and running in rills down the hill-sides, and every time the horse steps, he is up to his knees in sposh. The traveller with his sleigh plods on, but, after a severe day’s work, he advances in his journey but twenty miles. The next day the snow is entirely gone, and he is obliged to proceed on foot, as you see him in the preceding picture, his weary horse dragging the sleigh over the grating mud and stones. After five days of toil he reaches his home, and has the comfort to be met by his wife and all his neighbors, exclaiming, with a jeer, “I told you so!”

But although March has thus acquired a character that is not the best in the world, there are some pleasant things to be said about it. William Howitt, who takes a cheerful view of almost everything in nature, admits that “March is a rude and sometimes boisterous month, possessing many of the characteristics of winter;”—“yet,” he adds, “it awakens sensations, perhaps, more delicious than the two following spring months, for it gives us the first announcement and taste of spring.”

Bryant too—our own poet, and one of the sweetest that ever sung—finds something pleasant to say of March; a pretty good proof that nothing is wanting but good humor to render a person always able to find something agreeable to talk about. See how truly and yet how pleasantly Bryant describes this capricious month:—

The stormy March has come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear’st the gentle name of spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the bloom of May.

The fourth day of this month will be distinguished this year by the inauguration of William Henry Harrison as President of the United States. The people of this country chose him to that office last autumn, and on the fourth day of March he enters upon its duties. He goes to the capitol at Washington, and in the presence of the Senate, and a great concourse of people, he takes an oath, administered by the chief justice of the nation, by which he pledges himself to use his best efforts to govern the people according to the laws, and with a view to promote their best happiness.

The Child and the Violets.

“Oh, mother, mother!” said the child,
“I saw the violets blue;
Thousands were there, all growing wild;
Mother, I tell you true!
They sat so close upon the ground,
Here and there, and all around,
It seemed as if they had no stems,
And all the grass was strown with gems.

“‘Whence came ye, flowers?’ I asked them all;
They would not say a word;
Yet something seemed to hear my call,
And near me was a bird.
I turned mine eye,—he flew away,—
Up he went with joyous lay;
And seemed to sing, as high he flew,
‘From yonder sky come violets blue.’”

The mother answered thus the child:
“The bird did tell you true;
These pretty violets, low and wild,
Of heaven’s own azure hue,
Though here they have their bloom and birth,
And draw their sustenance from earth,
Still One, who fills immensity,
Made these sweet flowers for you and me.”

Varieties.

How to sleep in Snow.—The manner in which Captain Ross’ crew preserved themselves, near the north pole, after the shipwreck of their vessel, was by digging a trench in the snow when night came on. This trench was covered with canvass and then with snow. The trench was made large enough to contain seven people; and there were three trenches, with one officer and six men in each. At evening, the shipwrecked mariners got into bags, made of double blanketing, which they tied round their necks, and thus prevented their feet from slipping into the snow while asleep; they then crept into the trenches and lay close together. The cold was generally sixty-four degrees below the freezing-point of Fahrenheit; but in January, 1831, the mercury was ninety-two degrees and a half below the freezing-point.

The Fighting Business.—“What are you thinking of, my man?” said Lord Hill, as he approached a soldier, who was leaning in a gloomy mood upon his firelock, while around him lay mangled thousands of French and English; for it was a few hours after the battle of Salamanca had been won by the British. The soldier started, and, after saluting his general, answered, “I was thinking, my lord, how many widows and orphans I have this day made for one shilling.” He had fired six hundred bullets that day, and his pay was a shilling a day.

Anecdote of Franklin.—While Franklin was ambassador to the English court, a lady, who was about being presented to the king, noticed his exceedingly plain appearance, and inquired who he was. “That, madam,” answered the gentleman upon whose arm she was leaning, “is Dr. Benjamin Franklin, the ambassador from North America.” “The North American ambassador so meanly dressed!” exclaimed the lady. “Hush, madam, for Heaven’s sake!” whispered the gentleman; “he is the man that bottles up thunder and lightning!” I suppose my readers all know that Dr. Franklin was the inventor of lightning-rods, by which the lightning is drawn off from buildings, and thus rendered harmless. It was this that gave rise to the humorous reply of the aforesaid gentleman.

Ingenious Excuse of a Schoolboy.—A country schoolmaster once having the misfortune to have his schoolhouse burnt down, was obliged to remove to a new one, where he reprimanded one of his boys, who mis-spelled a number of words, by telling him that he did not spell as well as when he was in the old schoolhouse. “Well, thome how or other,” said the urchin with a scowl, “I can’t ethackly get the hang of thith ere thkoolhouth.”

Keen Satire.—“You saved my life on one occasion,” said a beggar to a captain under whom he had served. “Saved your life!” replied the officer; “do you think that I am a doctor?” “No,” answered the man, “but I served under you in the battle of ——, and when you ran away, I followed, and thus my life was preserved.”

Talking To One’s Self.—Earl Dudley possessed in a remarkable degree the unpleasant habit of talking to himself. On one occasion he was driving his cabriolet across Grosvenor Square, in London, in his way to Park Lane, when he overtook an acquaintance of the name of Luttrell. It was raining quite fast, and his lordship good-naturedly invited the pedestrian to ride. They drove on till they had nearly arrived at Lord Dudley’s mansion, where, Mr. Luttrell giving no hint of wishing to alight, the Earl unconsciously exclaimed aloud, what many would have thought under similar circumstances, “Plague on this fellow; I suppose I must ask him to dine with me!” How often, instead of flattering speeches and soothing compliments, should we hear unpleasant and reproachful remarks, if people were in the habit of thinking aloud, like Lord Dudley.

Being Behindhand.—An idle fellow complained bitterly of his hard lot, and said, that he was born on the last day of the year, the last day of the month, and the last day of the week, and he had always been behindhand. He believed it would have been a hundred dollars in his pocket if he had not been born at all!

Aphorisms from Shakspeare.

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.

One drunkard doth love another of the name.

Do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation.

All offences come from the heart.

Every cloud engendereth not a storm.

Ignorance is the curse of God—knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.

He is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man.

There’s small choice in rotten apples.

SPRING IS COMING! A SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

1

Tell me, snow wreath, tell me why
Thou dost steal away so sly,
Why up-on the hill to-day,
But to-mor-row gone a-way?
“Spring is coming, spring is coming!”

2

Tell me, blue-bird, tell me why
Art thou seen in yonder sky,
Pouring music from above,
In a lay that’s all of love?
“Spring is coming—spring is coming!”

3

Tell me, foaming, romping rill,
Dashing headlong down the hill,
Why, like boy from school let out,
Dost thou leap, and laugh, and shout?
“Spring is coming—spring is coming!”

4

Tell me, little daisy, tell
Why in yonder wooded dell
Forth you venture from the ground,
Mid the sere leaves all around?
“Spring is coming—spring is coming!”

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

My own Life and Adventures.

(Continued from page 35.)

CHAPTER VI.

My new Gun.—Obstinacy.—Setting out on a Hunting Expedition.—A Strange Character.—Mountain Sport.—A Snow-Storm.—Getting lost.—Serious Adventures.

I have said enough as to the indulgent manner in which I was treated at my uncle’s, not only by him, but by others, to show that no very great restraints were laid upon my wishes, or even my caprices. At the time, I thought it very pleasant to be permitted to have my own way; but I have since been led to believe that most of the serious evils of my life have flowed from this defect in my early education. We all of us need to be brought up to follow duty rather than pleasure, or, to speak more properly, to find our pleasure in doing our duty. If parents send their children to school, it is the duty of their children not only to go, but to improve all the advantages offered them. It is their duty to learn their lessons well and thoroughly, and to obey the rules of the school; and children that are properly educated, and who have right feelings, will do this with cheerfulness and satisfaction. Thus they will find pleasure in following the path of duty.

This is very important for the happiness of children, while they are children,—for there is no pleasure so sweet as that which is found in doing something useful and right; but it is still more important in another point of view. In early life, we form habits, and they are likely to guide us ever after. It is easy for us to act according to habit, and it is difficult for us to act otherwise. A child who is brought up in the habit of finding pleasure in doing his duty, is likely to go on so through life; and thus he will secure happiness in this world and that which is to come: while a child who is brought up without a sense of duty, and at the same time is permitted to follow his fancy, is apt always to be guided rather by his whims, his caprices, and his passions, than by any right feeling or right principle. Such a person is almost sure to meet with much trouble in life, and there is great danger that he will turn out an unhappy and unfortunate man.

Now I was brought up in this manner, and though my uncle intended me the greatest kindness by his system of indulgence, it was, in point of fact, the most mischievous that could have been devised. I grew up headstrong and passionate, and though my temper was naturally good, it seemed rather to be injured than benefited by the manner in which I was treated. I could not bear anything that thwarted my wishes. I was very easily offended, and became selfish, unreasonable, and unjust, in proportion as I was petted and flattered. Thus it happened in my case, as it always happens, that having my own way made me what is called a spoiled child; and accordingly, I became disagreeable to myself and almost everybody else.

I am particular in telling all this for two reasons:—first, to show to parents, that if they do not wish their children to be miserable and disagreeable—if they do not wish to lay the foundation of selfishness, caprice, and injustice in the hearts of their offspring—let them govern their children, make them mind, make them do right. If parents do not wish to have their children ruined, let them avoid a system of indulgence. My other reason for giving these details is, that I hope to persuade children to do their duty cheerfully, because this is really the best, the happiest way. It is not only the best for the future, but the present; not only best in view of manhood, but for childhood itself.

I am now going to relate some circumstances, which will illustrate some things I have been saying. It will show not only how much my temper had been injured, but into what evils a thoughtless and headstrong youth will rush, if given up to his own guidance.

On a certain day in January, it had been agreed between Bill Keeler and myself, that we would proceed to the mountain for the purpose of hunting. My uncle had bought me a new fowling-piece, and on this occasion I was to take it with me. I looked forward to the day with great impatience, and when at last it arrived, Bill and myself were up by day-break, ready to depart. The winter had thus far been remarkably mild and open. There was as yet no snow on the ground. But when we were about to leave the house on our expedition, my uncle, who had been out of doors, told us that it was going to snow, and we had better not venture among the mountains. I was immediately angry at this advice, and told my uncle that I would go, whether he thought it best or not. With more than ordinary spirit, he replied that I should not go! This resistance set me in a blaze. I seized my gun, uttered some words of defiance, and rushed out of the house. Finding me thus determined and incorrigible, my yielding uncle told Bill, who stood still all the time, seeming to know how it would turn out, to go with me, and take good care of me. Accordingly, he soon joined me, and we went on together, laughing heartily at the scene which had just passed.

We soon reached the forests that lay at the foot of the mountain, and while it was yet somewhat dark, we began to climb up the ledges. As we were passing through a small copse of tall trees without underwood, I heard the step of something near by, and immediately discovered a dark object passing slowly on before me. I drew up my piece, and was on the point of firing, when Bill struck down the barrel of my gun, and exclaimed, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t fire!—it’s Old Sarah!” This was said and done in season to prevent my shooting the object at which I aimed, but not to stop the discharge of my firelock. The shot struck the ground at the very feet of my companion, thus coming very near taking his life.

The noise of my gun aroused the attention of the singular old woman, whom, with the ardor of a youthful hunter, I had taken for a wild-cat or a wolf. She turned round, and began to speak in a warning voice. “Go back!” said she, at the pitch of her lungs, “go back! for the snow is already falling, and you will both get lost in the woods. In one hour the paths will be covered, and then you cannot find your way among the mountains!”

Bill and I both laughed at all this, and I am sorry to say that we returned the kind anxiety of the old woman for our safety, with jeers and gibes. “Take care of yourself! and we will take care of ourselves,” said I. “Keep your breath to cool your porridge,” said Bill. With this and similar impertinence, we passed up the acclivity, leaving the decrepit old woman to climb the mountain as she might.

I had seen this personage before, and had heard something of her story; but I was now curious to know more. Accordingly, I asked Bill about her, and he proceeded to tell me all that was known of her character and history. She was a native of Long Island, and during the war of the Revolution had become attached to a British officer, who was stationed there. He wronged her cruelly, and then deserted her. With a mind somewhat bewildered, she wandered into the country, and took up her abode in a cave of the very mountain we were now ascending. Here she had lived for years, visiting the villages in the vicinity in the open seasons, but retiring to her den and subsisting on nuts and roots, during the winter. Many wild stories were told of her. It was said that she had lived so long in the mountain, that the foxes had become familiar with her, and would come and lick her hands. It was said the crows would sit on her head, and the rattlesnakes coil in her lap. Beside all these tales, it was said that “Old Sarah,” as she was called, was a witch, and many persons declared that they had seen her just at dark, or before a thunder-storm, flying through the air on a broomstick.

Bill’s narrative was cut short by the sudden whizzing of a partridge from a bush just before me. Another and another soon followed. These creatures are very cunning. They are always on the watch, and when they hear or see any one coming, they get on the opposite side of some rock, or thicket, or tree, and remain concealed till the person comes near. Then they burst away with a startling, rushing sound, taking good care to keep the rock, or tree, or thicket between them and their enemy, until they are at a distance.

At least a dozen of these fine birds broke away from their cover, but neither Bill nor myself had a chance for a shot. So we went on, greatly excited, however, by the game we had seen. It was not long before we met with another covey of partridges, and firing at random, I killed one of them. Great was my exultation, for I had never killed a partridge before; and beside, I had shot it with my new gun; and, more than all, Bill, who was expert at every kind of sport, had as yet met with no success. As I picked up the large and beautiful bird, still fluttering and whirling round in my hand, and held it forth to my companion, I imagine that I felt of as much consequence as Bonaparte did when he had conquered the Austrians in the famous field of Austerlitz.

Excited by this triumph of skill and my new gun, we continued to push forward, though it was now snowing fast; and the ground was already covered to the depth of two or three inches. Frequently meeting with some kind of game, though we got little of it, we traversed one ridge after another, until we were involved in a sea of small and thickly wooded ridges and ravines, that crowned the top of the mountain. Scarcely heeding the course we took, or thinking of return, we proceeded for several hours. At last we came to a small hill, and it was agreed between Bill and myself that he should take the valley on one side, and I on the other, and we would meet beyond it.

I had not gone far before a rabbit rushed by me with prodigious bounds, and entered a thicket at a little distance. I followed it, but as I approached, it plunged farther into the bushes. Intent upon the pursuit, and guided by its footsteps in the snow, I pursued it from place to place, from thicket to thicket, but without being able to get a shot at it. At last it disappeared amid a heap of stones. As these were loose and not large, I began to pull them away, expecting every moment to reach the object of my pursuit. But after working here for some time, I was obliged to give up the effort in despair, and leaving the place, I set out to join my companion. So intent had I been upon my object, that I had not marked my route or noticed the lapse of time. As soon as I began to think of joining him, however, I became conscious that I had gone a considerable distance out of my way, and had spent a long time in the chase of the rabbit. I therefore proceeded with as much rapidity as the rugged nature of the ground and the dense forest would allow, and in the direction, as I supposed, toward the extremity of the ridge, where Bill and I were to meet.

It was not long, however, before I became assured that I had lost my way—and that, instead of approaching the point designated, I had wandered a great way from it. I now began to retrace my steps, and for a time was guided by my tracks in the snow. But the storm had set in in earnest. The large flakes fell thick and fast, filling the air with a dense cloud, and seeming to pour down upon the earth as if shovelled from some reservoir in the skies. In a few minutes after I had passed along, my tracks were completely covered up, and no trace of them could be seen.

My situation was now serious, and I began to consider what was to be done. The advice of my uncle came to my mind, and the warning of the grizzly old woman crept over me with a sort of shudder. I fired my gun, hoping to make Bill hear it, and waited in breathless anxiety for a reply. But the wind was roaring in the tops of the tall trees, and neither the mountain nor the tempest seemed to heed my distress, any more than if I had been an insect. I was never in my life so struck with my utter helplessness. I was not accustomed to take care of myself. In any difficulty heretofore, I had hitherto always found some one to extricate me. But I was now alone. No one was here to aid me. At first I gave way to despair. I threw my gun to the ground in a pet, and lay down myself, and with bitter lamentations bewailed my fate. But the gray, gnarled old trees and sturdy rocks around took not the slightest notice of my distress. I fancied that I could almost see them smile at my vain wailings. They did not, at any rate, rush to my relief, and soothe my agony. For once, I was obliged to rely upon myself; and it was a stern lesson, which I have never forgotten.

After a few moments, I rose from the ground, brushed off the snow from my clothes, and began seriously to devise some plan of action. But here, again, my habit of dependence came in my way. Little accustomed to think or act for myself in any emergency, I was a poor hand for contrivance. My convenient friend, Bill Keeler, had been accustomed always to save me the trouble of making any mental or bodily exertion. O how ardently did I now wish that he was with me! How did I fill the mountain with cries of his name! But there was no return. Even the throat of the mountain, that had ever before been so ready with its echoes, was now choked up with the thickening shower of snow. Nothing could be heard but one deafening roar of the gale, chafing the uneasy tops of the trees.

I concluded to set out in what seemed to me the direction of my home, and to push straight forward till I was extricated from the wilds of the mountain. I began to put this scheme in execution, and for more than an hour I plodded on through the woods. I proceeded with considerable rapidity for a time, but the snow was now a foot in depth, and as it impeded my progress, so it diminished my strength. I was, at length, obliged to slacken my pace, and finally, being completely wearied out, I sat down beneath the branches of a large hemlock tree, to rest myself. This spot was so sheltered by the thickly woven branches as to be free from snow, and here I continued for some time. When I got up to proceed, I found my limbs so stiffened that it was difficult for me to move. At the same time a dizziness came over me, and I fell to the ground.

It was not till the next day that I had any consciousness of existence. When I awoke, I was in a dark, rocky cavern, with a grizzly old woman by my side. At first, I fancied it all to be some strange dream, and expected to awake and find myself in my comfortable bed at my uncle’s. But pretty soon, remembrances of the preceding day came back, and guessing at the truth, I asked—“Is that you, Sarah?” “It is me,” said the old woman; “and you are in my cave.” “And you have saved my life, then?” said I, half rising from my recumbent position. “Yes—yes,” said she; “I found you beneath the hemlock, and I brought you here. But you must be quiet, for you have suffered, and need care and rest.”

I need not attempt to tell how gratefully I thanked the poor old hermitess, and how I begged pardon for my impertinence on the preceding morning. I then began to inquire about other things—the depth of the snow; whether anything was known of my companion; and how and when I could return to my uncle. In reply, I was told that there was at least four feet of snow on the ground; that it was therefore impossible to attempt to leave the cave; that Bill Keeler, being an expert woodsman, had no doubt found his way home; and that in all probability I was given up by my friends as lost.

I was obliged to be content with this recital, though it left me much cause of anxiety, especially on account of my companion, for whom I entertained a sincere affection. Being, however, in some degree pacified, I began to consider my condition. Here I was, in a cave formed by nature in a rock, and my only companion was a gray old dame, her long hair almost as white as the snow-drift, her form bent, her eyes bleared and colorless, her face brown and wrinkled. Beside all this, she was esteemed a witch, and while feared and shunned by mankind, she was regarded as the familiar companion of the wild fox and the rattlesnake.

Nor was this all that rendered my situation singular. There was no fire in the place I inhabited, yet, strange to say, I did not suffer from the cold. Nor were there any articles of furniture. The only food that was given to me consisted of butternuts and walnuts, with a little dried beef and bread which Old Sarah had brought from the village.

For two days and two nights I remained at this place, the greater part of the time lying upon the bottom of the cave on my back, with only a ray of light admitted through the cleft of the rock, which served as a door, and which was partially closed by two large pieces of bark. On the third day I was looking from the mouth of the cave upon the scene around, when I saw a figure at a considerable distance, attempting to make its way through the snow, in the direction of the cave. At first sight I knew it to be Bill Keeler! I clambered upon the top of a rock, and shouted with all my might. I was soon discovered, and my shout was answered by Bill’s well-known voice. It was a happy moment for us both. I threw up my arms in ecstasy, and Bill did the same, jumping up and down in the deep snow, as if he were light as a feather. He continued to work his way toward us, and in half an hour we were in each other’s arms. For a short time I thought the fellow was stark mad. He rolled in the snow as you sometimes see an overjoyed and frisky dog—then he exclaimed, “I told ’em so! I told ’em so! I knew we should find you here!” Then the poor fellow got up, and looking me in the face, burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears.

I was myself deeply affected, and Old Sarah’s eyes, that had seemed dry with the scorching of sorrow and time, were now overflowing. When I noticed her sympathy, however, she shrunk from notice, and retired to her cave. Bill then related all that had happened; how he hunted for me on the mountain till midnight, and then, with a broken heart, went home for help; how he had since toiled for my discovery and deliverance, and how, against the expectations of everybody, he had a sort of presentiment that I should be found in the shelter of Old Sarah’s cave. He farther told me that my uncle and four men were coming, and would soon be with us.

I need not give the details of what followed. It is enough to say, that my uncle soon arrived, with sufficient assistance to take me home, though the depth of the snow rendered it exceedingly difficult to proceed. I left Old Sarah with abundant thanks, and an offer of money, which, however, she steadily refused. At last I reached home. Not a word was said to remind me of my obstinacy and folly, in going upon a sporting expedition, against counsel and advice; nothing but rejoicing at my return was heard or seen. My uncle invited in the neighbors at evening; there was hot flip in abundance, and ginger and cider for those who liked it. Tom Crotchet, the fiddler, was called, young and old went to dancing, and the merriest night that ever was known, was that in which young Bob Merry who was lost in the mountain, came to life, having been two days and two nights in the cave of “Old Sarah the hermitess.”

I am not sure that I did not appear to share in this mirth; but in truth I felt too sober and solemn for hilarity. The whole adventure had sunk deep into my mind, and though I did not immediately understand its full effect upon my character, I had at least determined never again to scorn the advice of those more experienced than myself. I had also been made in some degree aware of that weakness which springs from being always dependent upon others; and a wholesome lesson had been taught me, in finding my life saved by an old woman, whom a few hours before I had treated with rudeness, impertinence, and scorn. I could not but feel humbled, by discovering that this miserable old creature had more generous motives of action, a loftier and more noble soul, than a smart young fellow from New York, who was worth ten thousand dollars, and who was an object of envy and flattery to more than half the village of Salem.

(To be continued.)

The Great Northern Diver, or Loon.

The genus to which this bird belongs are all of a large size, and entirely aquatic; they are seldom on land, and, although they have great power, they seldom fly. The construction of their feet at once points out their facility of diving and their ability to pass rapidly through the water; the legs are placed far back, and the muscles possess great power; and the whole plumage of the bird is close and rigid, presenting a smooth and almost solid resistance to the waves in swimming or diving.

The Great Northern Diver measures two feet and ten inches in length, and four feet six inches in the expanse of the wings; the bill is strong, of a glossy black, and nearly five inches long. It is met with in the north of Europe, and is common at Hudson’s Bay, as well as along the Atlantic border of the United States. It is commonly found in pairs, and procures its food, which consists wholly of fish, in the deepest water, diving for a length of time with astonishing ease and rapidity. It is restless before a storm, and its cry, which foretells a tempest, is like the shrill barking of a dog and maybe heard at the distance of a mile. It is a migratory bird, always departing for warmer regions when its fishing grounds are obstructed with ice. It is difficult to kill these birds, as they easily elude their pursuers by their astonishing faculty of diving.

The people of some parts of Russia tan the breasts of this bird, and prepare them in such a manner as to preserve the down upon them; they then sew them together, and sell them for pelisses, caps, &c. The articles made of them are very warm, and perfectly impervious to rain or moisture, which renders them very desirable in the severe climates where they are used. The Greenlanders also make use of these skins for clothing, and at the mouth of the Columbia river, Lewis and Clarke saw numbers of robes made of them.

The Laplanders cover their heads with a cap made of the skin of this bird—which they call loom, a word signifying lame, and which they apply to it because it is awkward in walking.

The loon is not gregarious, but, as before said, is generally found in pairs. Its aversion to society is proved by the fact, mentioned by travellers, that only one pair and their young are found on one sheet of water. The nest is usually on the edges of small islands, or on the margin of a fresh-water lake or pond. It contains two large brown eggs.

In building its nest, the loon usually seeks a situation at once secluded and difficult of access. She also defends her nest, and especially her young, with great courage and vigor. She strikes with her wings, and thrusts with her sharp bill as a soldier does with his bayonet. It is, therefore, by no means easy to capture the nests or the young of this bird.

Mr. Nuttall gives the following account of a young bird of this kind which he obtained in the salt marsh at Chelsea, and transferred to a fish-pond. “He made a good deal of plaint, and would sometimes wander out of his more natural element, and hide and bask in the grass. On these occasions, he lay very still until nearly approached, and then slid into the pond and uttered his usual plaint. When out at any distance, he made the same cautious efforts lo hide, and would commonly defend himself, in great anger, by darting at the intruder, and striking powerfully with his dagger-like bill. This bird, with a pink-colored iris like the albinos, appeared to suffer from the glare of broad daylight, and was inclined to hide from its effects, but became very active towards the dusk of evening. The pupil of the eye in this individual, like that of nocturnal animals, appeared indeed dilatable; and this one often put down his head and eyes into the water to observe the situation of his prey.

“This bird was a most expert and indefatigable diver, and would remain down sometimes for several minutes, often swimming under water, and as it were flying with the velocity of an arrow in the air. Though at length inclined to be docile, and showing no alarm when visited, it constantly betrayed its wandering habit, and every night was found to have waddled to some hiding-place, where it seemed to prefer hunger to the loss of liberty, and never could be restrained from exercising its instinct to move onwards to some secure or more suitable asylum.”

Mr. Nuttall makes the following remarks in respect to the voice of the loon: “Far out at sea in winter, and in the great western lakes, particularly Huron and Michigan, in summer, I have often heard, on a fine, calm morning, the sad and wolfish call of the solitary loon, which, like a dismal echo, seems slowly to invade the ear, and, rising as it proceeds, dies away in the air. This boding sound to mariners, supposed to be indicative of a storm, may be heard sometimes for two or three miles, when the bird itself is invisible, or reduced almost to a speck in the distance. The aborigines, nearly as superstitious as sailors, dislike to hear the cry of the loon, considering the bird, from its shy and extraordinary habits, as a sort of supernatural being. By the Norwegians, its long-drawn howl is, with more appearance of reason, supposed to portend rain.”

Story of Philip Brusque.

(Continued from page 50.)

CHAPTER III.

More particulars of Philip’s early life.

Our story, thus far, has shown us that absolute liberty cannot be enjoyed except by an individual in solitude, where he has no intercourse with his fellowmen. It shows us that as soon as individuals, even supposing that there are only two of them, come to live together, some rules, by which they may regulate their conduct, become absolutely necessary. In other words, people cannot live together in society without government; even two persons on an island find that, to prevent quarrelling, they must define their mutual rights and privileges; or, in other words, they must enact laws; and these laws, we perceive, are restraints upon natural or absolute liberty. The farther progress of our story will show how an increasing community, with more varied interests, requires a more extended and minute code of laws.

But before I proceed further, let me tell you something more of Philip Brusque’s early history. He was the son of a brickmaker of St. Addresse, a small village in France, near the flourishing seaport of Havre, which you know is situated at the mouth of the Seine. Philip was early taught to read and write, but he paid little attention to these things in his boyhood. He was more fond of action than study. He spent a great part of his time in wandering through the deep dells that surrounded his native village, or in walking along the high chalky bluff that formed the neighboring sea-shore. Here he particularly loved to spend his time, looking out over the sea for many leagues, and tracing the progress of the ships, bearing the flags of many nations, that ploughed their way upon the bosom of the Atlantic.

In this way, he formed habits of reflection; and though he loved stirring excitements, still Philip was a thinking youth. At the same time he was of a sanguine temper, ardent in his feelings, loving and hating strongly, and readily believing what his wishes and his hopes prompted. Thus he grew up to the age of twenty, without a settled profession, sometimes working at his father’s trade, and sometimes serving as mate of a small vessel that plied between Havre and Bordeaux.

About this period, the public mind in France had begun to be agitated by the coming tempest of the revolution. In every city, village, and hamlet, the people were talking about government, liberty, and the rights of man. The people of France had long been subject to kings, who had claimed a right to reign over them, even without their consent, and they had reigned in such a manner as to make the people miserable. The people were now examining into this claim of their kings, and they had already discovered that it was founded in injustice. Unhappily, they fell under the guidance of bloody and selfish men, and for many years the sufferings of France in her struggle for liberty and human rights, were greater than they had been under the despotism of her worst kings.

Philip Brusque engaged very ardently in the political discussions that resulted in the revolution, and when Paris became the great theatre of action, he resolved to quit St. Addresse, and proceed to the metropolis, to take his share in the great drama that he felt was about to be acted. He took leave of his parents, and went to bid adieu to Emilie Bonfils, whom he had long loved, and to whom he was affianced. The parting was tender, for Emilie was well worthy of the affection of the gallant youth, and her fears were now excited for the fate of her lover. He was not only to leave her, but he was to be exposed to the convulsions, which already, like the heavings and swellings which portend the earthquake, began to be realized throughout France. But Philip’s mind was too much influenced with the spirit of the time, which, like the hot sirocco of the desert, seemed to sweep over the land, to be delayed or dissuaded. He gave his Emilie a long and ardent salute, and on foot wended his way to Paris.

I have told enough of what followed, for the purposes of my story. Philip’s active mind and devoted spirit raised him to a certain degree of power and distinction in the revolution; he rode for a time on the storm, and shared in the scenes of blood and horror. He was indeed accessory to many of the atrocious executions, which, in a spirit of madness and fury, were decreed and sanctioned by the leaders. But in all this, Philip was rather insane than selfish. Indeed, he was intoxicated by the whirl of events, and he yielded to the current. At length, he became sensible of his error, but before he had the opportunity of atoning for it, he was obliged to fly for his life. He wished to see his aged parents, and his mind turned more than once to his gentle, confiding Emilie, at the village of St. Addresse. But there were many reasons for his not going to see them before his departure. The first was, that it was not safe, either for himself or them; and the next was, that he now began to consider his hands sullied with the blood of his fellow-men, in such a manner as to make him unfit for the pure affections either of his parents or his affianced Emilie. Indeed, such was the idea he had formed of the latter, and such was the true affection and reverence that he entertained towards her, and such, at the same time, was his feeling of repentance and remorse, that he shrank from the idea of attaching her to one like himself, and dragging her down from the dignity of truth and purity, to the lot of one who was sullied with crime. Accordingly, he wrote a letter to his parents and Emilie, explaining his feelings and designs, and bade farewell to his country, as we have seen. The letter he wrote did not reach its destination, but, falling into the hands of Robespierre and his associates, became the source of bitter persecution to those for whom it was intended.

CHAPTER IV.

A Ship appears in view.—Pirates ashore.—A scene at night.—Recognition of an old Friend.—Alarming Discoveries.—A fearful Plot.—An Explosion.—Arrival of about seventy persons at Fredonia.

We return to Brusque on the island of Fredonia. A few weeks after the adoption of the constitution as before related, a fine vessel, in full sail, appeared near the island. Brusque and Piquet saw it with a mixture of emotions. She seemed to be crowding all her sails, and sweeping before a brisk breeze. When first seen, masts and sails only were visible, but now her full hull was in view. At length, she came so near that both Brusque and his companion could distinctly see the people on board.

The scene recalled the mind of Brusque to his home and his country. The ship bore aloft the flag of France, and stirred within him feelings that he could not well define. There are few that can forget the land of their birth, particularly if parents, and one loved more warmly than kindred, be there. Brusque’s mind touched on all these points, and tears filled his eyes. “I am an outcast,” said he, “and France rejects me. I am unworthy of my parents, and, more than all, unworthy of Emilie. I must teach my heart to forget; and yet I fear it will not forget, till it ceases to feel.” With these words he sat down upon the hill, folded his arms, and with a melancholy countenance gazed at the ship as she now seemed flying past the island.

At this moment, a new object attracted his attention; this was another vessel, of small bulk, but with a prodigious spread of canvass, pursuing the first-mentioned ship. She seemed, like the sea-eagle, to have a vast expanse of wing in proportion to her body. On she flew, and was soon near the object of her pursuit. Brusque and his companion watched the scene with interest. Both saw that the pursuing vessel was a pirate ship, and that in a few minutes a desperate conflict must follow.

The pirate had now come abreast of the island, being at the distance of not more than three miles. Brusque saw a white roll of smoke uncoil itself at her side, and in a few seconds the booming voice of the cannon broke over the island. At the same time, the ball was seen to strike the water beyond the ship, and dipping at short distances, made the spray shoot high into the air. Another and another shot followed from the pirate in quick succession. These were at length returned by the ship. The two now approached. Peal after peal rung on the air. They were both completely wrapt in smoke. Yet still the firing continued. At length there was a dreadful volley as of a broadside, a thickening of the smoke, and then a fearful silence. Slowly the coiling vapor was lifted up, and the two ships were in view. All eyes seemed directed to the larger ship. Her masts and the cloud of canvass swayed heavily from side to side. Finally, they sank lower and lower, and with a heavy crash fell into the waves.

The deck was now a scene of confusion. The pirate approached, and was soon grappled to the ship. Swiftly a few of her men leaped upon the deck. There was a short struggle, and all was still. “They have yielded like a pack of cowardly hounds!” said Brusque to his companion. “Nay,” said the fisherman, “they fought bravely. That piratical craft has five hands to her one, for she has more than a hundred men on board. The other is but a merchant vessel, and had not twenty seamen. The greater part of the men who fought are passengers, and they fought bravely. Beside, there were women among them!”

“How do you know that?” said Brusque, quickly.

“I saw them,” said Piquet, “as the vessel passed.”

“What is to be done?” said Brusque, jumping up.

“What can you do?” said the other.

“What can I do?” said Brusque; “good God, I can do nothing: and women on board! women to fall into the hands of these pirates! It is too dreadful to think of. I will go down to the shore.”

“Stay,” said the fisherman; “if you show yourself we are both lost. The ship cannot be taken away, but must remain. It is likely the pirates will come ashore before they leave. It is now near sunset. Let us wait for events.”

“You are right, you are right!” said Brusque. “We will watch till evening. Perhaps something may turn up, by which we may aid the captives. And yet I know not what we can do. We have no weapons, no boat. Still, what we can do, we will do.”

With these resolutions, Brusque and his companion went to their cave, and laid their plans. Considering it extremely probable that the pirates would come ashore, they concluded to watch and wait for circumstances. Agreeing to take separate stations, and meet again at midnight, they parted, it being now dark.

Brusque had not waited long before he heard the regular dipping of oars in the direction of the pirate ship, and soon saw a boat with about twenty men approaching the shore. Getting into the cover of some bushes, he waited till they reached the shore. They were soon followed by another party of an equal number. Drawing their boats upon the beach, and leaving a single sailor as a guard, the whole party moved up to a little grassy hill. Here some sat down, and others stood around. The leader of the party gave directions to six of his men to go in search of water; taking two officers with him, he stepped aside, leaving the rest to themselves. While they were talking and laughing, the captain and his two friends sat down close to the bushes where Brusque lay concealed, and began to talk over the events of the battle.

The question was soon started as to the disposal of the ship and her inmates. It was agreed by all that the vessel must be scuttled. “Shall the people go down with her?” asked one of the officers. “What think you, Jaques?” said the captain. “As to the sailors, and those rascally passengers that entered into the fight, let them die,” said Jaques. “It’s the fortune of war, and I shall care as little for their death as for the bursting of so many bubbles. But the women——”

“Well, what of the women?” said the captain.

“Why,” said Jaques, “one of them is very pretty, and one of them is very old, and I do not like to be concerned in drowning either a pretty woman or an old one. They are very likely to haunt a man after death. Beside, there are thirty women in all; it will be too bad to tip them all into the sea.”

“Well,” said the captain, “what is your plan?”

“Well,” said Jaques, “I propose that we pick out the prettiest for ourselves, and send the rest ashore here to take care of themselves. They can set up a petticoat republic, or any other government they please.”

This plan occasioned a hearty laugh, but still it seemed to be approved. The party soon broke up and joined the rest. Brusque had heard the whole of their conversation, and, after a short time, crept from his hiding-place, and set out to join the fisherman at the cave. On his way he fell in with one of the pirates who was in search of water. He had no chance to conceal himself, but as it was dark, he spoke to the man, as if he were one of his comrades. “Have you found any water?” said he. “Not a drop,” said the other. “Well, go with me,” said Brusque, “and I will take you to a spring. I have been on this island before. A long time ago, on a voyage we stopped here, and I remember that between these two hills there was a fine spring.”

“Indeed,” said the other, “is it you, Tom? Really, I did not know you; your voice is strangely changed.” “I’ve got a cold,” said Brusque, coughing. “But we are near the place, I think. It’s so dark we may not be able to find it. However, we can but try. Yes, here is the spot—I remember it by this tall palm-tree. I can see the shape of it against the sky, and know it is the same. The spring is within ten feet of this place. Aye, here it is! How delightful it will be to get a drink of fresh water, just from the ground. It’s as good to drink direct from mother earth, as in infancy to draw milk from a mother’s breast.”

“Get out, you sentimental dog!” said the other. “It’s treason to remind a pirate of his mother. Good God, I never dare to think of mine.”

“Is she living?” said Brusque.

“Is she living? How dare you speak to me of my mother? Is she living? Good God, I know too well that she is living. Tell me, Tom, and tell me truly!—suppose your mother was in that ship, what would you do? Nay, more,—suppose your sister were there, pure as an angel from heaven, and as beautiful too? Yes, and suppose your aged father, bowed with toil and care and sorrow, and gray with years, were also in that ship? And suppose you were the pirate that had aided in their capture? What would you do?”

“Tell me, in the name of Heaven, tell me your name!” said Brusque, in great agitation.

“You know my name is François——” The man hesitated.

“Yes, indeed, I do know your name; you are François Bonfils. You are the brother of Emilie—and here before you is Philip Brusque!”

The pirate started at this, and drawing a pistol from his belt, stood in an attitude of defiance. At the same time he said, “Am I betrayed? What means this? Are you not Tom Garson, of our ship?” Brusque hastened to explain, and in few words told his story to François. It was a scene of mutual agitation and explanation. Each had many questions to ask, but these were deferred that they might consider what was to be done. For the sake of conversing freely, they retired to Brusque’s cave, where they both agreed to attempt the rescue of the people on board the ship. Piquet soon arrived, and he joined heartily in the enterprise. Several plans were discussed, but none seemed feasible. At length, François spoke as follows:

“I am afraid that we are too sanguine. There are two hundred men belonging to the pirate. They are desperate freebooters, and armed to the teeth. Like all rogues, they are suspicious and watchful. We cannot hope to surprise or deceive them. The captured vessel is a trading ship, from St. Domingo. She is filled with people that have fled from an insurrection of the negroes there. There are about thirty females, several children, and thirty or forty men. They are guarded by ten of our marines, and are kept under the hatches. We must convey instructions to them to be on the lookout for relief, that they may exert themselves if any opportunity should offer. We must blow up the pirate ship, and I will do it, and share the fate of the rest, if need be.”

“Nay,” said Brusque, “this is a mad and desperate scheme. Let us think of something more feasible.”

“It is time,” said François, “for me to return to the captain. I shall be missed and suspected. I will take care to be in the watch of the merchant ship to-morrow night. You, Brusque, are a good swimmer. The vessel is not more than two miles out. You must come at twelve o’clock, and I will see that a rope is over the stem. You must climb up, and enter the dead-lights, which shall be prepared. You must then wait till Heaven send you some opportunity for exertion. Mention me not to my parents or Emilie, if I perish. It will be better for them to mourn over an uncertainty, than the memory of a pirate son or brother. Farewell!” Saying this, and wringing Brusque’s hand convulsively, the pirate departed.

I shall pass over the scene of riot which took place among the pirates on the island, next day, as well as the anxiety of Brusque and his friend Piquet. Night at length came, and at the appointed hour Brusque repaired to the shore, and began to swim toward the vessel, as directed by François. It was dark, and the water was ruffled, but he could see the vessel floating like a dusky shade upon the water, and being steady of limb and stout of heart, and withal an excellent swimmer, he soon neared the vessel. Cautiously and slowly approaching the stern, he at length descried a tall sentinel standing on the deck, and thought he could make out the figure of François. He then drew close, and at length was able to find the promised rope. Climbing up by this, he swung himself to the window, which was cautiously opened from within. It was too dark to see any one, but he entered the cabin and sat down. Pretty soon a boat started from the side of the ship, and looking through the window, Brusque saw it set off toward the pirate vessel. He thought he could trace in the athletic form of the man who guided the helm of the boat the form of François, and he began to think seriously that he intended to put his plan into execution. He was the more fearful of this from having observed that all the pirates had left the island, and he suspected that the opportunity of thus blowing the whole into air was too powerful a temptation for the almost maddened mind of François. Pondering upon the awful chances of such an event, and of the action that must follow on the part of the ship’s crew and passengers for liberation, should it take place, he sat for some time in silence. At length, a hand was laid upon his arm, and he was told to follow. Being led across the cabin, he was taken into a small state-room, where there was a light. His guide left him here alone. Soon a man entered, who announced himself as the captain. He said he had received an intimation that an effort would be made for their relief, but he knew nothing more. Brusque now entered into a detail of the circumstances which we have related, and expressed his conviction that the pirate vessel would be blown up. He advised the captain quietly to apprize all the men on board of the prospect before them, and to see that they were ready to second any effort that should be made. This plan was adopted, and accordingly, about twenty-five men got together in the cabin, each having provided himself with some club, or spar, or other weapon. The captain alone had a sword and pistol, which he had found concealed in a drawer, and which had escaped the search of the pirates.

Brusque now took place on the transom of the vessel, where he could have a full view of the pirate ship. He sat long, earnestly watching the object of his attention. He hardly knew whether to fear or hope for the awful explosion that he anticipated. The sudden transition of two hundred breathing men from life to death, from the full flush of riotous passion and crime into the presence of their God, was a thought too horrible to be dwelt upon. Yet, here were other men, and helpless women and children, whose only chance for life or escape from a fate worse than death, seemed to depend upon that fearful catastrophe. Dwelling upon these agitating topics, Brusque sat in the darkness, gazing upon the pirate ship. In his anxiety, seconds seemed to lengthen into minutes, and minutes into hours. His impatience almost mastered him. His heart beat audibly, and his brain seemed swelled to bursting. He was on the point of starting up to relieve his feelings, when he saw a stream of light like a rocket shoot out from the side of the pirate vessel. In an instant, another and another followed, and then one wide flash enveloped the whole firmament. In the midst of the sea of fire that seemed thrown into the sky, were the fragments of the ship, the wheels of cannon, and the mangled forms of men, seeming like demons, lit up in the red and ghastly glare.

This mighty blaze was almost instantly followed by total darkness, by a heavy sound, and by a rocking of the ship, as if struck by a gale. In an instant, the men within, rushed against the hatches, and with one united effort threw them open. Starting to the deck, they soon levelled four of the sentinels with their weapons, and the rest, in the sudden panic, leaped into the sea.

The inmates of the ship now found themselves restored to liberty, as if by the hand of enchantment. Passing from the deepest despondency, they indulged in the most violent transports of joy. Brusque made himself known to his parents, and he and Emilie found out each other in the darkness. I need not tell the rest, till we get into another chapter; and that must be deferred to our next number.

(To be continued.)

The Spectre of the Brocken.

I will now tell you of certain strange appearances, which are sometimes produced by clouds, operating like mirrors, and reflecting upon the sky the images of things on the earth.

In Germany, there is a range of elevations, called the Hartz Mountains. The Brocken is the loftiest peak, and is said to be about three fourths of a mile high. The view from the top of it is so extensive as to embrace a tract of land inhabited by more than five millions of people.

Now these reflecting clouds of which I have spoken, sometimes collect around this mountain, and bear a very distinct though shadowy image of whatever may be on the summit of the Brocken, when the sun is rising. It is remarkable that this image is greatly magnified, so that if a man is on the mountain, his figure upon the cloud is as tall as a steeple. The best account of this wonderful spectacle is given by a very learned Frenchman, called Hauy. He visited the place in 1797. I give his own account of what he saw, which is as follows:

“After having come here for the thirteenth time, I was at length so fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing the spectre. The sun rose about four o’clock, and the atmosphere was quite serene. I was looking round to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free prospect of the southwest, when I observed at a very great distance, toward one of the other mountains, what seemed like a human figure, of a monstrous size. A violent gust of wind having almost carried off my hat, I clapped my hand to my head, and the colossal figure did the same.

“The pleasure which I felt at this discovery can hardly be described; for I had already walked many a weary step, in the hopes of seeing this shadowy image, without being able to gratify my curiosity. I immediately made another movement by bending my body, and the colossal figure before me repeated it. I was desirous of doing the same thing once more, but my colossus had vanished. I remained in the same position, waiting to see whether it would return, and, in a few minutes, it again made its appearance on the mountain.

“I paid my respects to it a second time, and it did the same to me. I then called the landlord of the Brocken, and, having both taken the same position, we looked towards the mountain, but saw nothing. We had not, however, stood long, when two colossal figures were formed in the same situation, which repeated our compliments by bending their bodies as we did, after which they vanished.

“We retained our position, kept our eyes fixed on the same spot, and, in a little while, the two figures again stood before us, and were joined by a third, which was most likely the double reflection of one of us. Every movement that we made by bending our bodies these figures imitated, but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes weak and faint, and sometimes strong and well defined.”

There are many other interesting stories relating to these reflecting clouds, but I have not room to tell them here. You will find them in one of Parley’s books, entitled, “Wonders of the Earth, Sea, and Sky,” from which I have been permitted to copy this account and the engraving that accompanies it.

Trifles.

“Father, didn’t you say the world was round?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Well, how can it come to an end if it’s round?”

“William, I wish you wouldn’t talk with your mouth so full of victuals.”

“John, I wish you wouldn’t go to balls and parties—it is very bad indeed.”

“Father, didn’t you and mother go to balls and parties, when you were young?”

“Yes, my son—but we have seen the folly of it.”

“Well, I want to see the folly of it too, father!”

View of Malta.

The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

(Continued from page 47.)

CHAPTER II.

A Wreck at Sea.—Mother Carey’s Chickens.—A Gale of Wind.—Singular Phenomenon of the Corpo Santo.—Arrival at the Straits of Gibraltar.—Wonderful Fortifications of that place.

When we had sailed about half way across the Atlantic, we fell in with the wreck of a vessel. All her masts were gone, and the sea was breaking over her in every part. We could not discover her name, nor to what nation she belonged. When a ship meets with a wreck at sea, it is customary to set the wrecked vessel on fire, or blow her up with gunpowder, lest any other vessel should run foul of her in the night; a casualty which has caused the destruction of many ships, that have never been heard of afterwards. The wreck we met with lay so low in the water that we found it impossible to get at her for this purpose. So the most we could do was steer clear of her. She was surrounded by a great shoal of black-fish.

Now and then the solitude of the ocean was enlivened by the sight of a little dark-colored bird, about the size of a swallow, called the Stormy Petrel, but among sailors known by the name of Mother Carey’s Chicken. These birds are met with in every part of the ocean, thousands of miles from the land. They fly very swiftly, and come fluttering about the ship, but seldom light on the rigging or deck. The sailors have many superstitious notions concerning them, and always look out for a storm after their appearance; but I never found there was any dependence to be placed on such prognostications. They believe also that these birds never set foot on land, that they lay their eggs at sea, and hatch them under their wings. But these stories are all fables. The petrels lay their eggs on the shore, among the rocks and sand. Their nests are often found in the Bahama Islands.

We had now got about two thirds of the way across the ocean, when the wind died away, and we lay two or three days becalmed. The sea was as quiet as a mill-pond, and as smooth as glass. The captain did nothing but fret and fidget, for the master of a ship cannot endure any delay on his voyage. About the third day there rose a heavy swell of the sea, which caused the vessel to roll from side to side in a manner most uncomfortable to us all. I was surprised at this, as there was no wind to agitate the water; but the captain informed me that when a gale of wind is approaching, the swell always comes before the wind. He now told us to look out for a heavy blow. The mercury in the barometer had fallen suddenly, which is a pretty sure indication of a storm at hand. By-and-by, a mass of thick, heavy clouds began to rise in the west, and soon the heavens were completely overspread. The surface of the water quickly became agitated by ripples, and the swell increased. The wind now began to snuffle, then to blow in heavy gusts and sing through the cordage in a most alarming style. We close-reefed the topsails and scudded before it. The gale came on harder and harder, and the seas rolled around us in a most terrific manner. Now and then the crest of a mountainous wave would dash over the stern and sweep the deck fore and aft. At such times the sailors were obliged to cling fast to the spars and rigging, to save themselves from being washed overboard.

In the midst of the gale I was astonished at the sight of a wonderful flame of fire that came hovering round the ship. It was a bright, thin, quivering mass of light, as big as a man’s head, somewhat like the sun when seen through a fog or thin haze. From what quarter it came I could not discern—whether from the clouds or the sea, but the captain said it appeared to gather in the air. It hovered over us for some minutes, and then settled on one of the lifts or ropes which sustain the upper yards. There it remained two or three minutes, after which it glided down the stay to the bowsprit, and then disappeared. I must confess I was greatly amazed at this strange phenomenon, which, happening in the midst of a terrible storm, was certainly enough to frighten any common person. The captain, however, told me not to be alarmed, for such appearances, though not very common, were yet too well known at sea to cause any fear to an experienced mariner. This strange luminous body is called by the sailors a corposant, a corruption of the Portuguese words corpo santo, “holy body.” It is a sort of meteor, engendered probably from electrical matter in the air, and never appears but in heavy gales of wind. Sometimes two of them appear together. After their disappearance, the sailors believe the strength of the gale to be broken. In fact, within an hour after the appearance of this, which I saw, the wind began to lull, and ere long subsided to a moderate breeze, so that we considered ourselves out of danger, and stood on our course.

About a week after this, just as I had waked in the morning, I was aroused by the cry of “Land!” I ran upon deck, and saw what no man can see for the first time without feelings of indescribable enthusiasm—the shores of the old world! We were directly abreast of the straits of Gibraltar. Europe and Africa lay before me, and the sun was rising behind the lofty ridge of the Atlas mountains. Were I to live a thousand years, I should never forget this moment, nor the overpowering emotions that took possession of me at the sight. Few prospects in the world can be more imposing. The stern and craggy cliffs of the Spanish coast; the towering wood-crowned peaks of the African mountains; the noble strait that separates these two famous quarters of the globe; and the grand and interesting historical recollections connected with the spot—all combine to fill the mind of the spectator with the most thrilling emotions. Long did I gaze on the noble scene without the power to utter a word, as the sun broke from the mass of rich blue clouds that hung round the head of Mount Atlas, and poured his golden light on the shaggy masses of forest in Africa and the rugged and frowning cliffs of Spain. To see such a prospect once is an epoch in a man’s life; the vivid and overpowering feelings of the moment are never to be experienced a second time.

As we sailed up the strait, I had leisure to view the shore on both sides by the help of a telescope. The Spanish coast is rocky, and generally barren, but in many spots I was able to discern little patches of green cultivation, scattered about in the valleys between the dark rock. The African shore is almost entirely covered with woods up to the mountain-tops. Here and there I could see a wreath of white smoke slowly curling upward from the thick woods. These were made by the Moors, who were stripping the cork trees of their bark. Farther up the strait, we came in sight of the famous fortress of Gibraltar. It is an enormous rock, connected with the Spanish shore by a low, flat beach. The rock is cut and tunnelled into immensely long caverns and galleries, with embrasures for cannon, and is fortified in every part so strongly as to be considered impregnable. It was taken from the Spaniards by the English, more than a century ago, but at that time it was very poorly fortified. The English, finding it so well situated for guarding the entrance of the strait, expended vast sums of money in strengthening it, and would never give it up to the Spaniards. It has sustained many hard sieges since that period, but has hitherto resisted every attack. There is always a strong garrison of troops kept here, and the harbor is a regular station for ships of war. A considerable town has grown up near the rock, and a good deal of trade is carried on by the merchants of Gibraltar. Vessels from all the Mediterranean ports bring their goods to this place, and American vessels carry the productions of our continent to exchange for them; so that an establishment designed at first only for a military fortress, has become a flourishing commercial mart.

Boston vessels commonly carry to Gibraltar cargoes of flour, tobacco, coffee, tar, pipe-staves, &c., and take the Spanish wines and fruits in return. Sometimes, after disposing of their cargoes at Gibraltar, they take in ballast and sail for the Cape Verd Islands, where they load with salt and return home.

CHAPTER III.

Voyage along the coast of Spain.—Prospect of Sicily.—Account of an Island thrown up from the bottom of the sea by a Volcano.—Arrival at Malta.—Quarantine Regulations.

Though we had been quite alone on the Atlantic, yet as soon as we entered the Mediterranean we found ourselves in company with a large fleet of vessels. We had a fair wind up the strait, and kept along with our companions for two or three days; but as the strait grew wider, and at length expanded into the broad Mediterranean sea, these vessels dispersed towards their several ports of destination. We sailed along the Spanish coast for nearly a week, and found the landscape everywhere picturesque and striking. The shore is high and abrupt at first; farther onward it rises into lofty mountains. Here the scenery became truly grand and sublime. It was mid-winter, and the mountains of Granada were covered with snow. A lofty ridge, called the Sierra Nevada, runs parallel to the shore, and rises to the height of 11,000 feet. At this time it presented a most noble sight—an immense wall of snow, glistening in the bright sunshine and towering up to the clouds.

Winds are commonly regulated by the direction of the shores, especially where the coasts are mountainous. At Cape de Gatt, where the coast makes a sudden bend to the north, a change of wind is always expected by vessels sailing up the Mediterranean; and so it happened with us. The fair breeze from the west, which had hitherto driven us on our course, now shifted to a strong easterly breeze, directly in our teeth. We had also a short chopping sea, peculiar to the Mediterranean, which brings on sea-sickness to one coming from the Atlantic, although the waves of the Mediterranean never rise so high as the Atlantic billows. We beat against the wind some days, till at length it sprung up astern again, when we ran before it till we came in sight of the island of Sicily.

We found the mountains of Sicily, like those of Spain, covered with snow; and considering the bleak wintry prospect which the country offered at the distance from which we viewed it, we never should have guessed that the gardens were full of green trees, bending under the weight of ripe oranges. This however was the fact, as we afterwards discovered. In steering from this quarter towards Malta, we sailed over the spot where a volcanic island suddenly rose up from the bottom of the sea a few years ago; a surprising phenomenon, of which the reader may like to hear a short account.

This part of the Mediterranean is known to abound in subterranean fires. Ætna is always burning; the Lipari islands contain volcanoes, and Vesuvius, with its terrible eruptions, has long been familiar to every reader. This whole region, both land and sea, probably rests on an immense bed of fire. Wherever this fire can get vent, it breaks out; the Lipari islands all present the appearance of having been formed in this manner. On the south coast of Sicily, the inhabitants were surprised one day to behold tremendous flames of fire breaking out of the sea in a spot where the water was known to be very deep. This alarming eruption continued for several days, with dreadful explosions, like the discharges of artillery, and showers of ashes and thick columns of smoke that obscured the light of the sun. When the eruption had partially subsided, a considerably large island was found to have emerged from the bottom of the sea. It continued smoking for many days, and at length several persons had the courage to venture off in small vessels, and land upon it. They found it to consist of black scoriæ, cinders and ashes, the substances which are commonly ejected from volcanoes. Pools of hot water stood here and there in the cavities of the surface; great heaps of dead fishes were scattered about, and the smoke of sulphur was steaming up from the hollows and crevices that abounded in the island. Such was the singular appearance of a spot that rose up from the sea, as it were out of the bowels of the earth. It would have been hazardous for a man to take up his permanent abode on this newly-formed territory, and we do not find that any one had the inclination to make any long stay on the spot. After standing a few months, the new island sunk as suddenly as it rose, and the sea over it appears to be as deep as ever.

A Volcanic Island thrown up from the Sea.

The little island of Gozo now came in sight ahead, warning us that we were approaching our port. At day-break we saw the island of Malta, and ran for the western extremity, after which we stood along the northern coast for the harbor of Valette. The island appeared of a moderate height, but I could hardly discern a tree or any marks of cultivation. Watch-towers at regular intervals along the shore, and some rude structures in the interior, were all that appeared to diversify the landscape. As we approached the harbor, we discovered a fleet of small boats putting off to meet us, and we were soon surrounded by them. The men were a wild-looking set, tawny and stout, wearing brown woollen caps that hung down over their shoulders. They rowed standing, instead of sitting, as our boatmen do. The boats were very neatly built, of olivewood, with high and ornamented prows. They were painted of a bright vermilion in the bows, and it is remarkable that Homer describes the ancient Grecian ships as painted in the same manner. A loud clamor and hubbub of voices now rose around us. All the boatmen had some service to offer. One offered a pilot, another offered to tow us into the harbor, which is highly necessary here, on account of the narrowness of the entrance. Others were ready to supply us with fresh provisions, fruit, &c., and others wanted our clothes to wash. Every vessel that arrives is beset in the same manner, and the number of persons who depend for a living upon what they get for these services must be quite large.

As we approached the entrance of the harbor, we came suddenly in sight of the city of Valette, with its castle and fortifications. They stand close to the sea, and burst upon the spectator before he is aware. We were much struck with their noble and commanding appearance—and the bells of the city chiming merrily at the time, the agreeable sensations they inspired were still further heightened. It was a great mortification to us, however, to find that we were to be subjected to a quarantine of more than a week. For this purpose our vessel was taken into that part of the harbor adjoining the lazaretto, where we were brought to anchor, and treated with a prospect of the shore close at hand without the privilege of setting foot upon it for a week to come.

The quarantine regulations are very troublesome in almost all parts of the Mediterranean. The people in this quarter are always afraid of contagious diseases, particularly the plague, which in former days committed terrible ravages. The quarantine on vessels from the Levant, or the eastern part of the Mediterranean, sometimes lasts for forty days. This restriction, when applied to ships from the United States, is very useless and absurd; yet it is rigidly enforced, for these people have heard that a contagious disease, called the yellow fever, sometimes prevails in America, and as they have little knowledge of geography, they make hardly any distinction between one portion of the western continent and another. The quarantine therefore is laid upon all vessels from America.

We found ourselves in company with fifteen or twenty other vessels performing quarantine, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Austrian and Greek. There was an Austrian brig, loaded with beans from Alexandria in Egypt. She had forty days quarantine, and as the weather was rainy and the vessel’s deck leaked, the captain was afraid his cargo would sprout and shoot up into a forest of bean-stalks before he could get it on shore.

It was now the first of February, a season when, by our recollection, the country at home must be covered with snow; yet here we found the fields green, the air soft, and the trees in full foliage. The oranges were just ripening, and the Maltese boatman brought them to us on board for four cents a dozen. The Malta oranges are famed for being the finest in the world, and I must admit that they are worthy of their reputation. The oranges we get in Boston are gathered before they are quite ripe, that they may keep the better; but an orange in full ripeness, fresh plucked from the tree, as far surpasses the imported fruit, as a ripe apple does a green one. We had, besides, dried figs strung upon reeds, somewhat in the manner in which we prepare dried apples. Here I saw for the first time the pomegranate, a fruit larger than an orange, full of little sweet kernels. So we contented ourselves with eating fresh fruit and wishing the quarantine at an end.

(To be continued.)

The New Custom-House, Boston.

Between Long and Central wharves, in Boston, a large edifice is now in progress, called the New Custom-House. A picture of it as it will be when finished, engraved by Mr. Devereux, whose office you will find at No. 47 Court street, is given on the opposite page. The building is of granite, and already it may be seen that it is to be one of the finest structures in the city. The lofty fluted columns have already an imposing effect. They are thirty-two feet in length, and weighed forty-three tons each—they were obtained in one of the quarries at Quincy. It required forty or fifty yoke of oxen to bring one of these enormous pillars to the city.

New Custom-House, Boston.

This Custom-House is constructed by the government of the United States. I suppose most of my readers know the use of a custom-house; but for the benefit of those who do not, I will explain its object. It is a place where the customs, or duties, laid on goods brought into port by ships from foreign countries, are paid and received.

The course of the business is this. When a vessel from England, or France, or any other place, comes into port, a person from the custom-house, called a boarding officer, goes into her, and receives from the captain the ship’s papers. These consist of—1. The Manifest, which is a paper setting forth the cargo, and signed by the master of the vessel. 2. The Register, which is a paper signed by an officer of the treasury at Washington, and countersigned by the collector of the port where she belongs—giving a description of the vessel, with her name, her size, who her owners are, and where she was built. 3. The Roll of Equipage, which contains the names of the ship’s company, that is, the captain, mate, and hands; and, 4. A list of the passengers.

These papers are taken by the boarding officer to the collector of the port, and the captain is required to enter his ship at the custom-house within twenty-four hours after his arrival. Then, if all the papers are right, the goods brought in the vessel may be entered at the custom-house by the several persons to whom they belong. These persons must make oath that the invoices are correct, pay the duty or tax on the goods, and then take them away.

There are public stores attached to the custom-house, to which goods may be sent, if the master applies for the privilege, or if they are not called for in five days. During the unlading of a vessel, an officer of the custom-house, called a tidewaiter, remains on board, and takes an account of the cargo, so as to see that it corresponds with the manifest and the entries made by the owners.

The great object of all this is to get money to support the government with. The tax on some goods is twenty-five per cent., and on some it is thirty per cent., and on some there is no tax. The amount of goods received at the Boston custom-house is immense. You may judge of this by considering that several millions of dollars are taken there every year. About eighty persons are employed at the custom-house in Boston. The superintendent of the whole business is called the Collector. The old custom-house of Boston, now used, is inconvenient; the new one will be much larger and better.

There is a new custom-house at New York, which is a very different edifice from this at Boston; it is also much larger, for the business done there is more than four times as great as that done at the Boston custom-house. There are many other custom-houses in this country, as at Philadelphia, Baltimore, and other places where ships come. From all these, the government of the United States receives about twenty millions of dollars every year. With this money, and what they get from the sale of public lands and other sources, they pay the expenses of the government, which are very great. The army costs a great deal of money, and so does the navy. I suppose one ship of war will cost half a million of dollars a year while in active service! Then the President receives 25,000 dollars a year, and each of the foreign ministers has 9,000 a year, and the officers of the custom-houses, members of Congress, and ten thousand postmasters, and a great many other persons, in the service of the government, must all be paid. So you will see that if the government receives a great deal of money, it has need of a great deal. The average expense of our government is 25,000,000 of dollars, which is about six hundred and fifty tons of silver, and would be as much as four hundred horses could draw!

The New Patent Office, Washington

The building of which we here give a representation, is a depository for the models of such inventions as are patented in the United States. The old patent office was burnt down a few years ago, and this has just been erected. It is a handsome and extensive edifice, and well adapted to the purpose for which it is designed.

The contents of this building display in an eminent degree the inventive and ingenious character of our countrymen, and especially of the New England people, for a large proportion of the models here collected are furnished by New England men. There are machines here for almost every purpose under the sun. There are ploughs, and harrows, and coffee-mills, and saws, and water-wheels, and rakes, and corn-shellers, and stump-removers, and a multitude of other things, all arranged according to their kinds. In one part are agricultural implements; in another, are machines for the manufacture of cotton; in another, those for the manufacture of wool, &c. The number of these inventions amounts to many hundreds, and some of them display admirable skill and contrivance on the part of the inventors.

Perhaps some of my readers hardly know why these things are collected in a great building at Washington. I will endeavor to make them understand it. If a man contrives a plough, which is on a new principle, he may send a model of it to the superintendent of the patent office, and he will grant him Letters Patent, which set forth that such a model has been so deposited, according to an act of Congress. This being done, the inventor has the sole right to make and sell said ploughs, and have the profit arising from the same. Thus he has what is called a “Patent Right” for the plough he has invented.

The reason why the government grants such patents is this: if a man who invents good and useful things can have the advantage of their sale, he will be encouraged to invent more useful things, and thus society will be benefited.

The utility of some inventions to mankind, is immense. Robert Fulton, of New York, about thirty years ago, invented a steam engine that would propel a steamboat through the water. This led to steam navigation, which is the greatest improvement of modern times. A man in England contrived an engine that would drive a car upon a rail-road track, and thus rail-roads came into use. Eli Whitney, of Connecticut, about forty years ago, contrived a cotton gin, for separating the seed from the cotton, which saved a vast deal of labor, and reduced the price of cotton one half. Thus it is that ingenious inventions improve the condition of mankind. But many of these inventions cost vast labor and expense to perfect them. Fulton spent several years and thousands of dollars before he completed his steamboat. Therefore it is that, in most cases, men could not and would not produce these useful contrivances, if the result of their toil and expense could not be secured to them. Therefore we see that there is good reason for giving them encouragement by granting patents. By means of these patents, good clothes, good food, good houses, good roads, good means of travelling, become cheaper and easier to be got, and, therefore, it benefits everybody to have government promote useful inventions by granting patents.

What sort of Heart have you got?

Most people seem to think only of their external appearance—of their personal beauty, or their dress. If they have a handsome face, or a good figure, or a fine attire, they are perfectly satisfied; nay, more—we often see persons showing vanity and pride merely because they have beautiful garments on, or because they are called pretty or handsome.

Now I am not such a sour old fellow as to despise these things—it is certainly desirable to appear well; but I have remarked that those persons who are vain of outside show, forget that the real character of a person is within the breast, and that it is of vastly greater importance to have a good heart than a handsome person.

The heart within the body is of flesh, but it is the seat of life. Upon its beatings our life depends. Let the heart stop, and death immediately follows. Beside this, the heart is influenced by our feelings. If one is suddenly frightened, it beats more rapidly. Any strong emotion, or passion, or sensation, quickens the action of the heart. It is for these reasons,—because the heart is the seat of life, and because it seems to be the centre or source of our passions and feelings,—that we often call the soul itself, the heart. Thus the heart of flesh is a sort of emblem or image of the soul. When I ask, therefore, what sort of heart you have got? I mean to ask what sort of soul you have got? We often hear it said that such a person has a hard heart, and such a one has a kind or tender heart. In these cases we do not speak of the heart of flesh within, but of the soul. A hard heart, in this sense, is a soul that is severe, harsh, and cruel; a kind and tender heart, is a soul that is regardful of the feelings of others, and desirous of promoting the peace and happiness of others.

You will see, therefore, that it is very important for every individual to assure himself that he has a good heart. The reasons why it is important, I will endeavor to place before you.

In the first place, “God looketh on the heart.” He does not regard our dress, or our complexion, or our features. These do not form our character; they have nothing to do with making us good or bad. If God looks into the breast and finds a good heart there, a tender, kind soul, full of love toward Him and all mankind—a heart that is constantly exercised by feelings of piety and benevolence, he approves of it, and he loves it. God does not care what sort of garment covers such a heart, or what complexion or features a person with such a heart has got. He looketh on the heart, and finding that good, he bestows his blessing, which is worth more than all the wealth of this wide world. Personal appearance is of no value in the sight of God. It is only because men value it, that it is to be regarded. But upon the character of the heart, the favor or displeasure of God depends. It is of the greatest importance, therefore, for each person to see what kind of heart he has got. If he loves to do mischief; if he loves to say or do harsh and unkind things; if he loves to wound the feelings of others; if he loves to see another suffer; if he wishes, in any way, to injure another in his mind, body, or estate, then he has a bad heart; and God looks on that bad heart as we look upon a malignant and wicked countenance. Before God, every heart has a character. We cannot see into the bosom, but God can. All things are transparent to Him, and he looketh on the heart as we do upon one another’s faces. And to Him, every heart is as distinctly marked as men’s countenances are to us. A wolf has a severe, harsh, and cruel expression in his countenance. A bad heart has as distinct an expression in the sight of God, as the wolf’s face to human eyes. God cannot love, and he will not bless such a heart. He only bestows his love and his blessing on a good heart.

The second reason for having a good heart is, that it not only wins the favor of God, but of men. However we may fancy that mankind think only of outside appearance, they do in fact think more of internal goodness. Mankind, in all ages and countries, love, respect, and revere the person who has a good heart; the person whose soul is habitually exercised by piety toward God and love toward mankind, is always esteemed and loved in return. Such a person is almost sure to be happy; even if he is destitute of money, he has that which in this world is of more value—the good will, the sympathy, the kind wishes and kind offers of his fellow-men. If a person wishes success in life, therefore, there is no turnpike road to it like a good heart. A man who seeks to extort, to require, to command the good will of the world, will miss his object. A proud person, who would force men to admire him, is resisted; he is looked upon as a kind of robber, who demands what is not his own, and he is usually as much hated as the person who meets you on a by-road at night, and, holding a pistol in your face, demands your purse. The proud person—the person who demands your respect, and tries to force you into good will toward him—turns your feelings against him; but the gentle, the humble, and the kind-hearted, appeal to the breast with a power we cannot resist. The person, therefore, of real power, is the person with a good heart. He wields a sceptre which men would not resist if they could, and could not if they would.

The third reason for having a good heart is, that while the exercise of a bad heart is painful, the exercise of a good heart is blissful. A heart that indulges in envy, malice, anger, revenge, jealousy, covetousness, becomes unhappy and miserable; a heart that exercises piety, love, charity, candor, peace, kindness, gentleness, becomes happy. The exercise of piety and good feelings brings pleasure and enjoyment to the soul, as cool, fresh water does to a thirsty lip; bad feelings bring pain and misery to the soul, as bitter and poisoned water does to the palate and the stomach. A person, therefore, who indulges in bad feelings, is as unwise as one who refuses pure water and drinks poison.

The fourth reason for having a good heart is, that it is the surest way to be handsome! A person with a good heart is almost always good-looking; and for this reason, that the soul shines through the countenance. If the heart is angry, the face is a tell-tale, and shows it. If the heart is exercised with piety, the countenance declares it. Thus the habits of the soul become written on the countenance; what we call the expression of the face is only the story which the face tells about the feelings of the heart. If the heart is habitually exercised by malice, then a malicious expression becomes habitually stamped upon the face. The expression of the countenance is a record which sets forth to the world, the habits, the character of the heart.

I know very well that some persons learn to put a false expression upon their faces: Shakspeare speaks of one who can smile and smile and be a villain still. This false veil, designed to hide a bad heart, is, however, generally too thin to answer its purpose. Mankind usually detect the veil of hypocrisy, and as flies see and shun a spider’s web, so mankind generally remark and avoid the hypocrite’s veil. They know that the spider—the dastardly betrayer—is behind it, ready to make dupes and victims of those whom he can deceive. The only true way, therefore, to have a good face, a truly and permanently handsome face, is to have a good heart, and thus have a good expression. There can be no genuine and abiding beauty without it. Complexion and features are of little consequence. Those whom the world call handsome, have frequently neither regularity of features nor fineness of complexion. It is that indescribable thing called expression—the pleasant story which the countenance tells of the good heart within, that wins favor.

There are many other good reasons for having a good heart; but I have not room to tell them here. I must say a word, however, as to the means of curing a bad heart and getting a good one.

The first thing is, to find out what a good heart is, and what a bad heart is; and the best way to do this, is carefully to read the account given of Jesus Christ in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. There are no pages like these, so full of instruction, and that so readily impart their meaning to the soul of the reader. They give us a portrait of our Savior,—and what a portrait! How humble, yet how majestic! how mild, yet how dignified! how simple, yet how beautiful! He is represented as full of love toward God, and toward mankind; as going about doing good; as having a tender and kind feeling for every human being; as healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, and pouring the music of sound upon the deaf ear. Love to God, which teaches us to love all mankind, evidently fills the heart of Jesus Christ; and his great desire seems to be, that all mankind shall have hearts filled with the same feeling that governs his. A good heart, then, is one like Christ’s; a bad heart is one that is unlike Christ’s. A good heart is one that is habitually exercised by love to God and charity to man; a bad heart is one that is exercised by selfishness, covetousness, anger, revenge, greediness, envy, suspicion, or malice.

Having learned what is meant by a good and bad heart, the next thing is to look into our own breasts and see what kind of a heart we have got. This is of first-rate importance, and therefore it is that I ask the question at the head of this article—“What sort of heart have you got, Reader?”

Having, by careful examination, found out what sort of a heart you have got, then you are prepared to act with good effect. If you find that you have a good heart, a heart like Christ’s, filled with love of God and feelings of obedience to God, and with love and charity to all mankind, evinced by a desire to promote the peace and happiness of all; then be thankful for this best of gifts, and pray Heaven that it may continue to be yours. An immortal spirit, with the principle of goodness in it, is yours—and how great a benediction is that!

But if you discover that you have a bad heart, pray set about curing it as soon as possible. An immortal spirit with a principle of badness in it, is surely a thing to be dreaded; and yet this is your condition, if you have a bad heart. In such a case, repentance is the first step for you to take. Sorrow—sincere sorrow, is the easy condition upon which past errors are forgiven by God; yet this condition must be complied with. There is no forgiveness without repentance, because there is no amendment without it. Repentance implies aversion to sin, and it is because the penitent hates sin, that the record of his wrongs is blotted out. While he loves sin, all his crimes, all his transgressions must stand written down and remembered against him, because he says that he likes them; he vindicates, he approves of them. Oh take good care, kind and gentle reader—take good care to blot out the long account of your errors, before God, speedily! Do not, by still loving sin, say to God that you are willing to have those that you have committed, and those you may commit, brought up in judgment against you! Draw black lines around the record of your transgressions, by repentance!

And having thus begun right, continue to go on right. At first, the task may be difficult. To break in a bad heart to habits of goodness, is like breaking a wild colt to the saddle or harness: it resists; it rears up; it kicks; it spurns the bit; it seeks to run free and loose, as nature and impulse dictate, and as it has been wont to do before. But master it once, and teach it to go in the path, and it will soon be its habit, its pleasure, its easy and chosen way to continue in the path.

To aid you in this process of making a good heart out of a bad one, study the Bible, and especially that which records the life and paints the portrait of Christ. Imitate, humbly, but reverently and devoutly, his example. Drink at the fountain at which he drank, the overflowing river of love to God.

This is the way to keep the spark of goodness in the heart; and to cherish this, to keep it bright, exercise yourself as much as possible in good deeds, in good thoughts, in good feelings. If a bad thought comes into your heart, turn him out—he has now no business there! Turn him out as you would a rat from the larder. Keep your hearts pure before God, for God looketh on the heart!

It is my purpose to follow up this subject hereafter, and to tell you some tales which will show you more clearly how to make a good heart out of a bad one.

Professions and Trades.

People live by working for money in order to get food, clothes, houses, and all the other things which they need or would like to have. If they should not work, all the food that has already been produced would soon be eaten up, all the clothes would be worn out, and everything else would decay; so that the inhabitants of towns, and also those of the country, would be starved, and die very miserably.

The necessity for each person’s working at some kind of honest labor, is an obligation laid on us by the Creator; and it is a sin to live in idleness, without a desire to work. We are also far more happy when we are working than when we are idle; and this in itself ought to cause us to follow a course of active industry.

As children are not able to work, they are supported for a number of years by their parents; but when they grow up, they are expected to go and work for themselves. Some young persons are so ignorant, or have such bad dispositions, that they think it would be pleasant for them to live always by their parents’ or others’ working for them, and so remain idle all their days. They do not seem to care how much they take from their fathers or their mothers, who are sometimes so greatly distressed with the conduct of their children, that they die of grief. This is very cruel and sinful conduct on the part of these young persons, which no boy or girl should imitate. It is the duty of all who have health and strength to labor for their own support.

In this large world there is room for all persons to work at some kind of useful employment. Some are strong in body, and are fitted for working in toilsome professions; others are less strong in body, but have active minds, and they are suited for professions in which little bodily labor is required. Thus, every young person chooses the profession for which he is fitted, or which he can conveniently follow. Young persons cannot, in all cases, follow the business they would like; both boys and girls must often do just as their friends advise them, and then trust to their own industry.

As some choose to be of one profession, and some of another, every profession, no matter what it be, has some persons following it as a means of living, and all assisting each other. The tailor makes clothes, the shoemaker makes shoes, the mason builds houses, the cabinet-maker makes furniture, the printer prints books, the butcher kills animals for food, the farmer raises grain from the fields, the miller grinds the grain into flour, and the baker bakes the flour into bread. Although all these persons follow different trades, they still assist each other. The tailor makes clothes for all the others, and gets some of their things in return. The shoemaker makes shoes for all the others, and gets some of their things in return; and, in the same manner, all the rest exchange their articles with each other. The exchange is not made in the articles themselves, for that would not be convenient; it is made by means of money, which is to the same purpose.

Many persons in society are usefully employed in instructing, amusing, or taking care of others. Schoolmasters instruct youth in schools, and tutors and governesses give instruction in private families. Clergymen instruct the people in their religious duties, and endeavor to persuade them to lead a good life. Authors of books, editors of newspapers, musicians, painters of pictures, and others, delight and amuse their fellow-creatures, and keep them from wearying in their hours of leisure.

Unfortunately, some people, both old and young, are lazy or idle, and will not work at regular employments, and others spend improperly the most of the money which they earn. All these fall into a state of wretchedness and poverty. They become poor, and are a burden on society. Other persons are unfortunate in their business, and lose all that they have made, so that they become poor also. Persons who suffer hardships of this kind should be pitied, and treated with kindness by those who are able to help them. Many persons, besides, become poor by old age and infirmity, and it is proper that they should be taken care of and supported. A beggar is a poor person, who does not feel ashamed to seek alms. Any one who is able to labor for a subsistence, should feel ashamed either to beg or to be classed among the poor.

God has taken care that the wants of all persons who labor, and lead a regular life, shall be satisfied. These wants are few in number, and consist chiefly of air, food, water, warmth, and clothing. Some of these we receive freely, but others we receive only by working for them. Some persons are contented if they can work for the bare necessaries of life. If they can get only as much plain food and coarse clothing as will keep them alive, they are contented. If a person cannot, by all his industry, earn more than the bare necessaries of life, it is right to be contented; but if he can easily earn money to buy comfortable food, comfortable clothing, and other means of comfort and rational enjoyment, it is wrong to be contented with the bare necessaries of life.

It is the duty of every one to try to better his condition by skill and industry in any kind of lawful employment. Let him only take care to abstain from indulgence in vicious luxuries. One of the most vicious of luxuries is spirits, or liquors, which some people drink to make themselves intoxicated, or drunk. When a person is in this debased condition, his senses and intellect are gone, and he does not know what he is doing. He cannot walk, but staggers or rolls on the ground, and is a horrid spectacle to all who see him. Drunkenness is an odious vice, which leads to great misery and poverty; and the best way to avoid falling into it, is to abstain from tasting or using any spirits or intoxicating liquors.

What is Poetry?

That is not a very easy question to answer, but I will tell you, reader, where you can find some poetry. There is a little book just published by Little & Brown, Boston, and written by J. B. Lowell, which is full of pure and pleasing poetry—full of beautiful thoughts, expressed in musical words, and so artfully managed as to excite deep emotions in the heart. Here is a brief passage which describes one that died in early childhood.

As the airy gossamere,
Floating in the sunlight clear,
Where’er it toucheth, clinging tightly,
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,
So from his spirit wandered out
Tendrils spreading all about,
Knitting all things to its thrall
With a perfect love of all.
*  *  *  *
He did but float a little way
Adown the stream of time,
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play,
Or listening their fairy chime;
His slender sail
Ne’er felt the gale;
He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet ’twas early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,
No grating on his vessel’s keel;
A strip of silver sand
Mingled the waters with the land
Where he was seen no more.
*  *  *  *
Full short his journey was; no dust
Of earth unto his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,
He bore not to the grave.
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and ’twas most meet
That he should be no delver in earth’s clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God.

THE RIVER, A SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Allegro.

1

Oh tell me pretty river,

Whence do thy waters flow?

And whither art thou roam-ing,

So pensive and so slow?

2

“My birthplace was the mountain,
My nurse the April showers;
My cradle was the fountain
O’er-curtained by wild flowers.

3

“One morn I ran away,
A madcap hoyden rill—
And many a prank that day
I played adown the hill.

4

“And then mid meadowy banks
I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.

5

“But these bright scenes are o’er,
And darkly flows my wave—
I hear the ocean’s roar,
And there must be my grave.”

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Story of Philip Brusque.

(Continued from page 79.)

CHAPTER V.

Progress of events.—Necessity of Government.—A Constitution is drawn up and rejected.—Murder.—Anarchy.—Emilie and her lover.

When the morning came, it showed upon the bosom of the sea a few blackened fragments of the pirate ship, but beside these not a trace of it was seen. Her whole crew had apparently perished in the awful explosion.

The people on board the merchant ship were soon called from rejoicing to the consideration of their situation and the course to be pursued. Brusque endeavored to persuade them to quit the ship, and take up their abode on the island. Most of them were refugees from France in the first place, and recently from St. Domingo; in both cases flying from the perils which attended the convulsions of civilized society. Brusque urged them to seek an asylum from their cares and anxieties in the quiet retreat of Fredonia. Whether he would have succeeded in persuading them to adopt this course or not, we cannot tell, had not his arguments been enforced by the condition of the ship: she was found to be in a leaky condition, and the necessity of abandoning her became apparent; no time was indeed to be lost. Preparations therefore were immediately made for landing the people, and for taking to the shore all the articles that could be saved from the vessel.

In a few days this task was over. All the inmates of the vessel had been transferred to the island, as well as a great variety of articles, either of furniture, food, or merchandise. The vessel gradually sank in the water, and finally disappeared. Thus, about seventy persons were landed upon the island, without the means of leaving it. So soft was the climate, so beautiful the little hills and valleys, so delicious the fruits—that all seemed to forget their various plans and disappointments in the prospect of spending the remainder of their lives there.

Nothing could exceed the efforts of Brusque and Piquet to make their new friends comfortable and happy. Men, women, and children, all seemed for a time to emulate each other in helping forward the preparations for mutual comfort. Tents were erected, sleeping apartments with beds or mats were provided, and in less than a week all the necessaries of life were distributed to every member of their little colony.

The reflective mind of Brusque had already suggested the necessity of adopting some system of government, for even this small colony he knew could not get along without it. Under the pressure of calamity or emergency, a spirit of mutual accommodation might exist, and for a time might enable the little society to proceed without disturbance. But he foresaw that a state of quiet and comfort would bring occasions of discontent and disorder, which must result in violence, if all could not be subjected to the sway of some just system of laws. These views he suggested to the captain of the vessel, to Emilie’s father, and to several others. It was at length agreed by some of the principal men that the people should be assembled, and the adoption of a form of government be proposed. This was done, and Brusque, the captain, and Emilie’s father were appointed a committee to draw up a constitution. They attended to this duty, and in a few days the people were called together to hear the report of the committee.

Brusque proceeded to read the document, and then he made some remarks in explanation of it. He said that the plan of a constitution which had just been read was partly copied from that of the United States of America—a nation which had recently arisen among mankind, and promised soon to be the most flourishing and happy people upon the face of the earth. He then went on to say that the constitution just read contained the following principles:

1. All mankind are born with equal rights and privileges; all are entitled to the same degree of liberty; all are equally entitled to the protection and benefit of the laws.

2. All government should spring from the people, and have the good of the people for its object.

3. That all government implies the abridgment of natural liberty, and that the people ought to submit to such abridgments, so far as the good of society required.

The constitution then proceeded to prescribe a form of government, consisting of three branches: 1st, of a President, who should see to the general affairs of the colony, and to the execution of the laws, who should be called the Executive; 2d, of three judges, who should decide all disputes, to be called the Judiciary; and 3d, of an assembly, chosen by the people every year to make laws, called the Legislature. It also established the following principles:

1. Every man of the age of twenty-one years should be a citizen, and be permitted to vote for members of the legislature and other officers.

2. A majority of votes shall be necessary for a choice.

3. The land of the island shall be divided between the families, in proportion to their numbers, by the judges, and then each person shall be protected in his possessions, and the property he acquires.

4. Any citizen shall be competent to fill any office to which he is chosen.

Such were the outlines of the constitution, as set forth by Brusque in presence of all the men of the colony. A profound silence followed the remarks of the orator. But, at length, a man named Rogere rose, and said that he did not like the proposed constitution. For his part, he did not see the necessity of any government. He had, in France only seen iniquity, and folly, and crime, following the footsteps of government, whether admitted by kings or citizens, and he believed that the best way was to get along without it. “For my part,” said he, “I believe that liberty is the greatest political good, and the moment you begin to make laws, you put fetters upon it. As soon as you establish a government, you prepare to smother or strangle it. Of what use is liberty to the eagle when you have broken his wing, or to the mountain deer when you have cut the sinews of his limbs, or to man when it is doled out by magistrates, who may say how much we shall have, and how we may exercise it? Take from man his liberty, and you sink him as far as you can to the standard of the brute! Give him liberty, and he is but little lower than the angels! Then why restrain liberty? Why take it for granted that the first step in society is to fetter human freedom and trench upon human rights? Let us be wiser than to be guided by a prejudice; let us venture to depart from the beaten path, and strike out something new. I close by moving that we dispense with government altogether; that we rely upon the moral sense of mankind, which rests upon an innate perception of justice. This is sufficient for our safety and our happiness.”

Brusque was not a little disappointed to observe, as Rogere sat down, that there was a pervading feeling of approbation of what he had said. In vain did he oppose the views of Rogere; in vain did he show that it was impossible for society to have order without laws, to maintain justice, peace and security without government. In vain did he appeal to history and the past experience of mankind. The idea of perfect freedom was too fascinating to the majority; and the assembly finally decided, by an overwhelming vote, to reject the proposed constitution, and to make the experiment of living without laws or government.

The subject, however, became a matter of discussion among the people, and they were soon divided into two parties, called the Brusqueites and the Rogereites; the former being in favor of a government, and the latter in favor of unlimited freedom. Things went on quietly for a time, for the people were all French, and their good breeding seemed to render the restraints and obligations of enacted statutes, less important. Beside, the island abounded in fruit, and there seemed such a supply of food, as to afford little ground for dispute as to the possession of property. As for shelter, the climate was so mild as to render the covering of a tent sufficient for comfort.

But occasions of collision soon arose. Some articles brought from the ship had been claimed and taken into use by one of the sailors as his own; but now another sailor insisted that they were his. An altercation of words followed between the two, and at last they came to blows. In the struggle, one of them was killed. This event cast a cloud over the little colony, but it was transient. It was forgotten in a few days. Other quarrels, however, soon followed; and finally the whole society was in a state of anarchy and confusion. It was now obvious that reason had lost its power, and that the weak were exposed to violence and injustice from the strong.

Among the people of the colony were several rude men, who, finding that there was no punishment to be feared, began to be very insolent; and it was not a little remarkable that Rogere usually associated with these persons, and seemed even to countenance their injustice and their tyranny. At last, he was evidently considered their leader, and being much more intelligent than his followers, he was soon able to govern them as he pleased. In order to secure his ascendency over their minds, he flattered them by holding forth the prospect of unbounded liberty. He encouraged them in their acts of licentiousness, and pretended that this was freedom. He sought to prejudice their minds against Brusque and the other members of the community who were in favor of a government of equal laws, by insisting that they were aristocrats or monarchists, who wished to enslave the people. Thus, by playing upon the passions of his party, Rogere soon made them subservient to his will. While he pretended to be a friend of freedom he was now actually a despot; and while his followers were made to believe that they were enjoying liberty, they were in fact the slaves of a cunning tyrant. Nor was this all. While claiming to be the liberal party, the party that favored human rights and human freedom, they were daily guilty of acts of injustice, violence and wrong, toward some of the people of the island.

It was in this state of things that, one pleasant evening, Emilie walked to the sea-shore, which was at no great distance from the tent in which she lived. The moon occasionally shone out from the clouds that were drifting across the sky, and threw its silver light upon the waves that came with a gentle swell and broke upon the pebbly beach. The scene was tranquil, but it could not soothe the heart of Emilie, who had now many causes of anxiety. The disturbed state of the little community upon the island, the brawls and riots that were occurring almost every day, and a general feeling of fear and insecurity which she shared with her friends, had cast a deep gloom over her mind. The conduct of Rogere had been offensive to her on several occasions, but that which caused her most vexation and sorrow was the strange demeanor of Brusque, her former lover. On the night of their deliverance from the pirates on board the ship, he had made himself known to her, and their meeting was marked with all the fondness and confidence of former times. But from that period, he had treated her only with common civility. He had indeed been most careful to provide for her comfort and that of her parents. Though he had been very industrious in promoting the general welfare of the colony, it was apparent that he felt a special interest in contributing to the peace and happiness of Emilie and her aged parents. By his care their tent was so contrived as to afford a perfect shelter, and it was supplied with everything which circumstances permitted, that could minister to the pleasure of its inmates. It was daily provided with the finest oranges, the freshest figs, and the choicest pineapples. And it was evident that this was all done either by Brusque himself, or by some one at his bidding. But still, he seldom came to the tent; he never sought any private conversation with Emilie; and sometimes, when he looked upon her, she could perceive that his countenance bespoke a deep but melancholy interest; and no sooner was his feeling noticed, than he hastened to disguise it.

While Emilie was walking upon the beach, she thought of all these things; of the unsettled state of the colony, the uncertainty of their fate, and of the rude manner in which she had been addressed by Rogere. But her mind dwelt longest and with the deepest interest upon the mysterious demeanor of Brusque. It was while she was pursuing this train of thought that she was startled at perceiving the figure of a man partly hidden in the shadow of a high rock which stood close to the water’s edge, and which she was now approaching. But we must reserve the scene which followed for another chapter.

(To be continued.)

The Sun.

The sun is rising! Did you ever think of the many benefits produced by the sun? Let us go upon the top of a hill, and see the sun rise, and consider, for a moment, the effects that are produced.

Do you see that the darkness, which had fallen over the whole face of nature, is gone? Do you see that even the valley is filled with light? Does not all this remind you of God, who said, at the beginning of the world, “Let there be light, and there was light?”

Light, then, spread over the land, is one of the first effects of the sun’s rising. And do you see that the birds are all abroad now, singing their songs, and seeking their food? How happy they appear to be! And do you not feel happy too? Does not everything seem happy to see the light, and feel that day has come once more?

Do you observe that vast sheet of white vapor that is rising from yonder valley? It is rising in consequence of the warmer air that is produced by the rising of the sun. Do you not feel that the shining of the sun upon you makes you warmer?

Warmth, then, diffused over the earth, is another effect produced by the rising of the sun. And how pleasant is this warmth! But do you know, that, if it were not for the warmth of the sun, the trees and plants and flowers would not grow? Do you know, that, without this warmth, all the earth would be covered with ice, and that all men and animals would die?

You see, then, how important the sun is, and how great are the benefits of the light and heat which it sends abroad over the world. Let us be thankful to God every morning for the light and heat of the sun. These are the sources of life to everything that grows or feels.

Night.

The sun is setting in the west! It seems to go down behind the hills. Darkness is creeping over the valleys. The birds have ceased their song, and are gathering into the forest or the thick branches of the trees.

The hen has gone to her shelter, and gathered her chickens under her wing. The flies and gnats and butterflies are gone to their rest. The cows and sheep have lain down to their repose.

Stillness seems to have come over the world. The sun has set. It is dark. It is getting chill and damp. It is night.

Do you see those little shining points in the sky? What are they? We call them stars, but they are worlds far away, and probably they are covered with trees, and hills, and rivers, and cities, and people.

We cannot go to them, nor can any one come from them to tell us about them. They are God’s worlds, and they are no doubt as useful as they are beautiful.

How wonderful is night! How fearful would it be if it were to last forever! But we know that the sun will come to-morrow, to give us its cheerful light and heat. Let us go to rest, then, for night is made for sleep.

But let us first think of that great and good Being, who has made all these wonders of nature. Let us put our trust in Him. In his care we are safe. But we must ask his protection, and seek his forgiveness for all our faults.

Oh, how fearful would it be if there were no God! How sad would it be, if God were not our friend! How sad would it be, if we were to be unkind to others, and to feel that He might not be kind to us! How sad would it be, if we were so wicked as to feel afraid of Him, the best and kindest of all beings!

This would indeed be dreadful. But we may all be good if we try to be so. Even if we have done wrong, we may go to Him, and ask his forgiveness; and if we ask sincerely, He will not refuse it.

Did you never disobey your father or mother, and, having done so, have you not begged their pardon? And, having done this, have you not been forgiven? And is not this forgiveness pleasant to the heart? Let me tell you, that God is as ready to be kind and forgiving to his children, as parents are to be so to theirs.

Let no fear of God, then, prevent your loving Him, praying to Him, or asking his forgiveness. The more you have sinned, the more careful you should be to look up to Him, and pray to Him, and ask his counsel and pardon. Those who have been most wicked, have most reason to love God; for his kindness is great enough to pardon even them.

Hogg’s Father.—The father of the poet Hogg, the famous Ettrick Shepherd of Scotland, was a man of peculiar character in one respect—he never would confess or allow that he could be beaten or defeated in anything. One wintry day, he and his son were out on a hill during a snow-storm, looking after the safety of the sheep, when, the old man having inadvertently gone too near the brow, the snow gave way, and he was precipitated to the bottom. The Shepherd, alarmed for the safety of his father, looked down the side of the hill, and not only saw him standing on his feet seemingly, unhurt, but he heard him crying, at the top of his voice, “Jamie, my man, ye were aye fond of a slide a’ ye’re days; let me see you do that!” The above expression displayed his self-esteem; he wished to pass the accident off upon his son for a feat. On another occasion, having slipped his foot on going up a hill, and fallen prostrate on his nose, he said to an individual accompanying him, “Eh, I think I had like to have fallen!” Once an unruly mare having run away with him, a group of men observed him rush past with a face of great concern and fear; but when the beast had exhausted its strength, and allowed itself to be once more guided by the rein, Mr. Hogg came back, making a great show of mastery over it, and muttering, so as to be heard by the bystanders, “I think I hae sobered her!”

A certain physician at sea made great use of sea-water among his patients. Whatever disease came on, a dose of the nauseating liquid was first administered. In process of time the Doctor fell overboard. A great bustle consequently ensued on board, in the midst of which the captain came up and inquired the cause. “O, nothing, sir,” answered a tar, “only the Doctor has fallen into his medicine-chest.”

Queen Elizabeth on Horseback.

Queen Elizabeth, of England.

There are very few persons who are famous in history, about whom more has been said and written than Queen Elizabeth of England. She was the daughter of Henry VIII., a severe and haughty king, who died in 1547, leaving his son Edward VI., to reign in his stead. He died in a short time, and his elder sister, Mary, succeeded to the throne.

The reformation, as it is called, had begun in the time of Henry VIII., and he, with a violent hand, put down the Roman Catholic religion in his dominions; but Mary was a Catholic, and she revived it, imitating, and perhaps exceeding the bigotry and intolerance of her father in repressing it. In speaking of this period, an English historian says, “The cruelties, indeed, which were perpetrated for several years, under the pretext of advancing true religion, would almost surpass belief, did not their record depend upon authority which there is no gainsaying. Men, women, and even children, died a death of which the bare contemplation causes the blood to curdle.”

Among the persons who suffered martyrdom at this period, were three celebrated bishops, Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer. The characters of Ridley and Latimer, both as scholars and divines, presented at least as many points of contrariety as of agreement. The first was moderate, learned, and reflective; the last, bold, simple, frank, and thoroughly uncompromising. Having been tried and convicted of heresy, they were ordered to suffer death by burning, and Oxford was named as the city in which the execution should take place. They were accordingly led out into a wide street, and tied to the stake; the executioners, probably with the humane desire of lessening their sufferings, having fastened round the middle of each a bag of gunpowder. During the interval when the fagots were in the act of being lighted, Ridley addressed some words of pious consolation to his companion. The undaunted Latimer scarcely heard him out: “Fear not, good brother,” replied he, “but be of good cheer. We shall this day kindle such a torch in England, as I trust in God shall never be extinguished.” Soon after he had spoken, the flames reached the gunpowder, and he was blown to atoms. Ridley suffered longer and more intensely; but after his frame had been consumed to ashes, it is said that his heart was found entire,—an emblem, as his contemporaries declare, of the firmness with which he gave his body to be burned for the truth’s sake.

The fate of Cranmer was, in many respects, more melancholy, perhaps more instructive, than that of his brothers in suffering. He was first convicted of high-treason, but obtained, on his earnest supplication for mercy, the queen’s pardon. Hating the man, both on public and on private grounds, she desired to destroy his character as well as his life; and it must be confessed that she had well-nigh succeeded. Being transferred from the Tower to Oxford, he was arraigned on a charge of heresy, before a court constituted with a marked attention to form, and by a commission obtained direct from Rome. He defended himself with great modesty as well as talent; but from such a court only one verdict was to be anticipated;—he was found guilty. The fear of death seems to have operated with extraordinary force upon Cranmer. Again he implored the queen’s mercy, in terms partaking too much of the abject; and being beset by many temptations,—by the terrors of the stake on one hand, by promises of favor and protection on the other,—in an evil hour his constancy gave way, and he signed a recantation. The triumph of his enemy was now complete. Notwithstanding this humiliating act, the sentence of death was confirmed; and he was carried, as custom required, into the church of St. Mary, where an appropriate sermon was preached.

During the whole time of divine service, Cranmer kept his eyes rivetted on the ground, while the tears chased one another, in rapid course, over his cheeks. The audience attributed his emotion to remorse; and it was expected, when he indicated a desire to address the populace, that he would before them acknowledge the enormity of his transgressions, and ask their prayers. But the persons who harbored this idea had deluded themselves. After running over a sort of history of his past career, he came at length to the period of his trial, which he summed up the narrative in the following words:—“Now I am come to the great thing which troubleth my conscience more than any other thing that I ever said or did in my life, and that is, the setting abroad of writings contrary to the truth; which here now I renounce and refuse as things written with my hand, contrary to the truth which I thought in my heart, and writ for fear of death, and to save my life if might be, and that is all such papers as I have written or signed since my degradation, wherein I have written many things untrue. And forasmuch as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, my hand, when I come to the fire, shall be first burned.” The penitent was as good as his word. As soon as the flames began to arise, he thrust his right hand into them, and held it there till it was consumed. His end resembled, in other respects, those of his fellows in affliction.

During more than three years, these dreadful scenes continued to be acted, till there had perished at the stake not fewer than two hundred and ninety individuals, among whom were five bishops, twenty-one clergymen, eight lay gentlemen, fifty-five women, and four children. Elizabeth herself narrowly escaped the same fate, inasmuch as Gardiner, though weary of the slaughter of minor offenders, ventured, more than once, to hint to Mary that “to cut down the leaves, while the root was permitted to flourish, was at once discreditable and impolitic.”

After an uneasy reign of five years, and weighed down with a broken heart—with a husband who loved her not, and a people who hated her—Queen Mary died, in 1558, and was succeeded by Elizabeth. Being a Protestant, Elizabeth had been looked upon with hatred and suspicion by her gloomy sister, and was for a long period kept in prison. Trained in the school of adversity, she had learned to exercise great command over herself, and at the very outset of her public career showed that skill and discretion in government for which she was so much distinguished.

It is not my purpose now to detail the events of her reign, but only to draw a portrait of her character. She understood the interests of England, and pursued them with courage, energy and skill. She belonged to a period when anything and everything was deemed fair by politicians and statesmen. Elizabeth did not hesitate, therefore, to employ deception, falsehood, and bad-faith, to accomplish her ends. She, however, did more to lay the foundation of English greatness than any other sovereign that has swayed the British sceptre.

As a woman, Elizabeth’s character was detestable. Being herself handsome, she was still inordinately fond of admiration, and jealous of those who might be rivals of her beauty. She caused Mary, queen of Scotland, who had come to England and claimed her protection, to be tried, unjustly condemned, and at last executed—a feeling of hatred toward her, on account of her great personal beauty, being one of the motives for this official murder.

Style of Dress in the reign of Elizabeth.

Among those upon whom Elizabeth bestowed her smiles, was the handsome Earl of Essex. He was very popular, and was led by his vanity to engage in some treasonable schemes. He was tried, and condemned to be executed. He had a ring which the queen had given him in some moment of good humor, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he might send that ring to her, and she would protect him. Essex, when in prison, the day of execution drawing nigh, remembered his ring, and giving it to lady Nottingham, requested her to bear it to the queen. This lady Nottingham promised to do, but she deceived Essex, and kept the ring. He was therefore executed, and Elizabeth, who expected her favorite to appeal to her mercy, imagined, till after his death, that he was too proud to solicit it. At last the countess of Nottingham was seized with a violent distemper. She believed that it would prove fatal, and sending for the queen, unburdened her oppressed conscience by confessing the artifice of which she had been guilty. “I have not many hours to live,” continued she, “and I pray your majesty to smooth my pillow, by giving me your pardon!” The queen gazed at her for a few moments in silent horror. She then seized her by the shoulder, shook her violently, and cried, “God may pardon you, but I never can!” Elizabeth then burst from the chamber; but the shock proved too much for a declining constitution. She refused all food, lay on the floor day and night, and spoke only in groans and sighs and inarticulate words. She was then advised by the archbishop of Canterbury to fix her thoughts wholly upon God, and made answer that she did so. It was the last sentence which she uttered; for falling soon afterwards into a lethargic slumber, she expired without a groan, on the 24th of March, 1603, in the seventieth year of her age, and forty-fifth of her reign.

If Elizabeth governed her people well, she still exerted a bad influence in many respects. Great extravagance in dress was the prevailing foible of the day,—a foible in which the queen herself set the example; for she is stated to have left, at her decease, upwards of three thousand different robes, all of them fit for use, and all occasionally worn. This is the more remarkable, as during the preceding reign frugality seems to have been a characteristic of the age. In those days, the yearly rent of a mansion in London, fit for the occupation of a great officer of state, amounted to thirty shillings sterling money: the halls of the nobility, as well as the floors of the peasantry, were strewed with rushes; and even in considerable towns there were few houses to which a chimney was attached, the fires being kindled by the side of the wall, and the smoke permitted to escape as it best could, through the windows. In general, the people slept on straw pallets, and they used round logs of timber for pillows, and had almost all their utensils and furniture made of wood.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 1.

I sit at my desk to record my recollections of my school-fellows. Many years have now rolled away since those happy days of childhood, when we gathered daily at the old faded school-door to receive, each one, his little share of early instruction. Swiftly the years have passed away since that golden period of time, and as I now gaze with my dimmed vision through the dusty and cloudy glass of time upon those departed scenes, I find that many of them are blurred and indistinct in my memory—that many of them are well-nigh blotted out forever from my remembrance. Yet will I try to revive them from the dust and forgetfulness that time has cast over them, even as one carefully removes the dust that has gathered over an ancient picture, first bringing out to light one bright feature and then another, till at length the whole sweet face, in all its bloom and loveliness, is revealed to sight. The mind is much like an old lumber garret in some ancient country house. Dust, and cobwebs, and oblivion gather deeply upon its miscellaneous contents, and year after year continues to add to the mixed assemblage. Old books and old pictures, time-wrecked furniture, dismantled articles of husbandry, and crippled instruments of housewifery, cumber the place in admired confusion. Nothing is in its place, nothing can be found when sought for and most wanted. Everything lies hidden and forgotten, like the body of the sweet bride in the ballad, whose lost figure rested undiscovered in the old baronial garret, through so many long years after their living entombment. So the thoughts of youth are laid away in the chambers of the mind and the hidden nooks of the memory, there to rest, till haply some accidental association of after years brings them forth to light and life.

Sweet youth, happy childhood! the greenest spot of life, the only verdant oasis on the desert of life! We never enough prize thy happy-heartedness, thy warm affections, thy warm-springing feelings, until their freshness and bloom have departed. Truly it is an oasis in the desert—a spot all bright, and green, and blooming! As the oasis springs up with its verdurous bloom, and its spicy grove and palm-trees, lifting up their tufted branches to the heavens, and the clear-flowing fountain pouring its limpid tide with light laugh and merry song amid the sands of the waste, so does this happy period of life rise up and contrast itself with the whole period of this work-day existence. What are all the cankered cares that eat into the very heart in after life, to that season of sunshine? What the cares of riches and the toils of gain to the sauntering schoolboy? What the dark revolutions that convulse the world and overthrow empires, to him? What the rumors of lost navies and routed armies falling on his ear? They tell to his heart no sad tale; they leave on his mind no gloomy impression. He does not measure their magnitude or feel their reality. The loss of a toy, the fading of a favorite flower, would cause him more unhappiness; and even these regrets last but for a moment, and the smile chases the tear from his eyelid ere it can fall. What to him are ambition, and remorse, and avarice, and crime?—those demons that will start up around him in later life, and beguile his step, and strive to fill his mind with darkness. His ambition runs not beyond the present hour, and he is satisfied and happy if he can but lead in the boyish race, or bear away the prize in the youthful task. If he fails, he does not lay up the defeat in his heart, and brood and lament over it in useless sorrow. What is remorse to him who has done nought to darken his mind by day, or scare away slumber from his pillow at night? What is avarice to him who has never sighed for the “yellow gold,” or longed after untold wealth? He has a bright summer holiday for his own—and is he not wealthy? He can roam among the green pastures, lose himself in the deep, untravelled woods, ford the cool river, swim the clear lake, gather the brightest flowers that grow on hill and valley, and pluck the sweetest fruits and berries of the wild, with none to interrupt or question. Is he not more happy in the free enjoyment of these, his daily rambles and pleasures, than the anxious lord of all these acres? Does he not enjoy with all his soul the sweet airs, and green woods, and gay flowers of the spring, the shaded wood-paths of summer, the ripened fruits and fading glories of autumn, and the merry sports of winter, with all its sleighing-parties, skating frolics beneath the winter moon, and the building and battles of the snow-heaped fortress? All these are unalloyed delights, pouring into the youthful heart more true joy than any hard-sought and expensive pleasure of afterlife can ever afford.

Who can ever forget the joy that comes with the bright Saturday afternoon in the country? The whole school is freed from the thraldom of the bench and task, and each has to choose, among many delights, how to employ the golden hours. One little party decides for a game at ball: so the neat new bats are produced; the well-knit and high-bounding balls are got ready; the slender wickets are set up; the “sides” are carefully chosen, and each rival party labors as zealously for the victory as ever the invincible “old guard” and the gallant “Scotch Greys” toiled for the bloody prize on the deadly plain of Waterloo. Some decide for “a race;” and soon the ruddy cheeks glow with a ruddier bloom, as each panting combatant flings himself, exhausted, on the high-growing grass by the goal. Others content themselves with the more quiet allurements of the top, the kite, the hoop, and the marble. High soars the painted kite, far above the wood-tops and the village steeple, and round flies the giddy hoop till the child that guides it has not breath or strength to propel it further. And some get ready their fishing-gear, and sally forth to the neighboring brook or pond, properly accoutred with rod and basket. For many an hour do they continue to wade through the shallow streamlet; they flounder through the black swamp; they struggle through the tangled thicket, interlaced with all its twisted roots and running vines; they drop in their hooks at each well-known pool and eddy; and return home, when the twilight begins to gather dimly over the landscape, and the shadows of the old trees lengthen in the slanting sun, each one laden with his string of speckled or silvery prizes.

Our own inclination usually led us away with the angling party. It was then our chief and unalloyed pleasure, and served to sweeten many a tedious task, and many an hour of scholastic drudgery. If at any time we were degraded to the foot of the class, and our head disgraced with that vile badge, “the foolscap,” we could console ourself with the delightful reminiscences of the rod and line. If at any time the dominie’s rod visited upon our poor back the deficiencies of the head, that same head would be at work in pleasant thoughts of the long rod and the angle, and thereby console the afflicted body for the anguish it had caused it. If a neglected lesson occasioned a temporary imprisonment in a dark room, our fancy would beguile the dreary hours with the anticipated joy of the Saturday afternoon, and the brimming basket of glittering fish. But our reminiscences of those holidays are overcast by a gloomy cloud, which will throw a shadow over many years to come, as it has done on many an hour that is past and gone. The thought of the painful accident we now record, will often obtrude itself upon the mind when its presence is least welcome.

Charley, our earliest friend, was a noble, light-spirited little fellow, with a thousand good qualities, and few bad ones. He seemed to master the most difficult task as if by intuition, and while we were slowly bungling over its first paragraph, he would run it nimbly through to the end, and then lend a helping hand to extricate his friend from the quagmires of learning. He was a sort of admirable Chrichton, and gained and maintained the lead in all things. He was not only the best scholar, but also the staunchest champion, the fleetest runner, and the most adroit angler in the school. Somehow or other, he seemed to exert a charmed influence over the prey, for they would at times leap at his hook with avidity, while they turned up their honorable noses at our own, as if they scorned to perish by any other band than his.

One bright, Saturday afternoon in summer, we were together, as usual, employed at the “angler’s quiet trade,” at the border of a broad and deep river in the neighborhood, regardless of all things but the glorious nibbles which were constantly twitching the buoys of our lines beneath the surface. The prey was uncommonly plenty, and we prolonged our sport hour after hour, till at length the evening shadows, that crept over the waves, admonished us to depart homeward. We were on the point of leaving, when, to my unutterable agony, I heard a heart-rending cry, a plunge into the water, and poor Charley was lost to me forever! The water was deep and rough, there was no help at hand, and neither of us could swim. The agony of terror condensed into that little moment cannot be conceived. It seemed as if, were the sum of a whole life of wretchedness united in one instant, it could not have occasioned more intense torment than I then felt. I gazed on the darkened and turbulent waters as they rolled along, and saw the supplicating agony of his upcast look, and the convulsive motion of his limbs as he struggled with the treacherous element, and, without considering the consequences of the act, I plunged in, in the vain attempt to seize the arm that was slowly sinking away from my sight; but it eluded my eager hand, and his cry for help was choked by the angry waters forever. I had retained my grasp on the low timbers on which we had stood, and to this alone owed my own preservation. I immediately raised the alarm, and search was speedily made with the light of lanterns, but the lost body of poor Charley continued to slumber that night in the waters. On the morrow it was discovered and conveyed away to its last habitation, followed by a train of sorrowing schoolmates, but none walked by the little coffin with so heavy a heart as myself.

But before I attempt any further description of the scholars and their adventures, our good old teacher merits a brief notice. Methinks I can still see his kind, affectionate face, and hear his mild voice again, though the narrow house has long ago shut its iron door upon his mortal remains. He was the perfection of human kindness and gentleness, with a nature far too lenient and forbearing to rule the wild spirits of a village school. He was a deep and thoroughly read scholar, but, unfortunately, did not possess the tact to impart his learning to his pupils. But the fault, after all, rather lay with them, for if one desired to profit by his instructions, few persons had a more extensive storehouse of lore from which to communicate to others. He was an able classical scholar, and was well versed in many modern languages. But most of his pupils cared more for their amusements than for the sweet waters of learning, and were too full of mischief to attend to his teachings. He was much too gentle to apply the rod liberally, and we stood but little in awe of his presence. During school hours, he would often become completely lost in his abstruse studies, to the utter forgetfulness of the madcaps who were contriving all manner of mischief around him. Many carried little bows and arrows to the schoolroom, and the little shafts of mimic warfare would sometimes fly in volleys over his very head, without even disturbing his cogitations. Marbles would be rolled across the floor, and papers of gunpowder would be cast into the fireplace, whose explosion would scatter ashes, and fire, and smoke around. The authors of these transgressions he seldom discovered, so that they continued to carry on their idle pranks with impunity. It was no uncommon matter for us to obtain leave from him for a short absence, and then to hurry off with our fishing-gear for a day’s sport, and no notice would he take of the absent delinquents.

I remember that there was a fine orchard of rare pears near the schoolhouse, and against it we made many a foray, sacking the best trees with unsparing hands. On one occasion, my friend Bill accompanied me thither, eager to load his pockets with the ripe, yellow fruit that swung so temptingly on the high branches. He commenced the assault with a big stone, which he hurled with all his strength against the thickest of the enemy; but, alas! its return to earth proved nearly fatal to his scull, upon which it descended with great effect, and left a scar upon it that has not disappeared even to this day.

But I cannot better describe our master’s good temper, and the estimation in which he was held even by the very rudest of our number, than by recording his virtues in verse.

That good old man hath slept
In his grave this many a year,
And many a storm hath wept
O’er his dust the wintry tear;
And many a spring-time flower,
And many an autumn leaf,
Have bloomed and faded o’er him,
In their existence brief.
And though the teacher’s name
His grave-stone scarcely shows,
Yet freshly all his virtue
On memory’s tablet glows.
Nor will the winning sweetness,
And the softness of his heart,
In the sacred land of memory
For evermore depart!
No after life can darken
The light of early days,
For it leaves upon the plastic mind
A print that ne’er decays.

When the cracked and jangling school-bell,
In its little belfry swung
By the pale-faced gentle usher,
At early morning rung;
Then fast along the woodland,
From many a rural home,
Each sauntering, idle troop
Unto its call would come.
And glad were they to meet the smile
Of their old teacher’s face,
As up the well-worn aisle he walked
With grave and reverend pace.
No harsh and bitter voice had he,
Nor stern and scowling frown;
And seldom was the tingling rod
From its dusty shelf brought down.
But kind were all his chiding words,
Affectionate and mild—
He loved his rude and wayward charge
As parent loves its child.

The gloom that weighs the heart,
Life’s mourning and its pain;
The cankered thirst of gold,
And all the cares of gain—
Ambition, pomp, and pride,
That soil the minds of men,
And fill their paths with stinging thorns,
Were strangers to us then.
We mourned not o’er the past,
Nor feared the coming morrow,
And for the golden present
Had little cause of sorrow;
But each one was as merry
As is the roving bee,
Or the sweetest bird that carols
Its songs upon the tree.
The memory of the old school-group
And the teacher, fills the heart,
And still survives when all things else
To oblivion depart.
I. M.

Hunting Wild Animals in Africa.

It is remarkable that, while there is a general resemblance between the animals throughout the globe, each of its grand divisions has some species peculiar to itself. Thus, North America has the bison, the musk ox, and the grizzly bear, and these are found nowhere else. The lama, jaguar, tapir, and the anteater are peculiar to South America. Africa has its hippopotamus, giraffe, gnoo, and zebra. Asia has the chetah, royal tiger, nyl-ghau, yak, and dromedary. New Holland has its kangaroos, platypus, black swan, and cereopsis. Europe has a few peculiar species, but most of those which are found there, are also met with in the northern portions of Asia.

But while each division of the earth seems to afford something of the animal kind that is at once peculiar and remarkable, it must be admitted that Africa presents the most wonderful species. It furnishes us with the giraffe, which is by far the tallest of animals; it produces the larger species of elephant, which is the largest of animals; and the African lion, being superior in strength and fierceness to the Asiatic lion, is the most savage and formidable of wild beasts.

But it is not on account of their remarkable qualities only that the animals of Africa are a subject of interest. In that portion of the globe there are vast plains which are almost uninhabited by man. These afford abundant sustenance for numberless herds of antelopes, of which there are many kinds; for droves of quaggas, zebras, wild asses, ostriches, and other creatures; and here they are permitted to multiply with little interruption. The lion, panther, and leopard are almost their only enemies. These occasionally snatch a victim as he comes to the pool for water, or passes a bush or thicket where the enemy lies in ambush; but the number destroyed in this way is not sufficient greatly to check the increase of wild animals upon the plains of Africa. There are droves of antelopes stretching over the plains as far as the eye can reach, and amounting to fifteen or twenty thousand in number. It is not uncommon to see large numbers of zebras, quaggas, and even ostriches, mingling in the crowd as if they were of the same family.

A New England boy who takes his gun and goes into the woods or fields, fancies that he has pretty good luck if he can bring home half a dozen robins with two or three chip squirrels. If he kills a partridge or a brace of woodcock, he stands very high in his own estimation. I have myself roamed over the country for half a day, and felt myself compensated with no larger game than this. But sporting in Africa is quite a different matter.

Captain Harris, an Englishman, who travelled in the southern parts of Africa a few years since, has given an interesting account of his adventures there. The following extract presents one of the scenes which he describes upon the river Meritsane, at a distance of some five or six hundred miles north of the Cape of Good Hope.

“The reports of four savages of the Batlapi tribe, who joined us yesterday, determined us to halt a day for the purpose of hunting. Richardson and myself left the wagons at daybreak attended by these men, and crossing the river, took a northwesterly direction through a park of magnificent camelthorn trees, many of which were groaning under the huge nests of the social grosbeak; whilst others were decorated with green clusters of mistletoe, the bright scarlet berries of which were highly ornamental.

“We soon perceived large herds of quaggas and brindled gnoos, which continued to join each other, until the whole plain seemed alive. The clatter of their hoofs was perfectly astounding, and I could compare it to nothing but to the din of a tremendous charge of cavalry, or the rushing of a mighty tempest. I could not estimate the accumulated numbers at less than fifteen thousand; a great extent of country being actually chequered black and white with their congregated masses. As the panic caused by the report of our rifles extended, clouds of dust hovered over them; and the long necks of troops of ostriches were also to be seen, towering above the heads of their less gigantic neighbors, and sailing past with astonishing rapidity.

“Groups of purple sassaybys, and brilliant red and yellow hartebeests, likewise lent their aid to complete the picture, which must have been seen to be properly understood, and which beggars all attempt at description. The savages kept in our wake, dexterously despatching the wounded gnoos by a touch on the spine with the point of an assagai, and instantly covering up the carcass with bushes, to secure them from the voracity of the vultures, which hung about us like specks in the firmament, and descended with the velocity of lightning, as each discharge of our artillery gave token of prey.

Hunting Wild Animals in Africa; Nests of the Sociable Grosbeak, or Weaver, on the trees.

“As we proceeded, two strange figures were perceived standing under the shade of a tree; these we instantly knew to be elands, the savages at the same moment exclaiming with evident delight, Impoofo, Impoofo; and pressing our horses to the utmost speed, we found ourselves for the first time at the heels of the largest and most beautiful species of the antelope tribe. Notwithstanding the unwieldy shape of these animals, they had at first greatly exceeded the speed of our jaded horses, but being pushed, they soon separated; their sleek coats turned first blue and then white with froth; the foam fell from their mouths and nostrils, and the perspiration from their sides. Their pace gradually slackened, and with their full brilliant eyes turned imploringly towards us, at the end of a mile, each was laid low by a single ball. They were young bulls, measuring upwards of seventeen hands at the shoulder.

“In size and shape, the body of the male eland resembles that of a well-conditioned ox, not unfrequently attaining the height of nineteen hands, and weighing two thousand pounds. The head is strictly that of the antelope, light, graceful, and bony, with a pair of magnificent straight horns, about two feet in length, spirally ringed, and pointed backwards. A broad and deep dewlap, fringed with brown hair, reaches to the knee. The color varies considerably with the age, being dun in some, in others an ashy blue with a tinge of ochre; and in many, also, sandy gray approaching to white. The flesh is esteemed, by all classes in Africa, above that of any other animal; in grain and color it resembles beef, but is better tasted, and more delicate, possessing a pure game flavor, and the quantity of fat with which it is interlarded is surprising, greatly exceeding that of any other game quadruped with which I am acquainted. The female is smaller and of slighter form, with less ponderous horns. The stoutest of our savage attendants could with difficulty transport the head of the eland to the wagons.”

After describing his meeting three hundred elephants in a drove, and seeing gnoos and quaggas by tens of thousands, Captain Harris proceeds to give the following account of hunting the giraffe or cameleopard:

“Many days had now elapsed since we had even seen the cameleopard—and then only in small numbers, and under the most unfavorable circumstances. The blood coursed through my veins like quicksilver, therefore, as, on the morning of the nineteenth, from the back of Breslar, my most trusty steed, with a firm wooded plain before me, I counted thirty-two of these animals, industriously stretching their peacock necks to crop the tiny leaves which fluttered above their heads, in a mimosa grove that beautified the scenery. They were within a hundred yards of me, but I reserved my fire.

“Although I had taken the field expressly to look for giraffes, and had put four of the Hottentots on horseback, all excepting Piet had as usual slipped off unperceived in pursuit of a troop of koodoos. Our stealthy approach was soon opposed by an ill-tempered rhinoceros, which, with her ugly calf, stood directly in the path; and the twinkling of her bright little eyes, accompanied by a restless rolling of the body, giving earnest of her intention to charge, I directed Piet to salute her with a broadside, at the same moment putting spurs to my horse. At the report of the gun, and the sudden clattering of hoofs, away bounded the giraffes in grotesque confusion, clearing the ground by a succession of frog-like hops, and soon leaving me far in the rear. Twice were their towering forms concealed from view by a park of trees, which we entered almost at the same instant; and twice, on emerging from the labyrinth, did I perceive them tilting over an eminence greatly in advance. A white turban, that I wore round my hunting cap, being dragged off by a projecting bough, was instantly attacked by three rhinoceroses; and looking over my shoulder, I could see them long afterwards fagging themselves to overtake me. In the course of five minutes, the giraffes arrived at a small river, the deep sands of which receiving their long legs, their flight was greatly retarded; and after floundering to the opposite side, and scrambling to the top of the bank, I perceived that their race was run.

Hunting the Giraffe.

“Patting the steaming neck of my good steed, I urged him again to his utmost, and instantly found myself by the side of the herd of giraffes. The stately bull being readily distinguishable from the rest by his dark chesnut robe and superior stature, I applied the muzzle of my rifle behind his dappled shoulder, with the right hand, and drew both triggers; but he still continued to shuffle along, and being afraid of losing him, should I dismount, among the extensive mimosa groves, with which the landscape was now obscured, I sat in my saddle, loading and firing behind the elbow, and then placing myself across his path, until, the tears trickling from his full, brilliant eye, his lofty frame began to totter, and at the seventeenth discharge from the deadly grooved bore, bowing his graceful head from the skies, his proud form was prostrate in the dust.

“Never shall I forget the tingling excitement of that moment! Alone, in the wild wood, I hurraed with bursting exultation, and unsaddling my steed, sank exhausted beside the noble prize I had won.

“When I leisurely contemplated the massive frame before me, seeming as though it had been cast in a mould of brass, and protected by a hide of an inch and a half in thickness, it was no longer matter of astonishment that a bullet discharged from a distance of eighty or ninety yards should have been attended with little effect upon such amazing strength. The extreme height from the crown of the elegantly moulded head to the hoof of this magnificent animal, was eighteen feet; the whole being equally divided into neck, body, and leg.

“Two hours were passed in completing a drawing; and Piet still not making his appearance, I cut off the tail, which exceeded five feet in length, and was by far the most estimable trophy I had gained; but proceeding to saddle my horse, which I had left quietly grazing by the side of a running brook, my chagrin may be conceived, when I discovered that he had taken advantage of my occupation to free himself from his halter and abscond.

“Being ten miles from the wagons, and in a perfectly strange country, I felt convinced that the only chance of recovering my pet was by following the trail, whilst doing which with infinite difficulty, the ground scarcely deigning to receive a foot-print, I had the satisfaction of meeting Piet and Mohanycom, who had fortunately seen and recaptured the truant horse. Returning to the giraffe, we all feasted heartily upon the flesh, which, although highly scented at this season with the rank mokaala blossoms, was far from despicable; and after losing our way in consequence of the twin-like resemblance of two scarped hills, we regained the wagons after sunset.

“The rapidity with which giraffes, awkwardly formed as they are, can move, is beyond all things surprising, our best horses being unable to close with them under two miles. Their gallop is a succession of jumping strides, the fore and hind leg on the same side moving together instead of diagonally, as in most other quadrupeds, the former being kept close together, and the latter so wide apart, that, in riding by the animal’s side, the hoof may be seen striking on the outside of the horse, momentarily threatening to overthrow him. Their motion, altogether, reminded me rather of the pitching of a ship, or rolling of a rocking-horse, than of anything living; and the remarkable gait is rendered still more automaton-like by the switching, at regular intervals, of the long black tail, which is invariably curled above the back; and by the corresponding action of the neck, swinging, as it does, like a pendulum, and literally imparting to the animal the appearance of a piece of machinery in motion. Naturally gentle, timid, and peaceable, the unfortunate giraffe has no means of protecting itself but by kicking with its heels; but even when hemmed into a corner, it seldom resorts to this mode of defence.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

CHAPTER I.

First discoveries of Columbus.—The first interview between the Spaniards and the Indians.—Simplicity of the Indians.—Their appearance and manners.—Cuba discovered.—Disappointment of Columbus in his search for gold.—Sails for Hayti.

It was on the 12th of October, 1492, that Columbus first set his foot on the shores of the New World. He landed at a small island belonging to the Bahamas, which he named San Salvador. With a drawn sword in his hand, he took possession of the country for his sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. I always regretted that Columbus unsheathed the sword. He only intended it as a ceremony, but it has proved a fatal reality to the poor Indians. The sword has almost always been unsheathed between them and their christian invaders.

It is my purpose, in the course of my story, to give a brief view of the past and present condition of the Red Men of this western world. I shall first notice the people of the West India Islands; then of South America; then of North America; giving such sketches and descriptions as can be relied upon for truth, and which combine entertainment with instruction.

Irving, in his history of Columbus, thus beautifully narrates the first interview between the Europeans and the Indians:—“The natives of the island, when at the dawn of day they had beheld the ships hovering on the coast, had supposed them some monsters, which had issued from the deep during the night. When they beheld the boats approach the shore, and a number of strange beings, clad in glittering steel, or raiment of various colors, landing upon the beach, they fled in affright to the woods.

“Finding, however, that there was no attempt to pursue or molest them, they gradually recovered from their terror, and approached the Spaniards with great awe, frequently prostrating themselves, and making signs of adoration. During the ceremony of taking possession, they remained gazing, in timid admiration, at the complexion, the beards, the shining armor, and splendid dress of the Spaniards.

Columbus landing.

“The admiral particularly attracted their attention, from his commanding height, his air of authority, his scarlet dress, and the deference paid him by his companions; all which pointed him out to be the commander.

“When they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached the Spaniards, touched their beards, and examined their hands and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with their simplicity, their gentleness, and the confidence they reposed in beings who must have appeared so strange and formidable, and he submitted to their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence.

“The wondering savages were won by this benignity. They now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firmament which bounded their horizon or that they had descended from above, on their ample wings, and that these marvellous beings were inhabitants of the skies.

“The natives of the island were no less objects of curiosity to the Spaniards, differing, as they did, from any race of men they had seen. They were entirely naked, and painted with a variety of colors and devices, so as to give them a wild and fantastic appearance. Their natural complexion was of a tawny or copper hue, and they had no beards. Their hair was straight and coarse; their features, though disfigured by paint, were agreeable; they had lofty foreheads, and remarkably fine eyes.

“They were of moderate stature, and well shaped. They appeared to be a simple and artless people, and of gentle and friendly dispositions. Their only arms were lances, hardened at the end by fire, or pointed with a flint or the bone of a fish. There was no iron among them, nor did they know its properties, for when a drawn sword was presented to them, they unguardedly took it by the edge.

“Columbus distributed among them colored caps, glass beads, hawk’s bells, and other trifles, which they received as inestimable gifts, and decorating themselves with them, were wonderfully delighted with their finery. In return, they brought cakes of a kind of bread called cassava, made from the yuca root, which constituted a principal part of their food.”

Columbus distributing presents.

Thus kindly began the intercourse between the Old World and the New; but the demon of avarice soon disturbed their peace. The Spaniards perceived small ornaments of gold in the noses of some of the natives. On being asked where this precious metal was procured, they answered by signs, pointing to the south, and Columbus understood them to say that a king resided in that quarter, of such wealth that he was served in great vessels of gold.

Columbus took seven of the Indians with him, to serve as interpreters and guides, and set sail to find the country of gold. He cruised among the beautiful islands, and stopped at three of them. These were green, fertile, and abounding with spices and odoriferous trees. The inhabitants, everywhere, appeared the same—simple, harmless, and happy, and totally unacquainted with civilized man.

Columbus was disappointed in his hopes of finding any gold or spices in these islands; but the natives continued to point to the south, and then spoke of an island in that direction called Cuba, which the Spaniards understood them to say abounded in gold, pearls, and spices. People often believe what they earnestly wish; and Columbus sailed in search of Cuba, fully confident that he should find the land of riches. He arrived in sight of it on the 28th of October, 1492.

Here he found a most lovely country, and the houses of the Indians, neatly built of the branches of palm trees, in the shape of pavilions, were scattered under the trees, like tents in a camp. But hearing of a province in the centre of the island, where, as he understood the Indians to say, a great prince ruled, Columbus determined to send a present to him, and one of his letters of recommendation from the king and queen of Spain.

For this purpose he chose two Spaniards, one of whom was a converted Jew, and knew Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Arabic. Columbus thought the prince must understand one or the other of these languages. Two Indians were sent with them as guides. They were furnished with strings of beads, and various trinkets, for their travelling expenses, and they were enjoined to ascertain the situation of the provinces and rivers of Asia, for Columbus thought the West Indies were a part of the Eastern Continent.

The Jew found his Hebrew, Chaldaic, and Arabic of no avail, and the Indian interpreter had to be the orator. He made a regular speech after the Indian manner, extolling the power, wealth, and generosity of the White men. When he had finished, the Indians crowded round the Spaniards, touched and examined their skin and raiment, and kissed their hands and feet in token of adoration. But they had no gold to give them.

It was here that tobacco was first discovered. When the envoys were on their return, they saw several of the natives going about with firebrands in their hands, and certain dried herbs which they rolled up in a leaf, and lighting one end, put the other in their mouths, and continued inhaling and puffing out the smoke. A roll of this kind they called a tobacco. The Spaniards were struck with astonishment at this smoking.

Indians smoking.

When Columbus became convinced that there was no gold of consequence to be found in Cuba, he sailed in quest of some richer lands, and soon discovered the island of Hispaniola, or Hayti. It was a beautiful island. The high mountains swept down into luxuriant plains and green savannas, while the appearance of cultivated fields, with the numerous fires at night, and the volumes of smoke which rose in various parts by day, all showed it to be populous. Columbus immediately stood in towards the land, to the great consternation of his Indian guides, who assured him by signs that the inhabitants had but one eye, and were fierce and cruel cannibals.

(To be continued.)

Shocking.—An Irish carman and his wife attended the wake, on Friday night, over the body of John Hand, whom Cliff killed. To do so, they left twin infants, fourteen months old, in the cradle at home; but, becoming intoxicated, they did not return until morning, when they found their infants dead! The decision of the coroners’ jury was, we understand, that they came to their death by cold and starvation.—Detroit Adv., 1840.

View of St. Paul’s Bay, Malta.

The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER IV.

Landing at Malta.—Description of the city and inhabitants.—Excursion into the interior.—Visit to the catacombs.—Wonderful subterranean abodes.—St. Paul’s Bay.

When we were through with the quarantine, we hauled round into the great harbor of Malta. The city, which is called Valetta, made a most stately appearance as we passed the castle of St. Elmo. It lies close to the sea, and the whole mass of buildings bursts upon you at once, with its long rows of castellated walls, bristling with cannon, tier upon tier, towering battlements, turrets and bastions and pinnacles in the most picturesque profusion—a grand and magnificent spectacle. The harbor was full of ships—men-of-war, merchantmen, and all sorts of small Mediterranean craft, rigged in the strangest style imaginable.

Whole fleets of row-boats came crowding round us, filled with people. Some of them had bands of music, playing “Yankee Doodle,” “Washington’s March,” and “Hail Columbia,” for which they expected we should give them a quarter of a dollar or so. Others brought fruit, fresh provisions, sea-shells and curiosities, for sale. Most of them spoke a little English, and, in their eagerness to sell their commodities, would make the most ludicrous speeches imaginable. One comical fellow had a pig for sale, which he praised very highly: “Buy pig, captain?—nice pig, sweet pig, ’merican pig: won’t heave nothing overboard, eat brick-dust, eat anything.” It was difficult to get rid of the importunities of these people. They would offer a thing for a dollar, and then gradually come down to nine-pence.

When we landed on the quay, we found a still greater crowd besetting us, offering to carry our trunks, amidst immense confusion and jabbering. Donkeys and mules were trotting about, but we saw no horses. We passed through a great gate in a wall, and went up into the city, by climbing flights of stone steps. The donkeys go up and down with heavy loads on their backs, and never stumble. All the streets were narrow, with high stone houses on each side, and full of people. The main street occupies the summit of the rock on which the city is built, and all the cross streets run up and down the hill, and are paved stair-fashion. The city is one of the handsomest in the world, and looks like an assemblage of palaces. The streets are straight, and all the houses are built of a light yellow stone. Nothing can be more picturesque than their architecture. The fronts are studded with bold masses of carved stonework, balconies, cornices, pilasters, projections, and sculptured ornaments of various descriptions. The prospect through one of the streets is a perfect picture. I could not help contrasting it with our American cities, with their quadrangular monotony of architecture!

After we had secured our baggage at the hotel, I walked out to take a view of the city. The population seemed to be all in the streets, and to live out of doors. The crowd was immense in every public place, and everything visible was full of character and variety. I do not believe there is a spot in the world that exhibits a more striking and motley spectacle than the streets of Malta. This island is the central point of the whole Mediterranean commerce, which brings it a constant succession of visitors from all the countries around. The crowd looks like a fancy ball, where the people dress so as to differ from each other. Here is the fantastical Greek in his picturesque drapery of red and white; the turbaned Turk with his bushy and flowing beard; the swarthy Arab in his coarse haick or cloak; the grave Austrian, the scowling Moor, the squab Dutchman, the capering Sicilian, the hawk-eyed and tawny Calabrian, the native Maltese; the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the John Bull, and the Yankee, all in strange mixture, and with their various manners and languages. The whole group is perfectly dramatic. Little boys, about as high as my knee, were running about, dressed in black small-clothes and those great cocked-hats which we call “three-cornered scrapers.” The women of the island looked like nuns in black silk hoods; they cover most of the face, and peep out with one eye. This habit makes almost all the women squint-eyed.

After I had gone over the greater part of the city and visited its elegant churches, of which it contains a large number, I set forth for a walk into the country. I went out at a massive gateway and across a draw-bridge, which offer the only passage-way into the interior of the island. I was struck with astonishment at the strength and extent of the fortifications. It seemed impossible that any force, either of human arms or cannon-balls, could ever break through the walls. The French took the place in 1800, and when Bonaparte entered at this gate, he said it was lucky there was somebody inside to open it, or they could never have got in. Immense walls and bastions, one above another, towered over my head. I looked down into one of the ditches; it appeared to be a hundred feet deep, and there were flower-gardens and orchards at the bottom. After travelling a few minutes, I saw before me a long row of arches, fifteen or twenty feet high, which I found to be an aqueduct: the road passed under it. Here I had the first glimpse of the country, and I was struck with the odd appearance of everything. There were no fields nor pastures, such as we have in our country, but the whole land lay in terraces, faced with thick stone walls, making little square inclosures, where crops of wheat and other vegetables were growing. The whole face of the island presented a succession of stripes of light yellow rock and fresh green vegetation. Here and there were low hills dotted with dark green locust trees, and a great many country houses and villas were scattered round. All along under these walls grew wild fig-trees and immense clumps of prickly pear, and thousands of lizards were darting up and down with the liveliest movements. Peasants were passing along the road driving donkeys loaded with bundles of grass, and now and then I met a chaise drawn by a mule, thumping over the stony road. I was surprised that any person could be found willing to risk his bones by such a jolting.

One would suppose, by the looks of the country here, that the inhabitants had covered it with stone walls to keep the grass from blowing away. Indeed, the soil is so thin, and the surface so irregular, that but for these walls, half the island would be washed bare by the rains. It is a solid rock, with only a foot or two of soil. Having gone several miles, I reached Citta Vecchia, or the old city, the ancient capital of Malta. It stands in the centre of the island, and looks very antique, being a confused assemblage of fantastical structures, gray with age. It is probably three thousand years old or more. I went into a little shop kept by an old woman, and amused myself with staring at the odd appearance of everything. A man sat at work cutting a pair of sandals out of a raw hide; a little boy, with a desperately dirty face, was munching a handful of green stuff in a corner; and a queer-looking blue cat, with half a tail, rolled her green eyes up at me: she had doubtless never seen a Yankee before. The old woman sold bread, greens, oranges, wine, &c. I drank a tumbler of wine, for which I paid a half-penny; it was a dark red wine like claret, and about the strength of common cider. Some wine is made in the island, but most of what is used comes from Sicily.

I went to the top of the great church, which has a very lofty dome, where I had a prospect of the whole island. The view is picturesque and striking in the highest degree. The island looks like an immense chess-board, the surface being chequered out into squares of green verdure and stone wall. Villages without number were scattered about in every direction, each with the tall dome of a church rising above its cluster of houses. Many of these churches I visited in my walk, and was astonished to find every one of them richly adorned in the interior with gold, silver, and precious stones. The private houses in these villages are very far from exhibiting the same wealth.

I had a guide with me, who showed me over the cathedral of Citta Vecchia, and then asked if I wanted to see the catacombs. I had never before heard of them, but replied in the affirmative; whereupon he led the way through a narrow street, till he came to a door, at which he thumped lustily. It was opened by a little tawny-faced fellow in a monk’s dress. He bustled about and got a bunch of keys, and some torches and candles. We each took a torch and candle, and followed him through a series of long narrow lanes, till we came to a great gate in a wall. Here we struck fire, lighted our torches and candles, and entered the passage. It looked dark and dismal, and we continued going down long flights of steps till we came to a sort of landing-place at a great distance below the surface. I know not how to describe the scene that I witnessed here. For miles around, there was a labyrinthian extent of dark passages cut in the rock, winding and zigzagging in all directions; sometimes expanding into the breadth and loftiness of spacious halls, and sometimes contracting into a strait so narrow as hardly to admit a single person.

Along the sides of these galleries were innumerable niches and recesses cut in the rock as places of deposit for corpses; they were probably all full, thousands of years ago. Here and there we found a solitary bone, which I gazed at with feelings of awe as the relic of an ancient generation. The place appeared to me like a great subterranean city whose inhabitants had all deserted it. The age of it is unknown; not even tradition can tell it. It was used as a hiding-place by the early Christians during times of persecution, and must have been found admirably suited to that purpose: thousands and thousands of people might conceal themselves beyond all search in its immense extent of winding and perplexing avenues, which run into one another, and would lead any one astray who was not perfectly familiar with all their turnings and windings.

In one of the large halls we found two ancient hand-mills for corn and oil, which had been used by the inhabitants of this dark abode. Every passage and room is full of secret nooks and openings, into which the inmates might creep for safety in case of surprise. Great numbers of names and inscriptions are cut in all parts of the rock; and the sides and ceiling of the narrow galleries are blackened with the smoke of torches. Strange and overpowering were the sensations that came upon me as I followed my guide through these drear avenues and halls of death. In spite of my confidence in him, it was impossible not to feel an apprehension of being lost among the innumerable turnings and windings of this dark labyrinth. Now and then we would stop and contemplate the striking effect of our flickering torches, which threw red gleams of light along the walls, and seemed to show us indistinct forms flitting hither and thither amid the darkness beyond.

We stood still, held our breath, and marked the drear silence that reigned around, where the sound of a footstep or a whisper struck the ear like an unhallowed intrusion breaking the still repose of the ancient dead. Then we shouted and listened to the hollow echoes that rumbled through the rocky mansion, and died away in the distance, among miles of long galleries and reverberating caverns. No scene could be more impressive—I almost expected the dead inmates of this gloomy abode to start up before my face, and greet me with the accents of three thousand years ago. We traversed one long passage after another, but the labyrinth appeared to be endless. The excavations are said to be fifteen miles in extent; they may be twice as long for aught I know: the only wonder is that any man ever undertook to measure them. After all I have said, the reader will have no adequate conception of these wonderful abodes: he must go to the spot to know what they really are.

I never knew the light of day so cheerful, delicious, and exhilarating as when I got out of this dark place, into the open air; it seemed like passing from death to life. The little monk was very thankful for a ninepence which I gave him for his trouble in showing me through the catacombs.

Going along one of the streets of the town, I saw a statue of St. Paul, shaking the viper from his hand. This is believed to be the spot where the house stood in which he lodged while in the island. There is a bay on the southwestern shore, where, according to tradition, he was shipwrecked. This I determined to visit, and hired a stout boy, whom I found in the street, to show me the way. We travelled over a road on the bare rock, very rough, and which grew rougher every mile. The country was pretty much like what I have mentioned, parcelled out into little square inclosures, with low cabins in the sides of the walls, looking like dog-kennels, but designed as lodging-places for the men who guard the fields by night. By-and-by the road began to descend, and I soon found we were close to the sea. I was obliged to clamber down the ragged rocks, but my companion jumped from cliff to cliff like a goat. We soon reached the margin of the bay, and he conducted me to a bold projection in the rocky shore, which tradition has marked out as the precise spot where the ship which was bearing St. Paul to Rome, struck the land, as related in the twenty-seventh chapter of the Acts of the Apostles.

I walked out to the extremity of the point, against which the sea was dashing, and sat down upon the rock to enjoy the feelings excited by the history of this interesting place. I gazed for some time upon the wild scene around me, and called up in imagination the shadows of the beings who, 1800 years ago, had figured in these events. Here stood the shipwrecked apostle and beheld the same wild and rugged prospect that strikes the eye at the present moment, for hardly a single point in the landscape appears to have undergone any change since his time. There is a chapel on the shore a few yards from the water, and two or three castles on the eminences around; these are all the buildings in sight. Three or four ragged boys were picking up shells on the beach, but no other living creature was to be seen. I saw the sun sink into the ocean, and was obliged to hasten my return, lest the city gates should be closed.

(To be continued.)

Wit.—Some one observed to a wag on one occasion, that his coat seemed to have been made too short; to which he replied, that “it would be long enough before he got another.”

In delay, there lies no plenty.

The Kingfisher and the Nightingale;

A FABLE.

Once upon a time, a meeting took place between a kingfisher and a mocking-bird. The latter, being dressed in very plain feathers, at first felt a little humbled by the brilliant plumage of his neighbor. The kingfisher, perceiving the admiration of the mocking-bird, jerked his tail and tossed his head, so as to show off all the changing hues of his feathers to great advantage.

While this was going on between the two birds, a sportsman chanced to be passing by, and seeing them, paused to watch their proceedings. Readily understanding the scene, and disgusted with the conceit and vanity of the kingfisher, he drew up his gun, and shot him down. As he went to pick up the fallen bird, he made the following reflections:

“This silly kingfisher is like a person who is vain of his dress or his outward beauty. His skin, when stuffed with tow, is just as valuable as when the bird’s living flesh and bones are in it; his outside is all there is of him. But the modest mocking-bird is like a person who contributes to our pleasure or our instruction, and relies upon the good he does to others for his standing among mankind. How contemptible is pride; how amiable and attractive is modesty allied to merit!”

A sagacious Dog.—A grocer in Edinburgh had a dog, which for some time amused and astonished the people in the neighborhood. A man who went through the streets ringing a bell and selling penny pies, happened one day to treat this dog with a pie. The next time he heard the pieman’s bell, the dog ran to him with impetuosity, seized him by the coat, and would not allow him to pass. The pieman, who understood what the animal wanted, showed him a penny, and pointed to his master, who stood at the street door and saw what was going on. The dog immediately supplicated his master by many humble gestures and looks. The master put a penny into the dog’s mouth, which he instantly delivered to the pieman, and received his pie; and this traffic between the pieman and the grocer’s dog continued to be daily practised for many months.

Absence of Mind.

This is that habit which some people have, of thinking of one thing, while they are doing another. The famous Sir Isaac Newton was a philosopher, and he thought a great deal about the heavenly bodies, and such mighty matters. Of course, he could hardly be expected to think much about common things. However, he did once have a fancy for a lady, and one evening he went to see her. As he was sitting with her by the fireside smoking his pipe, he became absorbed in his mathematics, and in his absence of mind he took hold of the lady’s finger and stuck it into the fiery bowl of his pipe, thus making it a tobacco-stopper!

I once knew an old lady who would go about the room, looking upon the shelf, peeping into the table drawer, tumbling over a cupboard that served as a kind of Noah’s ark, where every strange thing was deposited—all the time teasing and fretting because she could not find her spectacles, until at last she discovered that the said spectacles were snugly sitting astride of her nose!

But this is a trifling instance of absence of mind, compared with some others. An old maid of Edinburgh, in Scotland, had taken an unaccountable fancy to a pig, which she kept as a kind of pet about the house, and often took it into her lap. The poor thing seemed to be forever pinched with a pain in its bowels, and therefore kept up an almost perpetual squealing. Still, the kind woman loved it all the better, and cherished it the more for its very infirmities. The lady was withal a literary lady, and fond of reading and writing books, and her head ran upon these operations so much, that she often forgot where she was, and what she was doing.

One day, she appeared at the door of a neighbor in a good deal of trouble, with the pig under her arm, squealing with all its might, as usual; upon which the following dialogue ensued:

Woman. Good morning, neighbor! Good morning! I called to see you about—about—something or other—but in fact I forget what it was I was after.

Neighbor. Oh! you wanted something or other, and you thought you’d come and ask me what ’twas you wanted?

Woman. Why yes—no. Be still, you naughty pig! be still! Yes, I am looking for something. Stop your everlasting squealing! Oh! I remember! I’ve lost my pig. Have you seen anything of him?

Neighbor. Why, what’s that you have under your arm?

Woman. Gracious! I’ve got the pig under my arm all this time! Poor, dear thing—that I should have forgotten you, while I was all the time thinking of you! and that I should have lost you while I was clasping you to my breast! Well done! I must be a genius, as aunt Dorcas says!

Some years ago there lived at the city of Washington a famous Englishman by the name of Thomas Law. He was very absent-minded, and often forgot his christian name. One day, he was writing a letter, and when he came to the end, and wanted to sign his name, he was in great trouble because he could not remember the first part of it. At last, Claxton, the door-keeper, chanced to be passing, and Law remembered that his christian name was the same as Claxton’s. Accordingly he said, “Claxton, what is your christian name?” “Thomas,” was the answer. “Oh yes, Thomas,” said Law, and immediately wrote his name, “Thomas Law!”

These instances are somewhat amusing, but I can tell you of an instance in which absence of mind proved more serious. A famous courtier once wished to ingratiate himself into the favor of two persons of great rank and power, but who were deadly enemies to each other. These were Lord B. and Lord Q. In order to please these two persons, the courtier wrote a letter to each of them. That of Lord B. was as follows:

My dear Lord B.

I met with Lord Q. last evening at Lady Lackaday’s. It was the first time I had seen him. I felt instinctively an aversion similar to that which is inspired by the presence of a serpent. I can easily enter into your feelings respecting him. Indeed, I do not see how any one can differ from your lordship in this matter. It is impossible not to feel a sympathy with the man who stands in open and manly opposition to one upon whose forehead “knave” is written by the hand of his Creator.

I am, dear Lord, yours,

B. L.

The next letter was as follows:

My dear Lord Q.

Lord B. is an ass, and I ask no better proof of it than that he seems to hate you, whom all the world beside agree to love and admire. He is stark mad with envy. You have only to let him alone, and he will make himself ridiculous before the whole town. This is all you have to do to destroy your rival. Let him alone! Yours faithfully,

B. L.

Such are the two letters; but unluckily for the success of the courtier’s crafty schemes, he was addicted to fits of absence of mind, and when he came to superscribe the aforesaid letters, he addressed the one intended for Lord B. to Lord Q., and that for Lord Q. to Lord B.; so that when they were read, each of these persons discovered the trick and hypocrisy of the courtier.

Varieties.

Pun.—While the repairs were going on in State street, Boston, two gentlemen of the bar happening to meet, one said, “I think this looks like putting new cloth upon an old garment.” “I think so too,” replied the other; “but it will make the rent greater.”

Humor.—A number of years ago, an eccentric old gentleman, residing in a cottage in England, was greatly annoyed by noctural depredators, who broke the fences in his garden, in order to get at the good things contained therein. As he did not care so much for the loss of the fruit as the damage done to the enclosures, and as he was rather fond of witticisms, he had the following notice put up: “All thieves are in future to enter by the gate, which will be left open for the purpose.”

Has a Dog Wings?—“Father, has a dog got wings?”

“No, my son.”

“Well, I thought so—but mother told me, the other day, that as she was going along the road, a dog flew at her.”

Irish Wit.—An honest Hibernian, upon reading his physician’s bill, replied, that he had no objections to pay him for his medicines, but his visits he would return.

Death of the President.

William Henry Harrison, who became President of the United States on the 4th of March last, died on the night of the 4th of April, just thirty days after he had entered upon the duties of his high office.

This event is calculated to cast a gloom over the whole nation, for Gen. Harrison was generally esteemed a good man, and most persons believed that he would govern the country in a manner to promote the happiness of the people. He had lived to be almost seventy years of age; and now, being elevated to the highest office in the gift of the people, he is suddenly cut down, and laid in the same dust that must cover ordinary men. This dispensation of Providence seems almost like quenching a great beacon-light upon the sea-shore at night, just at the moment when its illumination had begun to scatter the darkness around.

A solemn thought is suggested by this event. Gen. Harrison has lived a long life, and has often been in the midst of seeming peril. He has often been in battle with savages and with the British soldiery. He has often trodden the forest amid all the dangers and vicissitudes that beset the traveller there. He has spent many days of toil in the field, laboring as a farmer. In all these situations and conditions—from youth to age—he has enjoyed the protecting care of Providence. But at last he was elevated to a great office; he became the occupant of a palace; he was the hope of a great nation; he was surrounded with friends, with mighty men, with skilful physicians, with tender nurses—with the great, the good, the prayerful—but all in vain. His time had come—the arrow was sped from the bow, and no human arm could stay its flight. And this should warn us all to consider well the lesson conveyed by this event—which is, that life and death are in the hands of God. He can protect us everywhere—in the cottage or the log-cabin, in the forest or the field; or he can take us away in the midst of power and pomp and riches. Let us therefore be ever prepared for the decisions of his wisdom.

THE APRIL SHOWER, A SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Patter, patter, let it pour,
Patter, Patter, let it roar,
Down the steep roof let it rush,
Down the hill side let it gush,
’Tis the wlecome April shower
Which will wake the sweet May flower.

Patter, patter, let it pour!

Patter, patter, let it roar!

Let the gaudy lightning flash—

Let the headlong thunder dash—

’Tis the welcome April shower,

Which will wake the sweet May flower.

Patter, patter, let it pour!

Patter, patter, let it roar!

Soon the clouds will burst away—

Soon will shine the bright spring day,

Soon the welcome April shower

Will awake the sweet May flower!

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

My own Life and Adventures.

(Continued from page 71.)

CHAPTER VII.

My uncle’s influence.—The influence of the tavern.—State of society forty years ago.—Liquor opposed to education.—The church and the tavern.—The country schoolhouse.—Books used in the school.—A few words about myself.

I pass over a space of several years in my history, and come to the period when I was about fifteen. Up to this time, I had made little progress in education, compared with what is done at the present day. I could indeed read and write, and I knew something of arithmetic, but my advance beyond this was inconsiderable. A brief detail of certain circumstances will show the reason of this.

In the first place, my uncle had no very high estimation of what he called larnin; he was himself a man of action, and believed that books render people dull and stupid, rather than efficient in the business of life. He was therefore opposed to education in general, and particularly so in my case; and not only was his opinion equivalent to law with respect to me, but it was of great force in the village, on account of his character and position.

He kept the village tavern, which in those days of rum and punch was an institution of great power and authority. It was common, at the period of which I speak, for the church or meeting-house and tavern to stand side by side; but if one day in the week, sobriety and temperance were preached in the former, hard drinking and licentiousness were deeply practised in the latter during the other six. The tavern, therefore, not only counteracted the good effect of the preacher, but it went farther, and in many cases corrupted the whole mass of society. The members of the church thought it no scandal to make regular visits to the bar-room at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and at four P. M.; the deacon always kept his jugs well filled, and the minister took his toddy or his tansy bitters, in open day, and without reproach.

In such a state of society as this, the tavern-keeper was usually the most influential man in the village, and if he kept good liquors, he was irresistible. Now my uncle was a prince of a tavern-keeper for these jolly days. He was, in fact, what we call a whole-souled fellow: generous, honest, and frank-hearted. His full, ruddy countenance bespoke all this; and his cheerful, hearty voice carried conviction of it to every listener. Beside, his tavern was freely and generously kept: it was liberally supplied with good beds, and every other luxury or comfort common to those days. As I have said before, it was situated upon the great road, then travelled by the mail stages between Boston and New York. The establishment was of ample extent, consisting of a pile of wooden buildings of various and irregular architecture—all painted a deep red. There was near it a large barn with extensive cow-houses, a corn-crib, a smoke-house, and a pig-sty, arranged solely with a view to ease of communication with the house, and consequently all drawn closely around it. The general effect, when viewed at a distance, was that of two large jugs surrounded with several smaller ones.

Before this heap of edifices swung the tavern sign, with a picture of a barn-yard cock on one side, and a bull upon the other, as I have told you before: and though the artist that painted it was only a common house-dauber, and though the pictures were of humble pretensions when compared with the productions of Raphael, still, few specimens of the fine arts have ever had more admirers than the cock and bull of my uncle’s sign. How many a toper has looked upon it when approaching the tavern with his feverish lip, as the emblem and assurance of the rum that was soon to feed the fire kindled in his throat; how many a jolly fellow, staggering from the inn, has seen that sign reeling against the sky, and mixing grotesquely with the dreamy images of his fancy!

If we add to this description, that in the street, and nearly in front of the tavern, was a wood-pile about ten feet high, and covering three or four square rods of ground; that on one side was a litter of harrows, carts and ploughs, and on the other a general assortment of wagons, old sleighs, broken stages, and a rickety vehicle resembling a modern chaise without a top; and if we sprinkle between all these articles a good supply of geese and pigs, we shall have a pretty fair account of the famous Cock and Bull tavern that flourished in Salem nearly forty years ago.

The proprietor of such an establishment could not, in those days, but be a man of influence; and the free manners and habits of my uncle tended to increase the power that his position gave him. He drank liberally himself, and vindicated his practice by saying that good liquor was one of the gifts of providence, and it was no sin—indeed it was rather a duty—to indulge in providential gifts freely. All this made him a favorite, particularly with a set of hard drinkers who thronged the bar-room, especially of a wet day and on winter evenings.

As I have said, my uncle was opposed to education, and as he grew older and drank deeper, his prejudice against it seemed to increase; and though I cannot easily account for the fact, still every drunkard in the place was an enemy to all improvements in the school. When a town-meeting took place, these persons were invaribly in opposition to every scheme, the design of which was to promote the cause of education, and this party was usually headed by my uncle. And it is not a little curious that the tavern party also had its influence in the church, for my uncle was a member of it, and many of his bar-room cronies also. They were so numerous as to cast a heavy vote, and therefore they exercised a good deal of power here. As in respect to the school, so in the house of worship, they were for spending as little money as possible, and for reducing its power and influence in society to the lowest possible scale. They even held the minister in check, and though he saw the evil tendency of intemperance in the village, he had not nerve enough to attack it, except in a very soft and mild way, which probably served to increase the vice at which he aimed; for vice always thrives when holy men condemn it gently.

Now I have said that my uncle was a kind-hearted, generous man, by nature; how then could he be so narrow-minded in respect to education and religion? The answer to this question is easy. He was addicted to the free use of liquors, which not only tends to destroy the body, but to ruin all the nobler parts of the mind. As he came more and more under the influence of ardent spirits, he grew narrow-minded, sottish and selfish. And this is one of the great evils of taking ardent spirits. The use of them always tends to break down the mind; to take away from us those noble feelings and lofty thoughts, which are the glory of man; in short, to sink us lower and lower toward the brute creation. A determined drunkard is usually a great part of the time but little elevated above a beast.

Now I have been particular about this part of my story, for I wished to show you the natural influence of the habits of my uncle, and their operation upon my own fortunes. I have yet a sadder story to tell, as to the effect of the village tavern, not only upon myself, but upon my uncle, and several others. That must be reserved for some of the sad pages through which my tale will lead you. For the present, I only point out the fact, that a man who encourages the sale of liquors is usually unfriendly to the education and improvement of mankind; that his position tends to make him fear the effect of light and wish for darkness; that hard drinking will ruin even a generous and noble mind and heart; and that the habit of dealing in liquor is one to be feared, as it induces a man to take narrow, selfish, and low views of human nature and human society. It appears to me that a trade which thrives when men turn drunkards, and which fails when men grow temperate, is a trade which is apt to injure the mind and soul of one who follows it. Even my noble-hearted and generous uncle fell under such sinister influences.

But to return to the school. I have already described the situation of the house. The building itself was of wood, about fifteen feet square, plastered within, and covered with benches without backs, which were constructed by thrusting sticks, for legs, through auger holes in a plank. On one side, against the wall, was a long table, serving as a desk for the writers.

The chimney was of rough stone, and the fire-place was of the same material. But what it lacked in grace of finish, was made up in size. I believe that it was at least ten feet wide, and five in depth, and the flue was so perpendicular and ample, that the rain and snow fell down to the bottom, without the risk of striking the sides. In summer, the school was kept by a woman, who charged the town a dollar a week, boarding herself; in winter it was kept by a man, who was paid five dollars a month and found. Here about seventy children, of all sizes, were assembled during this latter portion of the year; the place and manner of treatment being arranged as much as possible on the principle that a schoolhouse is a penitentiary, where the more suffering, the more improvement.

I have read of despots and seen prisons, but there are few of the former more tyrannical than the birch-despot of former days, or of the latter, more gloomy than the old-fashioned schoolhouse, under the tyrant to which it was usually committed.

I must enter into a few details. The fuel for the school consisted of wood, and was brought in winter, load by load, as it was wanted; though it occasionally happened that we got entirely out, and the school was kept without fire if the master could endure the cold, or dismissed if the weather chanced to be too severe to be borne. The wood was green oak, hickory, or maple, and when the fire could be induced to blaze between the sticks, there was a most notable hissing and frying, and a plentiful exudation of sap at each end of them.

The wood was cut into lengths of about five feet, by the scholars, each of the larger boys taking his turn at this, and at making the fire in the morning. This latter was a task that demanded great strength and patience; for, in the first place, there must be a back-log, five feet in length, and at least fifteen inches in diameter; then a top-stick about two-thirds as big; and then a forestick of similar dimensions. It required some strength to move these logs to their places; and after the frame of the work was built, the gathering of chips, and the blowing, the wooing, the courting that were necessary to make the revolting flame take hold of the wet fuel, demanded a degree of exertion, and an endurance of patience, well calculated to ripen and harden youth for the stern endurances of manhood.

The school began at nine in the morning, and it was rare that the fire gave out any heat so early as this; nor could it have been of much consequence had it done so, for the school-room was almost as open as a sieve, letting in the bitter blast at every window and door, and through a thousand cracks in the thin plastering of the walls. Never have I seen such a miserable set of blue-nosed, chattering, suffering creatures as were these children, for the first hour after the opening of school, on a cold winter morning. Under such circumstances, what could they do? Nothing, and they were expected to do nothing.

The books in use were Webster’s Spelling Book, Dilworth’s Arithmetic, Webster’s Second and Third Part, the New Testament, and Dwight’s Geography. These were all, and the best scholars of the seminary never penetrated more than half through this mass of science. There was no such thing as a history, a grammar, or a map in the school. These are mysteries reserved for more modern days.

Such was the state of things—such the condition of the school, where I received my education, the only education that I ever enjoyed, except such as I have since found in study by myself, and amid the active pursuits of life. But let me not blame the schoolhouse alone; I was myself in fault, for even the poor advantages afforded me there, I wilfully neglected; partly because I was fond of amusing myself and impatient of application; partly because I thought myself worth ten thousand dollars, and fancied that I was above the necessity of instruction; and partly because my uncle and his bar-room friends were always sneering at men of education, and praising men of spirit and action—those who could drive a stage skilfully, or beat in pitching cents, or bear off the palm in a wrestling-match, or perchance carry the largest quantity of liquor under the waistcoat.

Such being the course of circumstances that surrounded me at the age of fifteen, it will not be surprising if my story should at last lead to some painful facts; but my succeeding chapters will show.

(To be continued.)

The Artists’ Cruise.

About the first of August, 1840, an excursion was set on foot, by five young men of Boston, for recreation and amusement—one full of interest and excitement, conducive equally to health and pleasure. The plan was this—to embark in a small pleasure-boat called the Phantom, built and owned by one of the company, who was also well skilled in nautical affairs, and proceed by easy distances along the coast as far “down East” as time or inclination would admit—letting the events and adventures of the day determine the movements of the next.

The company consisted of young artists—lovers of nature—ready to appreciate all the new and beautiful points that might meet the eye. The boat was hauled up at Phillip’s beach, Lynn, to which place the party proceeded, and fitted her out with all the conveniences and comforts proper for the cruise. Everything being ready, they sailed on the first of the week, with a fair southwest wind, passed Marblehead and Salem gaily, and stretched onward for Cape Ann. As night came on they were becalmed, but it was very clear, and the moon shone gloriously, as they moved, creeping lazily along, catching a slight puff at intervals. The musical portion of the company contrived to make the time pass pleasantly away in singing certain old airs which chimed in with the feeling and situation of the company. At last the breeze came again, and about ten at night they found themselves in the little cove before the quiet town of Gloucester. Here they cast anchor; and so much pleased were they, that they stayed the next day and enjoyed the pleasure of a ramble along the rocky shores, fishing for perch, &c. They found an excellent host at the Gloucester hotel, where they passed the next night. I cannot do better than to tell the rest of the story in the words of these adventurers.

“With a bright sun, a fresh breeze, and a calm sea, we left Gloucester and shaped our course around Cape Ann for the Isles of Shoals, a group which lie at the farther extremity of Ipswich bay, across which we merrily steered, embracing the opportunity of initiating the inexperienced in the duties of amateur seamanship. In a few hours we ran in between the rocky isles, which, as we gradually neared them, seemed to rise from out the waves. Anchoring in the midst of a fleet of fishing boats, we prepared our supper, which was soon despatched with much mirth, owing to the primitive simplicity of our arrangements. We passed the night at our anchorage, after witnessing the effect of a magnificent thunder-storm, and spent the morning in strolling among the rocks along the shore, and amusing ourselves with the characteristic traits of the islanders whom we met; their isolated position, and constant devotion to the single occupation of catching and curing fish, appearing to interpose a bar to their advancement in any other qualification. From the Isles of Shoals we had the next day a fair run to Wood Island, and anchored in Winter harbor, near the mouth of Saco river—a place of considerable importance at the time of the last war, owing to the exertions of an enterprising merchant by the name of Cutts. During the war the British entered the harbor and wantonly sawed through the keel of three of the largest class of merchant vessels, then in progress of building, and whose remains are still to be seen. We had plenty of fowling, fishing, and sporting apparatus, and we here had ample opportunity for exercising our skill as sportsmen—plover, curlew, sand-birds, &c. being abundant. In this manner we passed the time until the afternoon of the next day, when we left for Portland.

“Favored with a fine breeze, we dashed merrily over the waves, which had now begun to be tipped with foam, and, under the influence of the freshening wind, had assumed a size that, in comparison with our miniature bark, might have been termed mountain-high; but there was no danger, for our craft was as buoyant on the sea as one of its own bubbles. The weather had gradually been growing “dirty,” as seamen call it, and we raced into the harbor of Portland with a small squadron of coasting vessels, all crowding for shelter. The wind during the night blew a gale from the southeast, which however did not prevent us from sleeping soundly. Our appetites having assumed a remarkable punctuality since leaving Boston, reminded us early of breakfast, and, in spite of wind and rain, we resolved upon cooking a quantity of birds shot the day previous. Having formed an imperfect shelter by means of a spare sail, a fire was kindled, coffee made, birds broiled, and our meal concluded amid a rain so drenching as to be quite a curiosity in its way. Each person bent over his dish to prevent the food being fairly washed away, and covered his mug of coffee to avoid excessive dilution, and used many other notable expedients suited to the occasion, which will certainly not be forgotten if never again practised. It was most emphatically a washing-day with us, though not accompanied with the ill-humor generally reputed to exist upon those occasions.

“The storm and its effects being over, we received a visit from the proprietors of the elegant pleasure-boat, Water Lily, who very kindly invited us to accompany them to Diamond cove, a romantic spot in one of the many beautiful islands that so thickly stud Casco bay—a place much frequented by parties of pleasure from the city of Portland. We left the harbor with a fine breeze, our pennants streaming gallantly. We were soon upon the fishing-grounds, anchored, and for a moment all was bustle and excitement, each hoping to be the first to pull a ‘mammoth’ from the deep. Success crowned our efforts, and a boat was despatched with the treasure to the cove, to be there converted into a savory chowder; while we again anchored near the rocks of one of the smaller islands, where fortune favored us, and we soon had a goodly store of perch for the fry.

“The sun was just sinking as we entered the cove, and the gray shadows of twilight were fast gathering under the grove of fine old oaks that crowned the shore. Soon the woods resounded with the shouts and merry laughter of the party. Misty twilight yielded to the brilliant rays of the full moon, which, streaming through the openings of the forest, touched here and there, lighting up the picturesque and moss-grown trunks with almost magical effect. The word was given, and each one searched for his armful of brush to light us at our feast, and soon it crackled and blazed away, lighting up a scene almost beyond description. The party numbered about fifteen or twenty, including the Phantom’s crew, and were scattered about in all the various groups and postures that inclination or fancy might suggest, each with his plate and spoon, or for the want of them a clam-shell and box-cover, doing such justice to the feast as an appetite sharpened by fasting, salubrious sea-breeze and wholesome exercise would induce. Not the least important feature of the scene was the picturesque costume assumed by our “Phantoms;” it consisting of white pants, Guernsey frocks, belts, knives, and small Greek caps tight to the head. Above us hung the blest canopy of glowing foliage thrown out from those old oaks; each mass, each leaf was touched and pencilled with a vivid line of light, whose brightness might compare with that of sparkling gems. The more distant groups were relieved from the dim and shadowy background by a subdued and broad half-light. Fainter and fainter grew the light, till all was lost in the deep and gloomy shadows of the forest.

“Amid this fairy-like scenery all was mirth, jollity, fun, and frolic; not a moment passed unenjoyed. At ten o’clock our party broke up, and we returned to our boats. We here parted with our kind friends, who were soon on their way to Portland. We seized our flutes, and breathed forth a farewell with all the pathos we were masters of. This was soon answered by a smart salute from a cannon, which awoke the echoes of the cove. Three cheers were given and returned, and all was still.

“The next was a beautiful day, and it being Sunday, we remained at anchor in the cove, enjoying the silence and repose of nature in that lovely and sequestered spot. The succeeding morning being fine, we started with a light southerly wind, which carried us slowly along among the islands of Casco, and gave us a fine opportunity to observe all their beauties. The scene was continually changing—new islands opening upon us almost every moment. Before evening we had made the little harbor called Small Point, where we remained that night. The succeeding day we doubled cape Small Point and made the mouth of the Kennebec, which we entered with a fine breeze, that carried us briskly up to Bath, where we spent the remainder of the day. Having taken a pilot, we continued up the river with a fair wind and tide, which took us as far as Hallowell. Considerable curiosity was here excited, in consequence of our having come so far in so small a boat, it being thought a rather hazardous enterprise. In the morning a council was held, and we determined to return; accordingly this and the succeeding day were spent in getting back to Bath. We did but little more than float with the tide, in consequence of its being so calm. The scenery of the Kennebec has been so often and minutely described, that it is best to pass over it without comment.

At Bath we were treated with all the attention and kindness we could wish for. The succeeding day we beat down the river, and doubled the point, encountering a head sea, which tossed us about, to the great detriment of our culinary apparatus. We again anchored and passed the night at Small Point. We proceeded the next day, by a difficult and somewhat dangerous channel, between ledges and islands as far as Haskell’s Island, and anchored in the cove. Continuing our course the next day, we stopped at Portland, saw our friends of the Water Lily, and proceeded as far as Winter harbor, where we arrived at twelve o’clock at night. We continued here a day to take advantage of the fine shooting, and had very good luck. We went as far the next day as York, where we anchored, cooked our birds, and, with the help of good appetites, made a glorious supper.

“Leaving the town of Old York, we rowed slowly out of the small river which forms its harbor, accompanied by numerous fishing-boats, which came in the evening previous. It was a dead calm, and continued so about two hours. The time passed however without the usual tedium attendant upon the want of wind, it being employed in the preparation and discussion of a hearty breakfast. The wind came at last, a light breeze and ahead, and we soon exchanged the swinging and rolling motion of the glassy ground-swell for the regular rise and fall and cheerful dash of the ripple against the bow, and the music of the breaking bubbles as they whirled away in the wake. With all our canvass set, we stretched slowly along the narrow coast of New Hampshire.

“Passing the harbor of Portsmouth, with its lighthouse built upon a ledge so low that the tide sweeps over its foundation, as is the case with the famous Eddystone, at nightfall we were off the mouth of Merrimac river, yet some fifteen or twenty miles from our destined port. A few clouds that had collected about dark now dispersed, and the stars shone clear and beautiful from the heavens, while the beacon lights blazed in rival brightness from the shore. About two in the morning we approached the entrance of our port, which is situated near the mouth of a small river which intersects Cape Ann, and which, like most rivers, has a bar at its mouth. After passing the lighthouse, being within half a mile of our anchorage, the wind fell suddenly, and the rapid current swept us aground upon the highest part of the bar, where the receding tide soon left us high and dry upon the sand. Being stopped thus abruptly, we gazed about in search of some means to ‘define our position,’ which measure was presently vetoed by the rolling in of so thick a fog that in ten minutes everything in sight could have been touched with a boat-hook. Finding sight unavailing at this juncture, we resorted to sound, and commenced firing signal guns, which were heard and answered from the shore, and in a short time assistance arrived in the person of the keeper of the lighthouse, who informed us that we should not float again for six hours. Day broke upon us in this position, and having plenty of time, we despatched two ashore for provisions in the pilot’s skiff, and in a short time the sand-bar presented a singular appearance, our baggage of all kinds being strewed about upon the sand, and in close fellowship with cooking utensils, loose sails, spare baskets, boxes, rigging, &c. &c.; for we had entirely unladed the boat, for the purpose of washing and cleansing the inside from the effects of an unlucky basket of charcoal, which had been upset in the confusion consequent upon our endeavors to get into deeper water. Upon the return of our purveyors all hands displayed great activity in providing and eating breakfast. The fog still encompassed us, so that we enjoyed all the uproar and fun of the meal in our own way, as our apparent horizon was hardly more extensive than a common room. It was a memorable breakfast, that seemed much like a day’s eating condensed into a single meal, the whole being much enlivened by the cheerfulness and local anecdotes of our old friend from the lighthouse, to whom we were indebted for sundry excellent hints touching the best method of extricating vessels in difficult and dangerous situations. The tide rose very rapidly, and all the temporary embarrassments of our situation vanished with our footprints in the sand. The mounting sun soon burned up the fog, which in dispersing produced its usual singular and fantastic effects upon the rugged and precipitous shores that lay on each side; and retaining the services of our old friend as pilot, we ran through the river, which is about four miles long, and connected with the harbor of Gloucester by a short canal, through which we passed, and spent another pleasant day in that town previous to starting for Boston; which place we had left just three weeks before. We arrived there the next day, meeting with nothing worthy of particular notice in the course of it.

Our vessel ashore on Squam Bar.

“Such is a brief outline of our excursion, from which we returned much invigorated in mind and body. A thousand little incidents occurred, serving to enhance the pleasure of the trip, which it would be impossible to condense into so small a space as is here allotted us. We had finer opportunities of obtaining picturesque sketches of our New England coast scenery, than could be obtained by any other method. One of our company made a sketch of our mischance upon the bar, and an engraving of it is presented to the reader. We had a good opportunity of observing the peculiar traits that characterize the hardy race that inhabit our rough and rock-bound coast, and always found them a freehearted, hospitable people, ever ready to yield any assistance we might need. We were obliged to submit to many little inconveniences, it is true, which, had they not been voluntary, or had they come under other than the then existing circumstances, would have been deemed hardships; but there was so much excitement, so much novelty, such an endless variety of new objects from day to day to attract and interest us, that we were a thousand times repaid for all our petty privations.”

Proverb.—A person who is suspicious, ought to be suspected.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER V.

Departure from Malta.—Arrival at Sicily.—Syracuse Ruins.—Ear of Dionysius.

Our vessel landed her cargo at Malta, and then took in ballast and sailed for Palermo, in Sicily, to load with fruit. I preferred to cross immediately over to Syracuse, and take Mount Ætna in my way, being very desirous not to lose a sight of this celebrated volcano. I found a Sicilian vessel about to sail, and took passage in her. She was a polacre, having the masts of single sticks from top to bottom, instead of three or four pieces joined together, like the masts of English and American vessels. I could not help laughing at the oddities of the crew: there were fifteen of them, although the vessel was not above seventy tons burthen. They were the queerest ship’s company I ever saw; all captains and mates, and no common sailors. Whatever was to be done was everybody’s business: there was no discipline, no order, no concert; all was hurly-burly, and scampering here and there, and tumbling head over heels.

Which was the commander, nobody could tell, for every one was giving orders. The slightest manœuvre caused a clatter and bawling that made me think the masts were going overboard. If there was a rope as big as a tom-cod-line to be pulled, the whole crew would string themselves along it, yo! heave ho! tug it an inch and a half, puff and blow, thump and clamor, as if it were a case of life and death. Every man must have a finger in what was going on, even to cuffing the cabin-boy. The men squatted down upon deck to their meals all in a group, and fell to cracking jokes and cutting capers together. The helmsman sat in a chair to steer, and moved his seat as often as he luffed or bore away. A little hop-off-my-thumb fellow, with a comically dirty face and ragged breeches, sat upon a bucket to watch the hour-glass in the binnacle. We had only seventy or eighty miles to sail from Malta to Sicily, with a fair wind and a smooth sea, but the fuss and clatter during the navigation of this short space were prodigious. All hands were running fore and aft, looking out ahead and astern, bustling around the man at the helm, peeping at the compass, and jabbering and gesticulating as if they were in the most imminent danger.

At daylight the next morning, we found ourselves close under the Sicilian shore, with Mount Ætna in the north, towering up majestically to the heavens, like a huge pyramid of snow with a black spot at the top. It was more than seventy miles off. About ten in the forenoon we arrived at Syracuse, a city which was once ten times as big as Boston, but is now almost entirely depopulated. It has a noble harbor, but we found only a few fishing-boats there; and when we landed at the quay, hardly a living being was to be seen: everything looked solitary, ruinous, and forlorn. I walked through the streets, but saw no signs of trade, commerce, or industry. A few people were sitting lazily before their doors, sunning themselves; and numbers of beggars dogged my heels wherever I went. Now and then I met a donkey with a pannier of greens, but no such thing as a wagon or chaise.

When I got to the market-place, I saw groups of people sitting in the sun or lounging idly about, but no business doing. I could not help smiling to see a constable, who was strutting up and down to keep the peace among this pack of lazy fellows. He wore a great, long, tattered cloak, a huge cocked hat, a sword, and he had a most flaming, fiery visage, with a nose like a blood-beet. I never saw such a swaggering figure in my life, before. He happened to spy a little urchin pilfering a bunch of greens, on which he caught him by the nape of the neck with one hand, and drawing his sword with the other, gave him a lusty thwacking with the flat of the blade. The little rogue kicked and squalled, and made a most prodigious uproar, which afforded great amusement to the crowd: they seemed to be quite familiar with such adventures.

I walked out into the country, and was struck with astonishment at the sight of the ruins scattered all round the neighborhood. They extend for miles in every direction. Walls, arches, columns, remains of temples, theatres and palaces met the eye at every step. Here and there were little gardens among the ruins, where artichokes were growing, but hardly a human being was to be seen. I came at length to the remains of a large theatre, consisting of a semicircle of stone steps, and found a mill stream tumbling down the middle of it. A ragged peasant was lying lazily in the sun among the ruins. I asked him what building it was, but he was totally ignorant of the matter, and could only reply that it was “cosa antica”—something ancient. Presently I discovered an enormous excavation in the solid rock, as big as a house, which excited my curiosity very strongly. I could not imagine the use of it, till I luckily met an old Capuchin friar, plodding along in his coarse woollen gown; and learnt from him that this was the famous “Ear of Dionysius,” where that tyrannical king used to confine such persons as fell under his suspicion. It is a most curious place, hollowed out in the shape of the human ear, and forming a vast cavern: in the top is a little nook or chamber, where the tyrant used to sit and hear what the prisoners said. The lowest whisper was heard distinctly in this spot; so that the prisoners were sure to betray themselves if they held any conversation together.

While I stood wondering at this strange perversion of human ingenuity, I was startled by the appearance of a grim-looking fellow, who pulled out a pistol as he approached me. My first impulse was to grasp my trusty cudgel, and flourish it at him with a fierce air of defiance, for I took him to be a robber, of course. To my surprise he burst out a laughing, and told me he had come on purpose to show me the wonderful effect of sound in the Ear. He bade me go into the further end of the cavern, while he fired the pistol at the entrance. I did so, and the effect was like the roaring of thunder: I was glad to clap my hands to my ears and run out as fast as I could. I gave the fellow a few cents for his trouble, and told him I had never before got so much noise for so little money.

I continued to ramble about among the ruins, which seemed to have no end. The almond trees were in full bloom, and the orange trees were bowing down under loads of ripe fruit. Flocks of magpies were flitting about, but everything was silent and deserted. Now and then I met a countryman jogging lazily along upon a donkey, or an old woman driving her beast with a load of vine-stalks, which are used in the city to heat ovens. I could not help wondering to see so fine a territory lie utterly neglected; but the indolence of the inhabitants is the cause of all. A very little labor will earn a loaf of bread, and most of them are satisfied with this. The climate is so mild, that ragged clothes occasion no discomfort, and hardly anybody minds going in rags. The soil is so rich as scarcely to require art or industry in the cultivation. The oranges and the grapes grow with hardly any care, and the husbandman lives a lazy life, with but little to do except to pick the fruit and make the wine.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

(Continued from page 119.)

CHAPTER II.

The West Indies continued.—Discovery of Hayti.—Generosity of the Cacique.—Testimony of Columbus in favor with the Indians.—Character of the natives.—Columbus erects a cross.—Indian belief.—Effect of the Spanish invasion.—The Cacique.

Columbus entered a harbor at the western end of the island of Hayti, on the evening of the 6th of December. He gave to the harbor the name of St. Nicholas, which it bears to this day. The inhabitants were frightened at the approach of the ships, and they all fled to the mountains. It was some time before any of the natives could be found. At last three sailors succeeded in overtaking a young and beautiful female, whom they carried to the ships.

She was treated with the greatest kindness, and dismissed finely clothed, and loaded with presents of beads, hawk’s bells, and other pretty baubles. Columbus hoped by this conduct to conciliate the Indians; and he succeeded. The next day, when the Spaniards landed, the natives permitted them to enter their houses, and set before them bread, fish, roots and fruits of various kinds, in the most kind and hospitable manner.

Columbus sailed along the coast, continuing his intercourse with the natives, some of whom had ornaments of gold, which they readily exchanged for the merest trifle of European manufacture. These poor, simple people little thought that to obtain gold these Christians would destroy all the Indians in the islands. No—they believed the Spaniards were more than mortal, and the country from which they came must exist somewhere in the skies.

The generous and kind feelings of the natives were shown to great advantage when Columbus was distressed by the loss of his ship. He was sailing to visit a grand cacique or chieftain named Guacanagari, who resided on the coast to the eastward, when his ship ran aground, and the breakers beating against her, she was entirely wrecked. He immediately sent messengers to inform Guacanagari of this misfortune.

When the cacique heard of the distress of his guest, he was so much afflicted as to shed tears; and never in civilized country were the vaunted rites of hospitality more scrupulously observed than by this uncultivated savage. He assembled his people and sent off all his canoes to the assistance of Columbus, assuring him, at the same time, that everything he possessed was at his service. The effects were landed from the wreck and deposited near the dwelling of the cacique, and a guard set over them, until houses could be prepared, in which they could be stored.

There seemed, however, no disposition among the natives to take advantage of the misfortune of the strangers, or to plunder the treasures thus cast upon their shores, though they must have been inestimable in their eyes. On the contrary, they manifested as deep a concern at the disaster of the Spaniards as if it had happened to themselves, and their only study was, how they could administer relief and consolation.

Columbus was greatly affected by this unexpected goodness. “These people,” said he in his journal, “love their neighbors as themselves; their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and accompanied by a smile. There is not in the world a better nation or a better land.”

When the cacique first met with Columbus, the latter appeared dejected, and the good Indian, much moved, again offered Columbus everything he possessed that could be of service to him. He invited him on shore, where a banquet was prepared for his entertainment, consisting of various kinds of fish and fruit. After the feast, Columbus was conducted to the beautiful groves which surrounded the dwelling of the cacique, where upwards of a thousand of the natives were assembled, all perfectly naked, who performed several of their national games and dances.

Thus did this generous Indian try, by every means in his power, to cheer the melancholy of his guest, showing a warmth of sympathy, a delicacy of attention, and an innate dignity and refinement, which could not have been expected from one in his savage state.

He was treated with great deference by his subjects, and conducted himself towards them with a gracious and prince-like majesty.

Three houses were given to the shipwrecked crew for their residence. Here, living on shore, and mingling freely with the natives, they became fascinated by their easy and idle mode of life. They were governed by the caciques with an absolute, but patriarchal and easy rule, and existed in that state of primitive and savage simplicity which some philosophers have fondly pictured as the most enviable on earth.

The following is the opinion of old Peter Martyr: “It is certain that the land among these people (the Indians) is as common as the sun and water, and that ‘mine and thine,’ the seeds of all mischief, have no place with them. They are content with so little, that, in so large a country, they have rather superfluity than scarceness; so that they seem to live in a golden world, without toil, in open gardens, neither entrenched nor shut up by walls or hedges. They deal truly with one another, without laws, or books, or judges.”

In fact, these Indians seemed to be perfectly contented; their few fields, cultivated almost without labor, furnished roots and vegetables; their groves were laden with delicious fruit; and the coast and rivers abounded with fish. Softened by the indulgence of nature, a great part of the day was passed by them in indolent repose. In the evening they danced in their fragrant groves to their national songs, or the rude sound of their silver drums.

Such was the character of the natives of many of the West Indian Islands, when first discovered. Simple and ignorant they were, and indolent also, but then they were kind-hearted, generous, and happy. And their sense of justice, and of the obligations of man to do right, are beautifully set forth in the following story.

Columbus erecting a Cross.

It was a custom with Columbus to erect crosses in all remarkable places, to denote the discovery of the country, and its subjugation to the Catholic faith. He once performed this ceremony on the banks of a river in Cuba. It was on a Sunday morning. The cacique attended, and also a favorite of his, a venerable Indian, fourscore years of age.

While mass was performed in a stately grove, the natives looked on with awe and reverence. When it was ended, the old man made a speech to Columbus in the Indian manner. “I am told,” said he, “that thou hast lately come to these lands with a mighty force, and hast subdued many countries, spreading great fear among the people; but be not vain-glorious.

“According to our belief, the souls of men have two journeys to perform after they have departed from the body: one to a place dismal, foul, and covered with darkness, prepared for such men as have been unjust and cruel to their fellow-men; the other full of delight for such as have promoted peace on earth. If then thou art mortal, and dost expect to die, beware that thou hurt no man wrongfully, neither do harm to those who have done no harm to thee.”

When this speech was explained to Columbus by his interpreter, he was greatly moved, and rejoiced to hear this doctrine of the future state of the soul, having supposed that no belief of the kind existed among the inhabitants of these countries. He assured the old man that he had been sent by his sovereigns, to teach them the true religion, to protect them from harm, and to subdue their enemies the Caribs.

Alas! for the simple Indians who believed such professions. Columbus, no doubt, was sincere, but the adventurers who accompanied him, and the tyrants who followed him, cared only for riches for themselves. They ground down the poor, harmless red men beneath a harsh system of labor, obliging them to furnish, month by month, so much gold. This gold was found in fine grains, and it was a severe task to search the mountain pebbles and the sands of the plains for the shining dust.

Then the islands, after they were seized upon by the Christians, were parcelled out among the leaders, and the Indians were compelled to be their slaves. No wonder “deep despair fell upon the natives. Weak and indolent by nature, and brought up in the untasked idleness of their soft climate and their fruitful groves, death itself seemed preferable to a life of toil and anxiety.

“The pleasant life of the island was at an end; the dream in the shade by day; the slumber during the noontide heat by the fountain, or under the spreading palm; and the song, and the dance, and the game in the mellow evening, when summoned to their simple amusements by the rude Indian drum.

“They spoke of the times that were past, before the white men had introduced sorrow, and slavery, and weary labor among them; and their songs were mournful, and their dances slow.

“They had flattered themselves, for a time, that the visit of the strangers would be but temporary, and that, spreading their ample sails, their ships would waft them back to their home in the sky. In their simplicity, they had frequently inquired of the Spaniards when they intended to return to Turey, or the heavens. But when all such hope was at an end, they became desperate, and resorted to a forlorn and terrible alternative.”

They knew the Spaniards depended chiefly on the supplies raised in the islands for a subsistence; and these poor Indians endeavored to produce a famine. For this purpose they destroyed their fields of maize, stripped the trees of their fruit, pulled up the yuca and other roots, and then fled to the mountains.

The Spaniards were reduced to much distress, but were partially relieved by supplies from Spain. To revenge themselves on the Indians, they pursued them to their mountain retreats, hunted them from one dreary fastness to another, like wild beasts, until thousands perished in dens and caverns, of famine and sickness, and the survivors, yielding themselves up in despair, submitted to the yoke of slavery. But they did not long bear the burden of life under their civilized masters. In 1504, only twelve years after the discovery of Hayti, when Columbus visited it, (under the administration of Ovando,) he thus wrote to his sovereigns: “Since I left the island, six parts out of seven of the natives are dead, all through ill-treatment and inhumanity; some by the sword, others by blows and cruel usage, or by hunger.”

No wonder these oppressed Indians considered the Christians the incarnation of all evil. Their feelings were often expressed in a manner that must have touched the heart of a real Christian, if there was such a one among their oppressors.

When Velasquez set out to conquer Cuba, he had only three hundred men; and these were thought sufficient to subdue an island above seven hundred miles in length, and filled with inhabitants. From this circumstance we may understand how naturally mild and unwarlike was the character of the Indians. Indeed, they offered no opposition to the Spaniards, except in one district. Hatney, a cacique who had fled from Hayti, had taken possession of the eastern extremity of Cuba. He stood upon the defensive, and endeavored to drive the Spaniards back to their ships. He was soon defeated and taken prisoner.

Velasquez considered him as a slave who had taken arms against his master, and condemned him to the flames. When Hatney was tied to the stake, a friar came forward, and told him that if he would embrace the Christian faith, he should be immediately, on his death, admitted into heaven.

“Are there any Spaniards,” says Hatney, after some pause, “in that region of bliss you describe?”

“Yes,” replied the monk, “but only such as are worthy and good.”

“The best of them,” returned the indignant Indian, “have neither worth nor goodness; I will not go to a place where I may meet with one of that cruel race.”

(To be continued.)

Something Wonderful.

The thing to which we refer is a seed. How wonderful that an acorn should contain within it a little plant, capable of growing up into an enormous oak, which will produce other acorns, capable of growing into other oaks, and so on forever! and yet there are seeds not one hundredth part as big as an acorn, which produce trees almost, if not quite, as large as an oak.

Or think of a grain of wheat. It is just as useful for food as if it contained nothing but a little flour mixed with a little bran. In fact, when it is ground there is nothing else to be seen; but beside these it contains a little plant, too small to be made out by common sight.

When one of these grains or seeds is put into moist earth, it begins to suck in water, which softens it and makes it swell. The little plant inside begins to grow, and in a few days a small, delicate root peeps out from one end of the seed. The seed may be lying on its side, or with the root end uppermost; but the little root, whether it comes out at the top or bottom of the seed, immediately turns downward, and grows in that direction.

Soon after, a little white shoot comes out at the other end, which turns upwards, and becomes green as soon as it gets into air and light; and thus we have a little plant.

In the mean time, the seed itself spoils and decays; or, as St. Paul calls it, dies. The flour changes into a kind of gummy sugar, which is sucked up by the young plant as its first nourishment; the husk shrivels and rots, and the plant grows up until it becomes a thousand times as large as the seed. At last it produces many other seeds, just as wonderful as that from which it grew.

In all the works of man, there is nothing like this. A watch is a remarkable invention, and a man would be set down as mad who should think it should be made by chance. But how much more wonderful would a watch be, if it could make other watches like itself! Yet a seed does this; and every cornfield in harvest-time contains millions of seeds, each of which is far more wonderful than the best watch.

The reason is, that men make watches, but God makes seeds. It is true that the skill by which men make watches comes from God, and should be acknowledged as his gift; but the more wonderful power by which a seed is made, he keeps in his own hands, that we may know that we have a Maker and a Master in heaven, and may serve him with reverence and godly fear.

Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy;

A DIALOGUE.

Susan. Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your house. I thought I never should see your face again. Did you ever know such a long, stupid storm? nothing but rain, rain, rain for three everlasting days!

Fanny. And in vacation-time too! it did seem too bad. If our house had not been on the street, so that I could see something stirring, I believe I should have had the blues.

Susan. And I did have the blues outright. I never was so dull in my life, moping about the house. Mother won’t let me touch such books as I like to read, and the boys went to school all day, so I had nothing on earth to do but look at the drops of rain racing down the windows, and watch the clouds to see if it was going to clear up. I assure you I fretted from morning till night, and mother got out of all patience with me, and said I was a perfect nuisance in the house; but I am sure it was not my fault.

Fanny. Well! I was a little better off. I sat half the time making fun of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that turned out in the rain. There was Mr. Skimmer went by every day with a cotton umbrella; and Mr. Saveals with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones started out on one side, as if he wanted to poke people’s eyes out, and a great slit to let the rain through:—both of them misers, I know! And there was Miss Goodbody! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, and won’t take a carriage, though she can afford it, because she says that would be ridiculous. I wish you had seen her come paddling through the wet! such shoes, and such stockings! I do think it is unladylike. Then, when everything else failed to amuse me, there were our neighbors opposite to be speculated upon.

Susan. Ah! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I believe?

Fanny. Yes, and there she sat at the window, on purpose to be seen, stitching away, and reading, and setting herself up as a pattern to the whole neighborhood.

Susan. I would not have such a strict mother as she has for all the world. I don’t believe she enjoys her vacation at all.

Fanny. I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so close. I should think she was bringing her up to be a seamstress; and yet, considering that everybody knows Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura extravagantly. Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on examination day?

Susan. Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would go over and look at it, but couldn’t take the trouble.

Fanny. Why, how you do gape, Susan!

Susan. I know it; mother says I have a terrible trick of gaping. But I do get so tired.

Fanny. Tired of what?

Susan. I don’t know; I am tired of the vacation, I believe: and before the term was over I was wishing so for it! I was tired to death of school, and dare say I shall be so again in a fortnight.

Fanny. Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from mamma’s workbasket. Just see how fast she walks;—ah ha! she is going to the circulating library; look at that novel under her arm.

Susan. I shall tell my mother of that; she thinks everything right that the Busy family do.

(Enter Laura.)

Fanny. Well, Laura, poor thing! you are so glad to get out of the house that I suppose you are running away from it as fast as you can.

Laura. I am not quite running, I believe, but you know I always walk fast.

Susan. I can’t think why, I am sure.

Laura. It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me more good than if I were to go sauntering along.

Susan. Saves time? and in the vacation too? why, of what consequence is time now, when you have no school-hours to mind?

Laura. Because if I don’t take care I shall not get through what I have planned. Only think how fast the vacation is going! Next Monday school begins.

Fanny. So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the vacation is almost over. I thought you told the master, when school broke up, that you wished there was no vacation.

Laura. I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would be a dull time.

Susan. I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I should think it must have been worse yet for you.

Laura. Why?

Susan. Because your mother keeps you at work all the time.

Laura. Indeed she does not. She sent me out to walk this very afternoon, and she always makes me put my work away at just such hours, for fear I should sit too close at my needle.

Susan. Mercy! do you love to sew? oh, I suppose you are learning fancy work: well, I don’t know but I might like that for a little while.

Laura. No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till I can do plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking how I should manage to pass the vacation, and I took it into my head that I would try to make a shirt by a particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I shall be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall present my father with a shirt of my own making.

Susan. Did you do all the fine stitching yourself?

Laura. To be sure.

Susan. I am sure I would not make myself such a slave.

Laura. There is no slavery about it; it was my own pleasure; and you cannot think how fast it has made the time go. I set myself a task every day, and then, you see, trying to get just so much done by twelve o’clock, made me feel so interested!

Fanny. And the rest of the time you have been reading novels, I see.

Laura. No, indeed; I never read one in my life. Did you think this library-book was a novel?

Fanny. Let me see it; “Astoria;” is not that the name of some heroine? let me look at it a little. (Turning over the leaves.)

Laura. You can’t think how interesting it is. It gives an account of a place away on the western coast of North America; and of all that the people suffered to get there; and about the very wildest Indians, and the trappers, and the Rocky Mountains; and here is a map, you see, Susan.

Susan. Oh, well! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose.

Laura. Such books will make your geography pleasanter than ever, I am sure; do read it.

Susan. Not I; I have hardly touched a book or a needle this vacation, and I have no idea of it. These long summer days are tedious enough without that.

Laura. But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you were only occupied about something or other.

Fanny. And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole vacation without a bit of amusement? I must say I think there is a little affectation in that.

Laura. Oh no, indeed! I do not like to sit still from morning till night any better than you do; and mother would not let me if I did. I have taken a long, brisk walk every day.

Fanny. What, alone? I hate walking alone.

Laura. Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes walks over the bridge into the country with me, and we get wild flowers, and she explains all about them; that we call going botanizing, and it makes the walks much more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled a common head of clover to pieces and showed me how curiously it is made up of ever so many florets, as she calls them; and even the dandelion is very queer.

Susan. And did you go botanizing in the rain too?

Laura. No; of course we could not stir out then.

Susan. Then I rather think you found the last three days as dull as any of us.

Fanny. Not she, Susan. No doubt it was very pleasant to sit perched up at the window all day, for the passers to admire her industry.

Laura. O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable! if you had not been at the window so much yourself you would not have seen me.

Fanny. But I was not making a display of myself, with a book or a needle forever in my hand.

Laura. No, Fanny; if you had been occupied, however, you would not have been making such unkind remarks about your neighbors, would you? Did you not observe that my mother sat at the window with me? The reason was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the room when it is cloudy. You know our little breakfast-room has only one window.

Susan. So for the last three days you have been reading and poking your needle in and out from morning till night? Well! it would be the death of me. (Gaping.)

Laura. Why no; I tell you I do not like sitting still forever, any more than you do; I like to use my feet every day as well as my hands, and I presume they expect it. Too much stitching gives me a stitch in my side; so when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shuttlecock with father when he came home to dinner, and one day we kept it up to five hundred and two. Then before tea I used to skip rope along the upper entry sometimes; and then there was something else—but I suppose Fanny will tell all the girls in school and make them laugh at me; but I really enjoyed it best of anything.

Fanny. What was it? tell us, do. I hate secrets.

Laura. You like to find them out, I am sure; but it is no mighty secret, after all; and I don’t know why I need be ashamed to tell, for my father and mother made no objection. I went up into the nursery every evening before the little ones went to bed, and played blind man’s buff with them.

Fanny. And could you take any pleasure in it?

Laura. To be sure.

Fanny. Then I must say I had no idea you were such a baby. Mr. Teachall’s best scholar playing romping games with little children! I am six months younger than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too much of a woman for blind man’s buff! I gave that up three years ago!

Laura. Well! it seemed to make the children enjoy their fun all the better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, and did nobody any harm; so I am content to be called a baby.

Susan. I don’t see how you could take the trouble; it tires me just to think of going racing about the room at that rate. I should as soon think of sitting down to study French for amusement.

Fanny. I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. I declare she looks as if she had! Who would have thought of that?

Laura. I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those last lessons were before the term ended, and I was afraid I should forget them; so I have been reviewing the last thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep what I had got, as she says, and make the next come easier.

Susan. A pretty vacation, to be sure! How upon earth did you find time for it all?

Laura. Why, I don’t know. There are no more hours in my day than there are in yours, Susan. But good-by, girls; I am going to see if aunt Kindly has come to town again.

Fanny. Stop a minute, Laura; I am going shopping, and I want to know where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean to tease my mother for one just like it.

Laura. Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me.

Fanny. Oh ho! a present, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder what put it into her head.

Laura. I believe she was pleased because, when mother was fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for them. Your mother helped too, Susan.

Susan. Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed school a single day: how could you find time then?

Laura. I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd moment; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was waiting for something or somebody, and even that helped on the work. I think that is a great advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our time. Good-by; you creep so like snails, I should think you would fall asleep. (Exit.)

Susan. Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would not lead such a life for anything.

Fanny. I begin to think I would, Susan! she really makes me ashamed of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when you know your mother is always grieving at your laziness. I have heard her tell my mother twenty times that your indolence makes your life a burden to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks what kind of woman you will make.

Susan. It is better to be idle than to be always talking about people, Fanny! (Pouting.)

Fanny. You are incurable, I do believe; but I am not, and I am going home this minute to find some work, and mind my own affairs.

Susan. Why, I thought we were going shopping!

Fanny. But I am not in want of anything; I was only going to kill time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I will lead Laura’s life a couple of days and see how I like it. I really think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue will not get me into so many difficulties. Good-by, Susan.

Susan. Good-by. Oh dear! I wonder what I shall do with myself now!

“In this country,” says an English editor, “it is considered the height of folly for a man to get drunk and lie across a railroad with the idea of obtaining repose.” The same opinion obtains to a considerable extent in America.

Antiquities of Egypt.

Egypt is situated in the northeastern part of Africa, and very near to Asia. The descendants of Noah first settled in the valley of the river Euphrates, and thence they spread over the land in all directions. Egypt is about five hundred miles westward of this valley, and being a very fruitful country, was speedily filled with inhabitants. These soon began to build cities, and in the space of a few centuries after the flood, Egypt was the seat of a great and powerful empire. The people increased with astonishing rapidity; a knowledge of various arts was diffused among them, schools of learning were established, men of profound science flourished, and the kings and princes built vast cities, made artificial lakes, constructed canals, caused vast chambers as depositories of the dead to be cut out of the solid rock, raised mighty pyramids which still defy the tooth of time, and carried on other great and mighty works.

Thus it was that while America was unknown; while nearly all Africa, nearly all Europe, and more than half of Asia, were uninhabited, except by wild beasts; and while most of the people and nations on the globe were rude and uncivilized, the empire of Egypt contained many millions of people who were far advanced in civilization. Thus at the earliest period Egypt took the lead in knowledge and science, and therefore it is called the cradle of learning. Here it was that Homer and other celebrated Greek scholars, almost 3000 years ago, went to school, as young men go to Cambridge and New Haven to acquire learning now-a-days. Here it was that Moses, almost 3400 years ago, was educated, by direction of Pharaoh’s daughter, in a very superior manner, thus qualifying him, with the aid of Divine Providence, for the wonderful task of leading the Jewish nation for forty years through the wilderness of Arabia.

The history of the Jewish nation, as told in the Bible, gives us a good deal of information about Egypt in those early days, for the Jews were held in bondage there, and after they escaped, they settled in Palestine, a distance of only about 250 miles from Egypt. There was much intercourse therefore between the two nations, and the history of one naturally runs into that of the other.

But besides this knowledge of the history of Egypt afforded by the Bible, much other information is given by the ancient Greek and Roman historians; in addition to all this, the remains of ancient cities scattered along the banks of the Nile,—a famous river that runs through Egypt,—assure us that the half has hardly been told us. Notwithstanding the wonderful accounts of the splendor and populousness of ancient Egypt, handed down by antiquity, the existing monuments prove that these accounts fall short of the truth. And these remains are not only interesting as proving this, but also because they illustrate history, and throw much light upon the manners and customs of the ancient Egyptians.

Among the famous ruins of Luxor, which are found on the borders of the Nile, and which excite the wonder of every beholder by their splendor and magnificence, are the ornaments of buildings, which consist of carvings in marble, portraying various scenes, some relating to history and some to domestic life. Many of these sculptures exhibit men fighting, and therefore show how they carried on war 3500 years ago; there are carvings of men hunting, which show how they pursued the chase in those times. There are representations which show what kind of carts and carriages the people had; how they harnessed their horses and cattle; what kind of weapons they used in war; and many other things are shown by these remains of antiquity.

But recent discoveries have developed still more curious and interesting things. Vast chambers or rooms have been discovered, cut in the rock beneath the ground, where it seems the people used to live. On the walls of these chambers are paintings, which still preserve their colors and outlines so perfectly as to be easily understood. Here the traveller is able to study the manners and customs of ancient Egypt: here he finds pictures telling how the people dressed; how they cooked their food; what sort of furniture they had; how they amused themselves; in short, how they lived, in almost every respect. And what is curious to remark is this,—that many articles which have been invented in modern times, appear to have been in use among these Egyptians at least three thousand years ago. This subject is full of interest, for by the monuments and paintings of Egypt we have, as it were, discovered a wonderful book, that tells us a story which has been more than half hidden for about thirty centuries.

The Giraffe brought as tribute to Pharaoh.

But there is no aspect in which these modern discoveries seem so interesting, as in regard to the light they throw upon numerous passages in the Bible. I will mention a few instances; the following is one. Among the animals mentioned as illustrative of the wisdom and power of Providence, is one called in Hebrew the Reem, a word which literally signifies “the tall animal.” It is thus described in scripture: “Will the reem be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy crib? Canst thou bind the reem with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after thee? Wilt thou trust him because his strength is great? or wilt thou leave thy labor to him? Wilt thou believe him, that he will bring home thy seed and gather it into thy barn?” (Job xxxix. 9-12.) Our translators have rendered the word reem, unicorn, which is absurd. Some commentators assert that it is the rhinoceros, or the buffalo, because the cognate Arabic word is sometimes applied to a species of gazelle, and the Arabs frequently speak of oxen and stags as one species. But neither the rhinoceros nor the buffalo can be called a tall animal, and the analogy between them and any species of gazelle with which we are acquainted, would be very difficult to demonstrate. But we find upon the monuments an animal fulfilling all the conditions of the description, and that is the giraffe, which is represented several times among the articles of tribute brought to the Pharaohs from the interior of Africa. The preceding sketch represents one of these carvings.

A most interesting proof of the accuracy and fidelity of the Bible narration is furnished by the following considerations. The artists of Egypt, in the specimens which they have left behind, delineated minutely every circumstance connected with their national habits and observances from the cradle to the grave; representing with equal fidelity the usages of the palace and the cottage,—the king surrounded by the pomp of state, and the peasant employed in the humblest labors of the field. In the very first mention of Egypt, we shall find the scriptural narrative singularly illustrated and confirmed by the monuments.

“And there was a famine in the land (of Canaan,) and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was grievous in the land. And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou art a fair woman to look upon; therefore it shall come to pass when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This is his wife; and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive. Say, I pray thee, thou art my sister, that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee. And it came to pass, that when Abram was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she was very fair. The princes also of Pharaoh’s house saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house.” (Gen. xii. 10-15.)

Now let it be remembered that at present the custom for the Egyptian women, as well as those of other eastern countries, is to veil their faces somewhat in the manner here represented. Why then should Abram have been so anxious because the princes of Pharaoh’s house saw his wife Sarai? How indeed could they see her face, and discover that she was handsome, if she had been veiled according to the custom of the country now? The question is answered by the monuments, for here is a representation of the manner in which a woman was dressed in Egypt in ancient times.

It seems therefore that they exposed their faces; and thus the scripture story is shown to be agreeable to the manners and customs of the country at the date to which the story refers. It is impossible to bring a more striking and conclusive proof of the antiquity and minute accuracy of the Bible record than this.

The period at which the custom of veiling the faces of women was introduced into Egypt, was probably about 500 years before Christ, when Cambyses, king of Persia, conquered that country. It was but natural that the conquered country should adopt the fashions of the conquering one, particularly as at this period Persia was an empire of great wealth and power, and likely not only to give laws in respect to government, but in respect to manners also. The probability, therefore, that the Bible record was made previous to this event, even had we not other testimony, is very strong, from the fact that it relates, in the story of Abraham and his wife, a tale which implies a fashion which probably never existed in Egypt after the conquests of Cambyses. How wonderful it is, that these mute monuments, after slumbering in silence for ages, should now be able to add their indubitable testimony to the truth of that book, which we hold to be the Word of God!

A Drunkard’s Home.

It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a sky so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet note, and earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path that led to the village school was trod by happy children, whose glowing cheeks and merry voices testified that they partook of the general gladness.

In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed and smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and vice. She looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful countenance, and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she carried, lingered by the fence till the children were out of sight, and then, turning into another road, proceeded to perform her usual errand to a grocery called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning had no charm for her. Her little heart felt none of the lightness and gayety the hearts of children feel when nature is beautiful around them. She could not laugh as they laughed; and as the sound of their merry voices seemed still to linger on her ear, she wondered that she could not be as happy as they.

And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home, of the cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her mother, of the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had just passed, of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often felt; she thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just seen, and then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was, till the tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than ever.

Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew what made those happy children so different from herself. She well knew that they would spend that day in school, learning something useful, while she would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to quiet the hungry baby, and please the other children, while her mother was picking cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was that very morning to carry home something that would make her mother cross and wholly unmindful of her destitute children.

When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there, but his son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the counter, playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a faltering voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman, looking upon her with mingled contempt and pity, said, “What does your mother drink rum for?” Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad that the boy was sorry for what he had said. He gave her the liquor, and tied up the scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy heart and hasty step, proceeded upon her way.

When she reached her dwelling—and who needs a description of a drunkard’s dwelling?—her mother met her at the door, and hastily snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to gather some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed before the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered round to watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently baked, they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the empty tin remained.

The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the wants of her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in trying to soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just succeeded in lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been in the meadow, picking the cranberries which had been preserved during the winter under the snow, and which could now be sold for a few cents a quart. Though once a strong and active man, so degraded had he become, that few persons were willing to employ him, and he resorted to picking cranberries as the only means left him of obtaining what his appetite so imperiously demanded.

On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he uttered a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the crying child and put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell the cranberries, and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.

Mary put on her bonnet, and with a trembling heart commenced her walk. On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them that, as their father was then at home, they had better keep away from the house till her return. She then called from door to door; but at every place her timid inquiry, “Do you want any cranberries here?” met the same chilling answer, “No.”

At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of them at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the sun had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the western sky. She must go home, and what would her father say if she returned with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and she determined to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her father wanted.

After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly retraced her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the cottage.

Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring where Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as long as she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father would be, if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother, regardless of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized the jug and drank a large part of its contents.

It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and, enraged at seeing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary first, and then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies of the latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary, fearing for the safety of herself and her brothers, crept with them into an empty closet, where, with their arms round each other, they remained, almost breathless with alarm, trembling at their father’s loud threats and their mother’s fearful screams.

At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the low groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe. The children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some food, before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to forget their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a crust of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the remainder of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was too late to attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the hearth, and it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry children, with their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves down to sleep.

In the village in which Mary’s parents lived, the wretched condition of the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them to abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were then induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his address. Whispers and significant looks passed between the acquaintances when Thomas and his wife entered the church, and scarcely one among the number thought they could be at all benefited by what they might hear. But they did not see Thomas’ heart, or know what a wretched being he felt himself to be. Through necessity, neither he nor his wife had now tasted spirit for several days, as their means of obtaining it had failed. The cranberries were all gathered from the meadow, and persons of their character could not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas knew he must take a different course, or himself and family would be sent to the work-house. It was on account of these circumstances that he this evening consented with his wife to attend the meeting.

When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy, wished himself away. But by degrees he became more and more interested, until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling down his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind, and he inwardly exclaimed, “I can do it—I will do it, if I die in the attempt;” and at the close of the service, going boldly up to a group of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of his wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband’s coat as she heard her name mentioned, and said, faintly, “Not mine, not mine, Thomas.” But the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily over the shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of Thomas and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged themselves to abstain from all use of ardent spirits.

As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober, industrious man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had long abandoned the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and after expressing his satisfaction at the course he had pursued, invited him to call at his house on his way home. After some hesitation, Thomas and Nancy consented; the latter being exceedingly pleased at being invited again to call on Hannah Stevens.

As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the cradle, and glanced first at her husband, and then at his companions, with a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded, however, to one of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her husband said, “I have brought you some friends, Hannah.” “Yes,” said Thomas, “and may we henceforth merit the title.” Nancy hung down her head, as if ashamed of the thoughts that were passing through her mind. Hannah, noticing her appearance, feared she did not sympathize much in her husband’s feelings. “I must encourage the poor woman,” thought she, “or her husband will be undone. If Nancy does not encourage him by her example, all will be lost.”

The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and while Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah threw aside the quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of her own, but oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before her, in its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind her own pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty dress, so seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the recollection. Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and wishing to increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room to see her other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and knowing the strength of a mother’s love, she wished to make use of this strong principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a sense of duty.

Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment. Nancy was evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable appearance of her neighbor’s house, and Hannah seized this opportunity to point out to her her dreadful neglect of duty. It was a kind, but a faithful reproof, calculated to awaken in her bosom every feeling of a mother that yet remained. Nancy did not leave the room until she had promised, by her own example, to encourage her husband to return to the uniform practice of sobriety. Thomas and his wife then took leave of their kind neighbors.

We will leave this happy fireside, and accompany Thomas and Nancy to their desolate home. As they approached the house, the faint cries of the neglected baby first struck the parents’ ears. Poor Mary was endeavoring, as usual, to quiet the little sufferer. There was no fire upon the hearth, and no light upon the table, but the moonbeams through the changing clouds were sufficient to reveal the gloom and wretchedness of the drunkards’ home. Thomas and Nancy could not but perceive the contrast between the home they had just left and their own. It was a contrast most sad and humiliating.

Early the next morning, the first person the family saw coming down the lane was little William Stevens. He had in his hand a basket of potatoes, which his father had sent to Thomas Millman, with a request that he would call at his work-shop after he had eaten his breakfast. This unexpected present gave much joy to this destitute family, and Mary, with her little brothers, will not soon forget how acceptable were their roast potatoes that morning, though eaten without butter or salt.

Thomas called, as he was requested, at William Stevens’ work-shop, and found there a job which would employ him for a day or two. It was joyfully and speedily undertaken, and after an industrious day’s work, he received, at the close, a part of his wages to lay out in food for his family. Thomas had little to struggle with this day, and on the whole, it passed by easily and pleasantly. Not so with poor Nancy. Having less to employ her mind than her husband, she was sorely tempted, more than once, to send Mary to the Yellow Shop to exchange what remained of her kind neighbor’s gift for rum. But the thought of Hannah’s kindness, and her own promise, so solemnly made, restrained her.

At last, the day wore by, and it was time for Thomas to return. As soon as the children saw him enter the lane, they ran, as was their custom, to their hiding-place; for, knowing nothing of what had recently transpired, they expected to find him intoxicated, as usual.

“Can that be father?” whispered they to each other as they heard a steady step and a calm voice. The youngest boy peeped out his head to see.

“Come here, my poor boy,” said Thomas, kindly; “you needn’t be afraid; I am not drunk.” “Oh, he isn’t drunk! he isn’t drunk!” said Jemmy, clapping his hands in great joy; “come out, children, father won’t hurt us.” Half faithless, half believing, the children left their hiding-place and came around their father.

“Mother hasn’t sent you for any rum to-day, has she, Mary?” “No, father; I hope I shall never go to that shop again.” “You never shall, to buy rum, Mary, I promise you. Do you believe me?” Mary looked as if she did not quite believe, but she said nothing.

A year has passed by since the period when our history commenced. It is a fine morning in April, as it then was. The children of the village are pursuing their way to school as pleasantly as they then were. But where is the little girl, with soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, that then attracted our attention? Look for one of the happiest girls among that gay, laughing group, and you will find her. Her dirty, tattered garments are exchanged for neat and comely ones; her bare feet are covered with tidy shoes and stockings, and in her hand she carries, not a tin pail, but a basket containing her school-books and work. The scenes through which this day will carry her will be very different from those through which she passed a year ago.

A great and blessed change has indeed come over this once wretched family. They have left the miserable habitation which was once theirs, and are now living upon a small but excellent farm, whose owner is not afraid to rent it to so sober and industrious people as Thomas and Nancy have become. Within the year, Thomas has been able to purchase comfortable clothing for his family, decent furniture for his house, and has besides partly paid for two yokes of oxen and four cows.

Look at Thomas at work in his field, and managing his little farm, thriving at home and respected abroad, and say what would tempt him to come again under the influence of his former ruinous habits? Look at Nancy, too, superintending her dairy and supplying the wants of her family—does she wish for a return of those days when she was the intemperate mother of hungry, neglected children? But are there not hundreds of mothers who are at this time what she once was? and can they not, will they not, be induced to become what she now is?

The Boastful Ass.

I can hardly tell the reason, but the fact seems to be, that the ass, an honest and somewhat stupid animal, seems to have given rise to more fables than any other beast, except the fox. I have already told some fables in which this long-eared personage is made to utter a great many wise things. I am now going to tell another fable, in which the creature is represented as talking rather foolishly.

A man was once going along the road with an ass, whom he treated somewhat roughly, upon which the beast first whisked his long tail, and then groaned, and finally spoke outright. “It seems to me, sir,” said the honest creature, “that you use me very ill, particularly as I belong to a race of great antiquity, and one that has been honored above all four-footed beasts!”

“Why, how’s that?” said the man.

“How’s that? indeed!” said the ass. “If you had read the Bible as much as you should, you would remember that it was one of my ancestors which conversed with a prophet, and stood in the presence of an angel on a certain occasion. This is an honor which belongs exclusively to the ass family, of which I am one, and therefore it seems meet that you should treat me with proper respect.”

“Well done!” said the countryman; “well done! poor brute. This is ever the way. It seems to be with asses as with men: when one has no merit of his own, he always boasts the dignity of his family, or the virtues of his ancestors. For my part, I know of nothing that sinks a beast or a man lower, than to see him attempt to cover up his own vices, or weakness, or folly, by showing off the dignity of his pedigree, or the respectability of his connections.” Then, giving the ass a somewhat contemptuous kick, the man passed on.

Travelling Beehives.—In Switzerland, the traveller often sees a man trudging up the mountains with a hive of bees on his back. The people move the bees, because they know how good change of place is for them. This, too, is done almost everywhere in Scotland. In France, they put their hives into a boat, some hundreds together, which floats down the stream by night, and stops by day. The bees go out in the morning, return in the evening, and when they are all at home, and quiet, the boat floats on.

Architecture of Birds.

There is no topic in Natural History more curious than the architecture of birds. In the building of nests many species are exceedingly ingenious. The humming-bird constructs its nest of thefinest silky down, or of cotton, or of the fibres of the flag-top that the boys call cat-tail, or of some other similar material. Within, it is lined in the most delicate manner with downy substances. The outside is covered with moss, usually of the color of the bough or twig to which the nest is attached, and giving it simply the appearance of an excrescence. The delicacy and ingenuity of workmanship in this case, as well as the skill displayed in the whole management of the affair, could hardly be excelled by human art.

Humming-Bird’s Nest.

There are several species of warblers which are very skilful in the formation of their nests, but we do not recollect to have met with anything more remarkable in this way than the nest of a species of grosbeak found in one of the Asiatic islands.

Nest of the Grosbeak.

It is shaped somewhat like an inverted bottle, with a long neck, through which the bird passes up to the snug and downy little chamber above. The nest consists of soft vegetable substances, basketed and sewed together in a very wonderful manner. But the strangest part of the story is to come—the whole is suspended on the leaf of a plant! How the bird could have built the nest in this position, it is not easy to say, but we have many evidences that instinct makes that easy to birds, which is difficult to the industry and ingenuity of mankind.

The Secret.—“Mother,” said a girl of ten years of age, “I want to know the secret of your going away alone every night and morning.” “Why, my dear?” “Because it must be to see some one you love very much.” “And what leads you to think so?” “Because I have always noticed that when you come back you appear to be more happy than usual.” “Well, suppose I do go to see a friend I love very much, and that after seeing him, and conversing with him, I am more happy than before, why should you wish to know anything about it?” “Because I wish to do as you do, that I may be happy also.”

“Well, my child, when I leave you in the morning and the evening, it is to commune with my Savior. I go to pray to him—I ask him for his grace to make me happy and holy—I ask him to assist me in all the duties of the day, and especially to keep me from committing any sin against him—and above all I ask him to have mercy on you, and save you from the misery of those who sin against him.” “Oh, that is the secret,” said the child; “then I must go with you.”

The Logue Family.—The crier of a country court was upon a certain occasion required to go to the court-house door, and, as is usual in the absence of a witness, call out for Philip Logue, one of the sons of Erin, who was summoned in a case then pending. The man of the baton accordingly, stepping to the door, sung out at the top of his voice, “Philip Logue!” A wag of a lawyer happening to be passing the door at the time, whispered in his ear, “Epilogue, also.” “Epi Logue!” sung out the crier. “Decalogue,” said the lawyer in an under tone. “Dekky Logue!” again sung out the crier at the top of his voice. “Apologue,” whispered the lawyer. “Appy Logue!” reiterated the crier, at the same time expostulating with the lawyer—“You certainly want the whole family of the Logues!” “Prologue,” said the persevering lawyer. “Pro Logue!” rung through the halls of the court-house, from the stentorian lungs of the public crier, attracting the attention of everybody, and shocking the dignitaries on the bench themselves, who, not understanding the cause of his vociferousness, despatched the sheriff, with all haste, to stop the constable from further summoning the family of the Logues.

HYMN.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

When morning pours its golden rays,
O’er hill and vale, o’er earth and sea,
My heart unbidden swells in praise,
Father of light and life, to Thee!

When night, from heaven, steals darkly down,
And throws its robe o’er lawn and lea,
My saddened spirit seeks thy throne,
And bows in worship still to Thee!

If tempests sweep the angry sky,
Or sunbeams smile on flower and tree,
If joy or sorrow brim the eye—
Father in Heaven, I turn to Thee!

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

My own Life and Adventures.

(Continued from page 133.)

CHAPTER VIII.

Youth a happy period.—My young days.—A summer morning.—A day’s adventures.

It is a common remark that youth is the happiest portion of life, but, like many other wise and deep sayings, it passes by us unheeded, till, at some late period in the great journey, we look back upon our track, and, by a comparison of the past with the present, are forced to feel and confess the truth, which we have before doubted. Mankind are ever tempted to think that there is something better before them; if they are not happy yet, they still indulge bright expectations. They are reluctant, even when advanced in years, to believe that the noon of life’s joys is past; that the chill of evening is already mingling in every breeze that feeds the breath; that there is no returning morn to them; that the course of the sun is now only downward; and that sunset is the final close of that day that has dawned upon them, and lighted up a world full of hopes, and wishes, and anticipations. It is not till the shadows, dark and defined, are creeping around us, and forcing us to deal honestly with ourselves, that we admit the truth—that life is made up of a series of illusions; that we are constantly pursuing bubbles, which seem bright at a distance and allure us on to the chase, but which fly from our pursuit, or, if reached, burst in the hand that grasps them. It is not till we are already at the landing and about to step into the bark that is to bear us from the shore, that we come to the conclusion that human life is a chase, in which the game is nothing, and the pursuit everything; and that the brightest and best portion of this chase is found in the spring morning, when the faculties are fresh, the fancy pure, and all nature robed in dew, and chiming with the music of birds, and bees, and waterfalls.

It is something to have enjoyed life, even if that enjoyment may not come again, for memory can revive the past, and at least bring back its echoes. It is a pleasure to me, now that I am crippled and gray—a sort of hulk driven a-wreck upon the shore, and if incapable of further adventures upon the main, at least inaccessible to the surges that rise and rave upon its bosom—to look out to sea—to mark the sails that still glide over its surface—and, above all, to busy my fancy with the incidents of my own voyage upon the great ocean of life.

I love particularly to go back to that period at which my last chapter closed. I was then full of health, animation, and hope. As yet, my life was tarnished with no other vices or follies than those that belong to an ungoverned and passionate boy. My health was perfect. I can hardly describe the elation of my heart of a spring morning. Everything gave me delight. The adjacent mountains, robed in mist, or wreathed with clouds, seemed like the regions of the blest. The landscape around, tame and commonplace as it might be, was superior to the pictures of any artist that ever laid his colors upon canvass, to my vision. Every sound was music. The idle but joyous gabble of the geese at the brook—the far-off cawing of the crows that skimmed the slopes of the mountains—the multitudinous notes of jays, robins, and blackbirds in the orchard—the lowing of cattle—the cackle of the fowls in the barnyard—the gobble of the ostentatious turkey—were all melody to me. No burst of harmony from an Italian orchestra, even though Rossini composed and Paganini performed, ever touched the heart as those humble melodies of morn, in the little village of Salem, touched mine at the age of fifteen. At such times my bosom actually overflowed with joy. I would sometimes shout aloud from mere pleasure; and then I would run for no other object than the excitement of the race. At such times it seemed almost that I could fly. There was an elasticity in my limbs like that of a mountain deer. So exuberant was this buoyant feeling, that in my dreams, which were then always blissful, I often dreamed of setting out to run, and after a brief space of stepping upward into the air, where I floated like some feather upon the breeze.

At evening, I used again to experience the same joyous gust of emotion; and during the day, I seldom felt otherwise than happy. Considering the quiet nature of the place in which I dwelt, my life was marked with numerous incidents and adventures—of little moment to the world at large, but important to a boy of my years. Saturday was, in that golden age, a day always given up to amusement, for there was no school kept then. A description of a single day will give a sufficient idea of my way of life at this period.

The day we will suppose to be fine—and in fact it now seems to me that there was no dull weather when I was a boy. Bill Keeler and myself rose with the sun—and we must, of course, go to the mountain. For what? Like knights of the olden time, in search of adventures. Bound to no place, guided by no other power than our own will, we set out to see what we could see, and find what we could find.

We took our course through a narrow vale at the foot of the mountain, crossed by a whimpling brook, which wound with many a mazy turn amid bordering hills, the slopes of which were covered with trees, or consisted of smooth, open pastures. The brook was famous for trout, and as Bill usually carried his hooks and lines, we often stopped for a time and amused ourselves in fishing. On the present occasion, as we were passing a basin of still water, where the gush of the rivulet was stayed by a projecting bank, Bill saw an uncommonly large trout. He lay in the shadow of the knoll, perfectly still, except that the feathery fins beneath his gills fanned the water with a breath-like undulation. I saw Bill at the instant he marked the monster of the pool. In a moment he lifted up and waved his hand as a sign to me, and uttered a long, low she-e-e-e! He then stepped softly backwards, and at a little distance knelt down, to hide himself from the view of the trout. All this time Bill was fumbling with a nervous quickness for his hook and line. First he ran his hands into the pockets of his trowsers, seeming to turn over a great variety of articles there; then he felt in his coat pockets; and then he uttered two or three awkward words, which signified much vexation.

There was Bill on his knees—it seems as if I could see him now—evidently disappointed at not finding his hook and line. At last he began very deliberately to unlade his pockets. First came out a stout buck-handled knife, with one large blade, and the stump of a smaller one. Then came a large bunch of tow, several bits of rope, a gimblet, four or five flints, and a chestnut whistle. From the other pocket of the trowsers he disclosed three or four bits of lead, a screwdriver, a dough-nut, and something rolled into a wad that might have been suspected of being a pocket-handkerchief, if Bill had ever been seen to use one. The trowsers pockets being thus emptied, our hero applied himself to those in the flaps of his coat. He first took out a ball covered with deerskin, then a powder-flask and tinder-box, two or three corks, and sundry articles difficult to name. From the other pocket he took his stockings and shoes, for it was May, and we were both indulging ourselves in the luxury of going barefoot—a luxury which those only can know who have tried it.

Nothing could exceed the pitch of vexation to which Bill was worked up, when, turning the last pocket inside out, and shaking it as if it had been a viper, he found that he had not a hook or line about him. Gathering up his merchandise, and thrusting the articles back into their places, he cast about, and picking up a stone, approached the place where the trout lay, and hurled it at him with spiteful vengeance, exclaiming—“If I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin—I hope I may be shot!”

“Stop, stop, Bill!” said I; “don’t be rash.”

“I say I hope I may be shot if I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin!—so there!” said he, hurling another stone into the brook.

“Remember what you say now, Bill!” said I.

“I will remember it,” said my companion; and though nothing more was said of it at the time, I may as well observe now that the fellow kept his word; for ever after I remarked that he carried a fishhook in his hat-band, and, as he said, in fulfilment of his vow. Such was the eccentric humor of my friend, and such the real depth of his character and feelings, that a speech, uttered in momentary passion and seeming thoughtlessness, clung to his mind, and never parted from him till death. Could that poor boy have had the advantages of wise cultivation, what a noble heart had now beat in his breast! But, alas! he was bound to a briefer and more inglorious destiny!

We pursued our way up the valley, though loth to leave the rivulet; for there is a fascination about running water that few can resist—there is a beauty in it which enchants the eye—a companionship like that of life, and which no other inanimate thing affords. And of all brooks, this that I now describe was to me the sweetest.

After proceeding a considerable distance, the valley became narrowed down to a rocky ravine, and the shrunken stream fretted and foamed its way over a rugged and devious channel. At last, about half way up the mountain, and at a considerable elevation, we reached the source of the rivulet, which consisted of a small lake of as pure water as ever reflected the face of heaven. It was surrounded on three sides by tall cliffs, whose dark, shaggy forms, in contrast, gave a silver brilliancy and beauty to the mirror-like water that lay at their feet. The other side of the lake was bounded by a sandy lawn, of small extent, but in the centre of which stood a lofty white-wood tree.

The objects that first presented themselves, as we approached the lake, was a kingfisher, running over his watchman’s rattle from the dry limb of a tree that projected over the water, by way of warning to the tenants of the mountain that danger was near; a heron, standing half-leg deep in the margin of the water, and seeming to be lost in a lazy dream; a pair of harlequin ducks that were swimming near the opposite shore; and a bald eagle, that stood upon the point of a rock that projected a few feet out of the water near the centre of the lake. This object particularly attracted our attention, but as we moved toward it, it heavily unfolded its wings, pitched forward, and with a labored beating of the air gained an elevation and sailed gloriously away beyond the reach of sight.

Those were days of feeling, rather than speech. Neither my companion nor myself spoke of the beauty of that scene at the time; but we felt it deeply, and memory, to me, has kept a faithful transcript of the scene. When the kingfisher had sounded the alarm, he slunk away, and all was still. The morning overture of the birds had passed, for it was now near ten o’clock. The mournful metallic note of the wood-thrush was perchance faintly heard at intervals—the cooing of a pigeon, the amorous wooings of the high-hole, the hollow roll of the woodpecker at his work, might occasionally salute the ear, but all at such distance of time and place as to give effect to the silence and repose that marked the scene. I had my gun, but I felt no disposition to break the spell that nature had cast on all around. The harsh noise of gunpowder had been out of tune there and then. Bill and myself sauntered along the border of the lake, musing and stepping lightly, as if not to crumple a leaf or crush a twig, that might break the peace, over which nature, like a magistrate, seemed to preside.

But as we were slowly proceeding, Bill’s piercing eye discovered a dark object upon the white-wood or tulip tree, that stood in the sandy lawn at some distance. He pointed to it, and both quickened our steps in that direction. As we approached it, we perceived it to be an enormous nest, and concluded it must be that of an eagle. As we came nearer, the nest seemed roughly composed of large sticks, and occupying a circumference equal to a cart-wheel. It was at the very top of the tree, which rose to the height of sixty or seventy feet, and at least half of that elevation was a smooth trunk without a single limb. But Bill was an excellent climber, and it was resolved, without a council of war, that he should ascend and see what was in the nest.

Accordingly, stripping off his coat, and clinging to the tree as if by suction, he began to ascend. It was “hitchety hatchety up I go!” By a process difficult to describe—a sort of insinuation, the propelling power and working machinery of which were invisible—he soon cleared the smooth part of the trunk, and taking hold of the branches, rose limb by limb, till, with breathless interest, I saw him lift his head above the nest and peer into its recess. The best expression of his wonder was his silence. I waited, but no reply. “What is it?” said I, incapable of enduring the suspense. No answer. “What is it, Bill—why don’t you speak?” said I, once more. “Look!” said he, holding up a featherless little monster, about as large as a barn-door fowl—kicking and flapping its wings, and squealing with all its might. “Look! there’s a pair on ’em. They’re young eagles, I’ll be bound, but I never see such critters afore! The nest is as big as a trundle-bed, and there’s a heap of snake-skins, and feathers, and fishes’ tails in it; and there’s a lamb’s head here, that looks in the face like an acquaintance—and I shouldn’t wonder if it belonged to Squire Kellogg’s little cosset that he lost last week—the varmint!”

As Bill uttered these last words, his attention, as well my own, was attracted by a rushing sound above, and looking up, we saw an eagle, about a hundred yards in the air, descending like a thunderbolt directly toward Bill’s head. The bird’s wings were close to its body, its tail above and its head beneath, its beak open and its talons half displayed for the blow. Entirely forgetting my gun, in my agony of fear, I exclaimed, “Jump, Bill! for Heaven’s sake jump!” But such was the suddenness of the proceeding, that ere I could fairly utter the words, the formidable bird, with a fearful and vengeful scream, swept down upon his mark. I shut my eyes in very horror. But not so Bill Keeler; there was no taking him by surprise. As the eagle came down, he dodged his head beneath the nest, exposing only a portion of his person, together with the seat of his trowsers. The clash of the eagle’s beak as he swept by, though it seemed like the clangor of a tailor’s shears when forcibly shut, did no harm; but we cannot say as much of the creature’s talons. One of the claws struck the part exposed, and made an incision in the trowsers as well as the skin, of about two inches in length.

The rent, however, was too superficial to prove mortal, nor did it deprive Bill of his presence of mind. Taking no manner of notice of the damage done, he cocked his eye up at the eagle, and seeing that he was already preparing for another descent, he slid down between the limbs of the tree with amazing dexterity, and had approached the lowest of the branches, when again we heard the rushing sound, and saw the infuriate bird falling like an iron wedge almost perpendicularly upon him. Although he was full five and thirty feet from the ground, such was my agony, that again I cried out, “Jump, Bill—for Heaven’s sake, jump!”

Bill was a fellow to go on his own hook—particularly in a time of imminent peril, like the present. Evidently paying no attention to me, he cast one glance at the eagle, and leaping from the branch, came down upon the wind. The eagle swept over him as he fell, and striking his talons into his brimless beaver, bore it away in triumph—dropping it however at a short distance. As Bill struck the ground on his feet, I immediately saw that he was safe. After sitting a moment to recover his breath, he put his hand to his head, and finding that his hat was gone, exclaimed, “There, the critter’s got my clamshell—why didn’t you fire, Bob?”

The hat was soon found, and after a little while Bill discovered the success of the eagle’s first attack upon his person; but although some blood was shed, the incident was not considered serious, and we proceeded in our ramble.

We had not advanced far, when, on passing through some bushes near a heap of rocks, I heard a rustling in the leaves. Turning my eye in the direction of the sound, I saw a black snake, covered by leaves except his head and about two feet of his body. He was directly in my path, and, brandishing his tongue, seemed determined to oppose my progress. Bill had my gun, but I called to him, and he soon appeared. I pointed out the snake, but, refusing to fire, he approached the creature with a bold front; who, seeing that he could gain nothing by his threats, turned and fled through the leaves with amazing speed. Bill followed upon his trail, and came up with him just as he was seeking shelter in the crevice of a rock. He had buried about two feet of his length, when Bill seized his tail, and, holding fast, prevented his farther progress. We then both of us took hold and tried to pull him out—but as he had coiled himself around the protuberances of the rock within, he resisted all our efforts.

Bill now directed me to bend down to him a pretty stout walnut sapling that was growing near. I complied with the command, and my companion, taking a piece of rope from his pocket, doubled the tail of the snake, and firmly lashed it to the top of the young tree. This being done—“We’ll let go now,” said Bill, “and see which will hold on the longest.” So, loosing our hold of the tree and serpent, we stood by to see the result. The snake was so firmly tied as to render it impossible for him to escape, and the sapling pulled with a vigor and patience that were likely to prevail at last. We waited at the place for nearly an hour, when the serpent slowly yielded, and the sapling jerked him into the air. There he hung, dangling and writhing, and thrusting out his tongue, but all to no purpose. Taking a fair aim with the gun, Bill now fired, and cut the reptile in twain.

We pursued our ramble until late in the day, when, on our return, we saw a gray squirrel leaping about upon the ground at some distance. The appearance of this animal in its native woods is singularly imposing. Its long, bushy tail imparts to it an appearance of extraordinary size, and renders its wonderful agility a matter of surprise. In the present instance, as the squirrel saw us from a distance, he ran to a tree, ascended the trunk, and flew along its branches. From these it leaped to those of another tree, seeming actually to move like a spirit of the air. At last it reached a large oak, and disappeared in a hole in the trunk.

Bill’s jacket was off in an instant, and almost as nimbly as the squirrel himself he ascended to its retreat. I stood below with my gun, ready to fire if the creature should attempt to escape. At last Bill, peeping into the hole, and saying, in a subdued voice, “I see the varmint!” thrust his hand into the place. It was but a moment before he hauled him out, and holding him forth with one hand, while he held on to the tree with the other, he exclaimed, “Fire, Bob—fire—he bites like—like a sarpent!” Accustomed to obey orders, I immediately fired, and the squirrel dropped dead to the ground. At the same time I saw Bill snapping his fingers, as if some stray shot had peppered them. He soon descended, and showed me that one of the little leaden missiles had passed through the ball of his thumb; he only remarked, however, “I should think, Bob, you might kill a squirrel without shooting a friend!”

Such are the adventures of a day in my youth; and such, or similar, no doubt, have been the experiences of many a Yankee youth before. I record them here, partly for the satisfaction of reviewing the sweet memories of the past, and partly to point the moral of this chapter—that youth is a portion of life to which, in after years, we usually look back with fond regard, as the happiest, if not the most useful, part of our existence. Let my youthful friends mark the observation, and not be unmindful of their present privileges. Let them enjoy their young days, with thankfulness and moderation, and not be too sanguine of that future, which will disclose the melancholy truth that life is a journey, which affords the cares and toils and dangers of travel, without a resting-place. A resting-place is indeed found, but it is only given as life ceases. While we live we are journeying; there is no fixed habitation for man on the earth: he is an emigrant to another country, and not a settler here. Let us, in attempting to make our journey as cheerful as we may, still be careful that the place to which we migrate, and where we must abide, be in a happy country.

The Humming-Birds.

These little fairies of the feathered race—the smallest of birds, and perhaps the most brilliant—belong exclusively to our American continent and the adjacent islands. Most of them dwell in the warm climates, where flowers are ever in bloom, and where spring or summer hold perpetual sway. One species alone visits our chill New England climate—the little fellow of the ruby throat. He comes to us in May, and makes himself familiar with our gardens and trellices, sports amid the flowers, and holds companionship only with the “flush and the fair.” His stay is short, for early in September he is gone to more genial lands.

It is only in tropical countries that the several species of humming-birds are seen in their abundance, variety, and glory. The islands that stud the ocean between Florida and the main land of South America, literally swarm with them. In the wild and uncultivated parts they inhabit the magnificent forests overhung with parasitical plants, whose blossoms hardly yield in beauty to the sparkling tints of these tenants of the air. In the cultivated portions, they abound in the gardens, and seem to delight in society, becoming familiar and destitute of fear, hovering often on one side of a shrub or plant while the fruit is plucked on the other.

Lively and full of energy, these winged gems are almost incessantly in the air, darting from one object to another, and displaying their gorgeous hues in the sunbeams. When performing a lengthened flight, as during migration, they pass through the air in long undulations, raising themselves to a considerable height and then falling in a curve. When feeding on a flower, they keep themselves poised in one position, as steadily as if suspended on a bough—making a humming noise by the rapid motion of their wings.

In disposition, these creatures are intrepid, but, like some other little people, they are very quarrelsome. In defending their nests, they attack birds five times their size, and drive them off with ease. When angry, their motions are very violent and their flight as swift as an arrow. Often the eye is incapable of following them, and their shrill, piercing shriek alone announces their presence.

Among the most dazzling of this brilliant tribe is the bar-tailed humming-bird of Brazil. The tail is forked to the base, and consists of five feathers, graduated one above another at almost equal distances. Their color is of the richest flame, or orange red, with a dazzling metallic burnish. The upper part of the body of the bird is golden green; the rump is red, and the under surface of emerald green.

Stokes’ Humming-Bird.

Stokes’ humming-bird may perhaps be cited as a rival of this little gem of beauty. The head and whole of the back is covered with scale-shaped feathers, those on the head being brilliant blue and changing to violet, those on the back being bright emerald green. The cheeks are purplish green, with small pink spots. Was there ever any lass of a fancy ball more gaily decked?

Such are a few of the species of this famous race. There are more than a hundred kinds, all noted for their littleness and their surpassing beauty. What a beautiful conception in the Author of nature were these little fairies! It is as if the flowers had taken wings, and life, and intelligence, and shared in the sports of animal life. And if we regard their beauty—the delicacy of their feathers—their energy and power compared with their size—if we consider the ingenious mechanism of their structure—can we sufficiently admire the Architect who made them and bade them go forth to add life, and beauty, and brilliancy to the landscape, while sharing themselves in the joys of existence?

Madagascar.

On the eastern coast of Africa is one of the largest islands in the world, called Madagascar. It is 900 miles long, and contains about twice as much land as England, Wales, and Scotland, or three times as much as New England. It is some five or six thousand miles southeast of the United States, and 1800 miles northeast of the Cape of Good Hope.

Conducting a person who has passed the ordeal of the Tangena, home.

It is separated from the continent of Africa by the channel of Mozambique, through which vessels often pass in going to China. A long chain of mountains, some of which are 11,000 feet or two miles high, runs north and south through the island. In these mountains are volcanoes, though they are not so terrible as in South America.

Madagascar is a pleasant country, and produces many fine things, among which are sugar, honey, various fruit-trees, valuable gums, silver, copper, and tin ore; also precious stones, together with other more useful things, as cattle, corn, poultry, &c. The people are numerous, and consist of several tribes or races, some resembling negroes, others appearing like Arabs, but the greater part bearing an affinity to the people who inhabit the islands of the Pacific Ocean. The whole population of the island is estimated at about four millions and a half, or about twice as much as all New England.

About twelve or fifteen years ago, a king by the name of Radama had subjected to his sway nearly all the tribes. He encouraged the Christian missionaries from England, by whose means a good deal of useful knowledge was diffused, and various arts were introduced among the people. Had his reign continued, it is probable that all the tribes would have been formed into one well organized and well governed nation, among whom civilization might have made rapid advances. But, unfortunately, Radama was poisoned by his queen, and since that time, though the people are considered as forming one kingdom, they are in a very disturbed and dismembered state. Many of them are little better than savages, and indeed all the people are slaves of the most degrading superstitions. One of the most remarkable customs is that of trial by the Tangena, a poisonous nut, that is given to persons suspected of any crime. The people are great believers in witchcraft, and if any one in a family is taken sick, it frequently happens that some of the members are accused of causing the illness by witchcraft, and the tangena is therefore given to them. It appears that the poison, when thoroughly administered, causes the most excruciating pains, and is almost certain death. If the person has a very strong constitution, or if he can bribe the officer who administers it to give a weak dose, he sometimes escapes; but in most cases it is fatal. There is a vast deal of pompous ceremony attending these trials: there is a sort of prayer or incantation before the dose is given, and during its operation, an appeal to the invisible power to punish crime, or vindicate innocence, as the case may be—though, in point of fact, the whole system seems to be one of trick, practised by a few artful and designing men.

If the person resists the effect of the poison, which rarely happens, he is taken to his house in great state, a procession being formed like that which is represented in the engraving. It appears from the accounts of the missionaries who have visited the island, that the practice of the tangena is so extensive as actually to diminish the population of the island; and what is remarkable is this, that the people seem to take a great interest in these trials, and actually encourage them, seeming to have great delight in them. It is indeed a fact that cannot be disputed, that in all nations not softened and civilized by the influence of Christianity, mercy seems to be unknown, and cruelty affords only a pleasing excitement.

“The clock upbraids us with the waste of time.”

A Philosophical Tea-pot.

Anne. Mother, why do you not use that pretty tea-pot that grandmother gave you?

Mother. Why, my dear, do you not remember that the nose is half burnt off?

A. Well, mamma, suppose it is—it does not look very badly, and you have always told me that as long as things were useful, we must not put them aside.

M. But it is not useful, Anne; that is the only reason why I have set it up on the high shelf.

A. I do not see why it is not useful, I am sure. I think, mamma, you might as well put away my little spade because the handle is broken off at the top, or John’s kite because the wind has taken off a piece of the tail!

M. Well, my dear, this sounds very well; but let us consider the matter a little. Of what use is a tea-pot?

A. Why, to hold tea, I suppose!

M. Well, what is tea—a solid body?

A. Oh no; it is what my book of natural philosophy would call a liquid. Oh, that book is very interesting; wait a minute while I get it, mamma—here it is!

M. What is one of the properties of liquids?

A. Let me see—oh, here I have it. Liquids always tend to an equilibrium.

M. Do you understand what that means, my dear?

A. Yes; my mistress explained it to me the other morning. Water or any other liquid always seeks a level; that is, if water is put into a bowl, it will be equally as high on one side as on the other. If the bowl stands uneven, the liquid will still be perfectly level.

M. A very good explanation, Anne. But now to the proof. Can you tell me why, on this principle, my tea-pot is of no use now the spout is broken?

A. Let me see—no, I cannot understand why it is so. The tea-pot itself is good, and you can fill it just the same as ever!

M. Ah! but can you fill it? that is the question.

A. Why, mamma, how absurd it would be to suppose I could not fill it! But let me try; there is nothing like trying, after all. (She brings the tea-pot.) Here it is, poor neglected thing. Indeed, I do not see why I cannot fill it, unless there are holes in the bottom or sides.

M. No, I believe it is sound in those respects. But come, here is some water; try it. But first get the waiter—I do not want my table wet.

A. Oh! never fear, mamma; I will not spill it. (Pouring the water into the tea-pot.) There, there, mamma, you see I have got it half full already. But dear me, how’s this? I declare, the water is running out of the nose as fast as I pour it in! Why, what does it mean?

M. Just think, my dear, of what your philosophy says about liquids, and you will immediately see why the water runs out of the nose. How high does the water remain in the tea-pot?

A. Just as high as the top of the nose. Ah! I see now; that is the level of the water, and it can go no higher in the body of the tea-pot than it does in the nose. Wonderful! Then, mamma, it must be that it is necessary to have the nose as high as the top of the tea-pot. Oh! now I understand perfectly why this is of no use. Thank you, mamma; I like these practical lessons in philosophy. But I am ashamed that I did not understand it at once.

M. This shows you, my dear Anne, that it is not only necessary to have knowledge, but that it is nearly useless when it is not applied properly. Hereafter, I hope you will think a little when you study.

A. Ah, mamma, I think I shall come to you when I am puzzled; you explain things so charmingly—better than all the philosophy books in the world!

M. Well, my dear, come to me after you have tried hard yourself to understand the subject you are studying, and I shall think my time well spent in simplifying the matter to you. I used to be very fond of philosophy when I was of your age, because my aunt kindly illustrated some of the most difficult principles in such a manner as to make me perfectly understand them. The lesson I have just given you is one she taught me thirty years ago.

Astonishing Powers of the Horse.

The following story, showing what exertion the horse is capable of undergoing, would be almost incredible, were it not well authenticated.

Many years ago, a violent gale of wind setting in from north-northwest, a vessel in the road at the Cape of Good Hope dragged her anchors, was forced on the rocks, and bilged; and while the greater part of the crew fell an immediate sacrifice to the waves, the remainder were seen from the shore, struggling for their lives, by clinging to the different pieces of the wreck. The sea ran dreadfully high, and broke over the sailors with such amazing fury, that no boat whatever could venture off to their assistance.

Meanwhile, a planter, considerably advanced in life, had come on horseback from his farm to be a spectator of the shipwreck. His heart was melted at the sight of the unhappy seamen, and knowing the bold and enterprising spirit of his horse, and his particular excellence as a swimmer, he instantly determined to make a desperate effort for their deliverance.

He alighted and blew a little brandy into his horse’s nostrils, when, again seating himself in the saddle, he instantly pushed into the midst of the breakers. At first both disappeared, but it was not long before they floated on the surface and swam up to the wreck; when, taking with him two men, each of whom held by one of his boots, the planter brought them safe to shore.

This perilous expedition he repeated seven times, and saved fourteen lives. But on his return the eighth time, his horse being much fatigued, and meeting a most formidable wave, he lost his balance, and was overwhelmed in a moment. The horse swam safely to the shore, but his gallant rider was no more!

The Moon.

It is night! The stars are so distant that they seem to be very small; but the moon, though really less than the stars, is nearer, and therefore appears to be larger.

It is a very interesting object, and is even more talked about than the sun. At one time it seems like a silver bow, hung in the west It increases in size, till it looks like a large bowl. It grows larger and larger, till it is quite round, and is then fancied by some people to resemble a mighty green cheese.

The moon does not shine at all times. Even when it is in the sky above us, it gives no light during the day, for the sun is so much brighter, that it appears quite dim. And often at night it is hidden behind the earth, and gives us no light.

But when it does shine at night, it is indeed beautiful. We cannot look at the sun with the naked eye, for it is too bright. But we can look at the moon, and though it seems almost like a ball of melted metal, yet we can see figures upon it.

Some persons imagine, that they can see the face of a man in the moon, and others that they can spy the figure of a crooked old woman. But those who have looked at it with telescopes, tell us, that it is a world, with mountains, and rivers, and valleys upon its surface. There is very little doubt that animals and people live upon it.

Would it not be pleasant, if we could sail through the air, and go up to the moon, and come back and tell the people of this world what sort of place the moon is, and what kind of folks the moonites are?

But this cannot be. We may travel by railroads over the land, and by ships across the waters of this world, but we have no ladder long enough to reach to other worlds. We must therefore, for the present, stay where we are and be content.

But I was talking of the moon. Can you tell me why a dog will often bark at it almost all night? If you can, you can do more than any one else.

But you may ask what good the moon does to us. In the first place, it is very beautiful, and gives us great pleasure. It is also useful, as it frequently shines at night, and seems to relieve us partly from the darkness. The landscape is often charming when viewed by moonlight, and water never looks so lovely as when the moon is shining upon it.

Beside this, the moon causes that ebbing and flowing of the ocean called the tides. These keep it from being stagnant and prevent its becoming putrid. Were it not for the moon, the whole ocean would be unfit for the fishes that live in it, and they would all die. Men and beasts, too, would also perish from the unhealthiness of the land, were not the sea kept pure by the tides.

Importance of Attention:

A DIALOGUE.

Charles sitting with his book in his hand; his mother at work.

Charles. Mother! is it almost school-time?

Mother. No; you have full half an hour.

Charles. Only half an hour? Will you hear me try to say this lesson again?

Mother. No, for I am sure you will say it no better than before.

Charles. Why, mother?

Mother. Because you have not been studying. I have been looking at you from time to time, and have scarcely seen your eyes fixed once on your book.

Charles. I was only watching Jerry, for fear he would weed up my young balsams.

Mother. I fancy Jerry knows what he is about.

Charles. Well; I will study now.

Mother. Do you generally whistle when you study, Charles?

Charles. Was I whistling?

Mother. Yes, and with your eyes fixed on my canary bird.

Charles. Well, mother, I can’t help it. This is the hardest and stupidest lesson that ever was.

Mother. And yet you told me your cousin Richard learned it, yesterday, in twenty minutes.

Charles. Then it is I that am stupid, I suppose.

Mother. I rather think not. I believe your memory is as good as Richard’s.

Charles. Oh, mother! he always learns his lessons quicker than I do.

Mother. And does that prove that his memory is better?

Charles. To be sure it does.

Mother. When you are at play, does he remember things better than you do?

Charles. Why, no, I believe not.

Mother. Did not you tell us as much about the lecture the other night, when you came home, as he did?

Charles. Yes, and more too; father said I did.

Mother. That required memory certainly. I do not think you have any right to lay blame on any natural defect.

Charles. Oh, I did not mean to say that; but all I know is that Richard gets his lessons quicker than I do; and what can the reason be? He is not three weeks older than I am, and don’t seem a bit cleverer than I am about other things.

Mother. Did you ever happen to sit near him, when he was studying?

Charles. Yes, that I have, and I would rather sit next any boy in school.

Mother. Why?

Charles. Oh, I don’t know; there’s no comfort in it. He is as dumpy and cross over his books as a dog with a bone. He won’t let anybody speak to him.

Mother. What, not to ask a reasonable question?

Charles. Oh! as to that, he helps me sometimes, when I get stuck; he is always good-natured enough about that; but what I mean is, if I ask him to look at anything funny, or want to talk to him about any of our plays, a minute, he says I disturb him, and take off his attention; and if I go on, just to fidget him a little, he takes up his books and marches off somewhere else.

Mother. He complains that you take off his attention, does he?

Charles. Yes, mother; is not that cross in him?

Mother. Richard has learned a very important secret, I see.

Charles. A secret? What? one that helps him get his lessons?

Mother. Yes.

Charles. I wish poor I could find it out.

Mother. I can tell it to you in one word which you used just now. It is as good as “Open Sesame” in the play of the Forty Thieves which you read the other day.

Charles. What can it be?

Mother. Attention—Charles—attention! that will open the door of your mind and let the lesson in.

Charles. Oh dear! I wish bawling the word out aloud would answer the purpose.

Mother. I cannot say that it will, so my comparison is not a good one; but I wished to fix your attention, so I referred to something that had amused you. But, in good earnest, Charles, the only reason why Richard learns quicker than you do is, that he never allows himself to think of anything else while he is getting his lesson. You speak of yourself as studying as long as you are holding the book in your hand, though in fact you are not studying one quarter of the time. What is studying, Charles?

Charles. Trying to fix something in my mind.

Mother. Very good; a better answer than I expected. Now, were you trying to fix your lesson in your mind while you were watching Jerry? or while you were scratching with your pencil on that window-seat? or whistling to my canary bird?

Charles. No, indeed.

Mother. Yet during the three quarters of an hour you have sat at the window, with a book in your hand, these have been your principal employments. Once or twice you began to read the lesson over to yourself, but something would draw off your attention in the midst; your thoughts were gone from it in an instant; the slight impression it had made was effaced; and when you returned to your task, you were just where you had been ten minutes before. Yet at nine o’clock you would jump up in dismay, exclaiming, “There, I have been studying this plaguy lesson more than an hour, and I can’t say it yet. Is it not enough to discourage a body, mother?”

Charles, (laughing.) That’s just my whine, mother; but the plain truth of the matter is, I do get discouraged. I don’t see any use in working so hard.

Mother. But you would not have to work so hard—or at least not near so long, if you would go to work in the right way.

Charles. But it is the working at all that I object to, mother. I don’t know but I might like study better if I could see any use in it; but as long as I can read and write, I shan’t look like a fool; and what is the use of cracking my brains about anything more?

Mother. I should be very sorry to have you crack your brains with study, Charles. Do you feel as if there were any danger of it?

Charles. Why no, not exactly. But why need I study?

Mother. You cannot conceive of any pleasure in acquiring knowledge, then?

Charles. Oh, yes; I like to know all I can by reading interesting books; I like to read some histories, and biographies, and travels. That all comes very easy; that is amusement.

Mother. Are you sure that while skimming books in this manner, for amusement, you are really laying up much knowledge that you can make useful? Do you ever stop to reflect upon it and arrange it?—or is it all jumbled together in your mind? Have you never made strange blunders in talking about the very books you had read?

Charles. Why, yes, I must own that I have; and I have got laughed at, sometimes.

Mother. That is only one of the evils to which you will be exposed by being superficial. My dear, you cannot get along even respectably in well-informed society without disciplining your mind to habits of attention and reflection; and one great advantage of youthful study is, that it does so discipline the mind.

Charles. Well, you and father talk about “habits of the mind,” and “disciplining the mind,” and tell me to leave off this habit of thinking, and that habit of not thinking, just as you tell me to cure myself of twirling this button on my jacket!

Mother. And don’t you understand what we mean?

Charles. Oh yes, I see the sense of it.

Mother. And do not you think that with perseverance you can accomplish what we wish? You do not mean to tell us that you cannot manage your own mind?

Charles. But it is so hard! And to go back to this matter of study, mother; when I talked to sister Ellen about it, yesterday, she said that if I did not study I never could be a lawyer, or a minister, or a doctor, or a merchant, or anything of the sort. Now why need I be either?

Mother. What would you like to be?

Charles. Just a gentleman.

Mother. An idle gentleman?

Charles. No, not an idle one. I should like to pass my time in reading and accomplishments.

Mother. What accomplishments do you mean?

Charles. Music and drawing; is not that what people mean by accomplishments?

Mother. But are you not aware that it requires study and close attention to master these little matters of music and drawing, particularly for those who have not an uncommon taste for them?

Charles. Does it? Well, then I would let the music and drawing alone. I dare say I should find some way of passing my time.

Mother. My son, I fear you would indeed, if we could cruelly permit you to enter on life devoid of some of its best resources against the temptations that beset the idle. A young man, in the situation which you have just described, would be almost certain to seek occupation and excitement from drinking and cards. The strongest religious principles might save him, but the conflict would be terrible,—the result doubtful; and I cannot think of the danger without tears.

Charles. Dear mother, you do not think I should ever be a wicked man, do you?

Mother. I cannot tell. I cannot bear to think of it. We will talk of another part of this subject; for it is very necessary that I should. All this while, you have said nothing of the way in which you are to be supported in the easy life you propose.

Charles. Supported? what am I to live on? On my fortune.

Mother. And where is it?

Charles. Ah, I have none now; but then there is father so rich, and only Ellen and I. Of course, he won’t leave his money to anybody else, will he?

Mother. How can you be sure that he will not leave it to an hospital? You know he has given much to public charities.

Charles. Ah, mother, you know he will not neglect us!

Mother. Stranger things have happened; but, however, I do not think it at all likely that you will lose your fortune in that way. But why should you so entirely forget the passage of scripture—“Riches take to themselves wings?” Ought you not to be prepared with some way of supporting yourself, supposing that text should be verified in your case?

Charles. But, somehow or other, I don’t believe it will be.

Mother. That is a blind, boyish belief to rest upon. How do you know that your father is now rich?

Charles. Why, all the boys in school say he is one of the richest men in the city. And then, mother, have we not always lived like rich people?

Mother. That may be a sign that we always have been rich, but not that we shall be—not that we are, Charles!

Charles. I don’t understand you, mother.

Mother. I must make you comprehend me, my dear boy. Your father told me I must talk with you to-day, and I intended to wait till you returned, at night; but this is a better opportunity. Have you not seen that your father has been more taken up with his business than usual, for some weeks past? Have you not observed that he was very thoughtful?

Charles. Yes, mother; at least, I did after Ellen mentioned it to me, for she observes more than I do. What is the matter?

Mother. Your father will fail to-morrow, Charles.

Charles. Fail! and what is failing, mother? I hear people talk about failing, and say “such a man has failed,” and I know it is something bad; but what is it?

Mother. It is when a man owes more money than he can pay, and gives up all his property to be divided among his creditors.

Charles. And is that what has happened to father? And will he give up everything he has in the world? That is very bad.

Mother. Certainly. He would not have any man lose a cent of money on his account. Would you wish that he should wrong those who trusted him?

Charles. Oh no! I should rather study from morning till night, if that would do any good.

Mother. You perceive, Charles, that it will be necessary for you to get your mind into right habits of attention; for you will have to support yourself, at least. It is even possible that your parents, in their old age, may require some assistance from you. Your father can hardly hope to acquire even a moderate fortune again, before he will be an old man.

Charles. Oh, mother! it almost makes my head ache to think of all this, for I don’t seem to understand yet that it is really so, though I try with all my might to—to—

Mother. Realize it?

Charles. Yes, that is the word I was after. And what did you do, when father told you about it, mother? Did you not cry?

Mother. I did, when I was alone, Charles; for I have lived in this house ever since I was married, and I love it; and I love the furniture, which my parents gave me;—but it must all be sold.

Charles. Why, where shall we live?

Mother. In a small house of mine at the south-end, where your nurse used to live. But I shed more tears at first about you and Ellen. We cannot afford to educate you as we intended.

Charles. And there was I complaining this very morning about having to study!

Mother. Your thoughtless words made my heart ache, Charles!

Charles. If I have to get my living, why cannot I be a lawyer?

Mother. Your father cannot send you to college; your studies must all be directed towards preparing to enter a counting-room as soon as possible. Your father’s mercantile friends respect him, for striving to pay all his debts, and they will help you. But, Charles, you will find it necessary to give your most earnest attention to your new pursuits.

Charles. That I will, mother! I will find out how cousin Richard manages his mind. Attention! yes, indeed I will. I shall think of nothing now but what I ought. I shall never waste my time again.

Mother. You promise confidently, Charles; and in truth I shall shed fewer tears, if I find this change in our situation may benefit my beloved son’s character. It was too plain that the expectation of a fortune from your father was injuring you. Wipe your eyes, Charles, and go to school. Your quarter will close next Saturday, and then we must take you from that expensive school. But wherever you go, I think you will find that study—real study—will make difficult things soon become easy; and there will be a pleasure in it you have never known, while holding your book indolently with a wandering mind.

The Horse and the Bells,

A FABLE.

A wagoner, whose business it was to transport goods from one town to another, had a fine horse, upon whose saddle he was accustomed to carry several bells, which kept up a cheerful jingling as he trudged along the road. The horse got used to these bells, and was so much pleased with them, that he seemed dull and out of spirits when, for some reason, they were left off. The wagoner, perceiving that his horse did not work so well without the bells, restored them to their place, remarking, that his horse was like himself—he liked music and merriment, and even hard work came more easy for a little recreation by the way.

There was much truth and good sense in the observation of the wagoner. “All work and no play,” says the proverb, “makes Jack a dull boy.” It is right and proper that we should devote some part of our time to amusement, for by this means we are cheered and enlivened, and qualified to engage in our severer duties with good effect. But we should be careful of two points: first, that we choose innocent amusements, and second, that we do not permit our recreations so far to engross our thoughts or our time, as to interfere with the sober business of life.

The Crane Family.

I am not going to talk of Ichabod Crane, or Jeremiah Crane, or of their wives or families. I shall leave these respectable people for the present, and say a few words about certain long-legged birds which are very interesting, though not very familiarly known to most of us. The storks and cranes are so nearly alike that they might seem to be cousins. They have both enormously long legs and bills, and seem particularly well fitted to wading in the water—a thing they can do without rolling up their pantaloons. Look at this tall fellow at the head of this article, and tell me if he need be afraid of wetting his clothes by taking a ramble in a brook.

The engraving represents a crane. Let me first say a few words of his cousin stork. This bird, that is spoken of in the Bible as one that “knoweth her appointed time,” is not found among us, but it is well known in some parts of Europe. In Holland, it arrives in small bands or flocks, about the first of April, and universally meets with a kind and welcome reception from the inhabitants. Returning year after year to the same town, and the same chimney-top, it reoccupies its deserted nest; and the gladness these birds manifest in again taking possession of their dwelling, and the attachment they testify towards their benevolent hosts, are familiar in the mouths of every one. Nor is the stork less remarkable for its affection towards its young; and the story is well known of a female bird, which, during the conflagration at Delft, chose rather to perish with her young than abandon them to their fate. Incubation and the rearing of the young being over by August, the stork, in the early part of that month, prepares for its departure. The north of Africa, and especially Egypt, are the places of its winter sojourning, for there the marshes are unfrozen, its food is in abundance, and the climate is congenial. Previous to setting out on their airy journey, multitudes assemble from the surrounding districts, chattering with their bills as if in consultation. On the appointed night, a period which appears to be universally chosen by the migratory tribes, they mount into the higher regions of the air, and sail away southwards to their destined haven.

The nest of the stork is formed of twigs and sticks, and the eggs, from three to five in number, and nearly as large as those of a goose, are of a yellowish white. Of the countless multitudes in which the stork assembles in order to perform its periodical migrations, some idea may be entertained from Dr. Shaw’s account of the flocks which he witnessed leaving Egypt and passing over Mount Carmel, each of which was half a mile in breadth, and occupied a space of three hours in passing. When reposing, the stork stands upon one leg, with the neck bent backwards, and the head resting between the shoulders. Such also is its attitude when watching for its prey. Its motions are stately, and it stalks along with slow and measured steps. Its plumage is pure white.

The cranes bear a close resemblance to the white stork, which we have been describing, but become even more familiar in some of the countries they inhabit, and, in consequence of their larger size, render more essential service in the removal of carrion, offal, and other nuisances. This important office they share with the vultures, and, like those birds, are universally privileged from all annoyance, in return for so meritorious an exertion of their natural propensities. They seem to be constantly attracted by the heaps of offensive substances collected in the villages and towns, which they devour without scruple, and in immense quantities.

The adjutant arrives in Bengal, in India, before the rainy season. Its gape is enormous, and its voracity astonishing; not that it is ferocious towards man; quite the contrary, for it is peaceable, and even timid; but small quadrupeds are swallowed without any scruple. In the stomach of one, as Latham states, were found a land tortoise ten inches long, and a large black cat entire.

Of the African Marabou Crane, the voracious and omniverous propensities are attested by Major Denham; carrion, reptiles, and small quadrupeds are swallowed at a bolt, with indiscriminate voracity. Smeatham, who resided at Sierra Leone, has given an interesting account of this bird. He observes that the adult bird will often measure seven feet; and that the head, covered with white down thinly dispersed, is not unlike that of a gray-headed man. It associates in flocks, which, when seen at a distance, near the mouths of rivers, coming towards an observer, with their wings extended, as they often do, may readily be mistaken for canoes on a smooth sea. “One of these, a young bird, about five feet high, was brought up tame, and presented to the chief of the Bananas, where Mr. Smeatham lived; and being accustomed to be fed in the great hall, soon became familiar; duly attending that place at dinner-time, and placing itself behind its master’s chair, frequently before the guests entered. The servants were obliged to watch narrowly and to defend the provisions with switches, but, notwithstanding, it would frequently snatch something or other, and once purloined a whole boiled fowl, which it swallowed in an instant. Its courage is not equal to its voracity; for a child of ten years soon puts it to flight with a switch, though it seems at first to stand on its defence, by threatening with its enormous bill widely extended, and roaring with a loud voice, like a bear or tiger. It is an enemy to small quadrupeds, as well as birds and reptiles, and slyly destroys fowls and chickens. Everything is swallowed whole, and so accommodating is its throat, that not only an animal as big as a cat is gulped down, but a shin of beef broken asunder serves it but for two morsels. It has been known to swallow a leg of mutton of five or six pounds, a hare, and also a small fox.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

(Continued from page 144.)

CHAPTER III.

The West Indies continued.—Columbus discovers the Antilles.—Cannibalism reported.—Appearance of the people.—Their origin.—Arts.—Customs.—Character.—Their extermination.

Columbus discovered the islands of the Caribs during his second voyage to America, in 1493. The first island he saw he named Dominico, because he discovered it on Sunday. As the ships gently moved onward, other islands rose to sight, one after another, covered with forests, and enlivened with flights of parrots and other tropical birds, while the whole air was sweetened by the fragrance of the breezes which passed over them.

This beautiful cluster of islands is called the Antilles. They extend from the eastern end of Porto Rico to the coast of Paria on the southern continent, forming a kind of barrier between the main ocean and the Caribbean sea;—here was the country of the Caribs. Columbus had heard of the Caribs during his stay at Hayti and Cuba, at the time of his first voyage. The timid and indolent race of Indians in those pleasant islands were mortally afraid of the Caribs, and had repeatedly besought Columbus to assist them in overcoming these their ferocious enemies. The Caribs were represented as terrible warriors, and cruel cannibals, who roasted and eat their captives. This the gentle Haytians thought, truly enough, was a good pretext for warning the Christians against such foes. Columbus did not at first imagine the beautiful paradise he saw, as he sailed onward among these green and spicy islands, could be the residence of cruel men; but on landing at Guadaloupe he soon became convinced he was truly in a Golgotha, a place of skulls. He there saw human limbs hanging in the houses as if curing for provisions, and some even roasting at the fire for food. He knew then that he was in the country of the Caribs.

On touching at the island of Montserrat, Columbus was informed that the Caribs had eaten up all the inhabitants. If that had been true, it seems strange how he obtained his information.

It is probable many of these stories were exaggerations. The Caribs were a warlike people, in many respects essentially differing in character from the natives of the other West India Islands. They were enterprising as well as ferocious, and frequently made roving expeditions in their canoes to the distance of one hundred and fifty leagues, invading the islands, ravaging the villages, making slaves of the youngest and handsomest females, and carrying off the men to be killed and eaten.

These things were bad enough, and it is not strange report should make them more terrible than the reality. The Caribs also gave the Spaniards more trouble than did the effeminate natives of the other islands. They fought their invaders desperately. In some cases the women showed as much bravery as the men. At Santa Cruz the females plied their bows with such vigor, that one of them sent an arrow through a Spanish buckler, and wounded the soldier who bore it.

There have been many speculations respecting the origin of the Caribs. That they were a different race from the inhabitants of the other islands, is generally acknowledged. They also differed from the Indians of Mexico and Peru; though some writers think they were culprits banished either from the continent or the large islands, and thus a difference of situation might have produced a difference of manners. Others think they were descended from some civilized people of Europe or Africa. There is no difficulty attending the belief that a Carthaginian or Ph[oe]nician vessel might have been overtaken by a storm, and blown about by the gales, till it entered the current of the trade-winds, when it would have been easily carried to the West Indies. If they had no women with them, they might have discovered the large islands or the continent, and procured wives from them. In process of time, their numbers might have increased so as to form the scanty population of St. Vincent, Martinico, Guadaloupe, Dominica, and other small islands where the Caribs were settled.

The Caribs had as many of the arts as were necessary to live at ease in that luxurious climate. They knew how to build their carbets or houses; how to make their boats, baskets, arms, hammocks, and to prepare their provisions.

The hammocks of the Caribs strengthens the supposition that they were descended from some maritime adventurers. They were made of coarse cotton cloth, six or seven feet long, and twelve or fourteen wide; each end was ornamented with cords, which they called ribands; these were more than two feet long, twisted, and well made. All the cords at each end were joined together, and formed loops, through which a long rope was inserted, in order to fasten the hammocks to the posts at the side of the house, and to support the persons within them. These hammocks were woven by the women, entirely by hand labor, as they had no looms, and was a very tedious process. But when completed, and painted red, as was the usual fashion, they were very strong, and quite ornamental in their carbets.

Carib Carbet.

The carbet is thus described by a French missionary: “The Carib dwelling I entered was about sixty feet long and twenty-four wide. The posts on which it was erected were rough and forked, and the shortest of them about nine feet above the ground; the others were proportioned to the height of the roof. The windward end was enclosed with a kind of wicker-work of split flags; the roof was covered with the leaves of the wild plantain, which here grows very large; the laths were made of reeds. The end of the carbet which was covered had a doorway for a passage to the kitchen; the other end was nearly all open. Ten paces from the great carbet was another building, about half the size of the large one, which was divided by a reed partition. The first room was the kitchen; here six or eight females were employed in making cassada. The second room was for a sleeping apartment for such of the women and children as were not accommodated in the great carbet.

“All the rooms were furnished with hammocks and baskets. The men had their weapons in the great carbet. Some of the men were making baskets—two women were making a hammock. There were many bows, arrows, and clubs attached to the rafters. The floor was smooth and clean; it was made of well-beaten earth, and sloped towards the side. There was a good fire, about one third the length of the carbet, round which a number of Caribs were squatted on their haunches. They were smoking and waiting till some fish were roasted, and made their salutations to me without rising.”

The Caribs were hunters and fishermen. Their food was much better cooked than that of the Indians of the northern continent, who lived by the chase and fishing, though to us it would not appear very refined. Their meat and small birds they stuck on a kind of wooden spit, which was fixed in the ground before the fire, and they turned it, till all the slices of meat or the birds were roasted.

This was quite a civilized method of management compared with their treatment of the large birds, such as parrots, pigeons, &c. These they threw on the fire, without picking or dressing them, and when the feathers were burnt, they raked the bird up in the cinders till it was done. On taking it from the ashes, the crust formed by the burnt feathers peeled off, and the bird was perfectly clean and delicate. It is said this manner of roasting was much approved by the Europeans who had an opportunity of trying it.

The Caribs usually spread two tables at their meals; on one was placed their bread, (cassada,) on the other the fish, fowls, crabs and pimentado. This pimentado was made of the juice of manioc, boiled, a quantity of pimento, and the juice of lemon or some other acid. It was their favorite sauce; they used it with all their meats, but they made it so hot that nobody but themselves could eat it. A favorite dish with them was stewed crabs. None of their food was eaten raw; in general their taste seemed inclined to overdone and high-seasoned dishes.

The manioc, from which the cassada is made, was a great article of food among the Caribs. The ordinary size of the roots is equal to that of the beet; they are of the consistency of parsnips, and commonly ripen in about eight months.

The manioc was planted in trenches, about two feet and a half apart, and six inches deep. It was necessary to keep the plant free from weeds. When ripe, the shrub and roots were all dug up together, like potatoes. When the roots were taken up, the bark or skin was scraped off, just as parsnips are scraped; then they were washed clean and grated fine, something like horseradish. Then the grated mass was put into a strainer of split flags, or the bark of a tree.

The strainer was six or seven feet long, and four or five inches in diameter. It was woven something like a cotton stocking, in order that it might be expanded to receive the manioc, and contract for the purpose of expressing the juice. When filled, it was hung on the limb of a tree, with a basket of stones fastened to the bottom, which gradually forced out the juice of the manioc, which is of a poisonous quality unless it is boiled.

Caribs preparing Manioc.

When the manioc was sufficiently dry, they took daily what they wanted, and having passed the flour through a sieve made of reeds, they then made it into paste, and baked it upon flat stones. It is a very nourishing kind of bread, and is to this day used in many parts of tropical America.

The Caribs had discovered the art of making intoxicating beverages, so that they really needed a temperance society,—not quite so much, perhaps, as their civilized invaders. In this respect the Caribs had far outstripped the inventions of the northern barbarians.

Carib Vessels.

No people in the world were more expert than the Caribs in the management of a boat. They had two sorts of vessels—becassas, with three masts and square sails, and piroques, with only two masts. The last were about thirty feet long by four and a half feet wide in the middle. The becassa was about forty-two feet long and seven feet wide in the middle. They had sometimes figures of monkeys painted red at the stern of their vessels. These vessels were built of the West India cedar tree, which there grows to a prodigious size. One tree made the keel of the vessel. It was felled with immense labor, hewed to a proper degree of thickness, made very smooth, and if any addition to the height was necessary, planks were added to the sides. This work was all performed with sharp hatchets made of flint.

Some of these vessels had topmasts, and the Caribs could rig out fleets of thirty sail at a time. After the French had been some years settled at Martinico, they were surprised one foggy morning by the appearance of a fleet on their coast. The whole island was instantly in alarm and commotion; every man seized his arms, thinking a large squadron from Europe was come to attack the island. But the fog cleared away, and there, close-hauled in shore, were twenty sail of becassas and piroques, filled with Caribs, who had come for a friendly trading visit.

The Caribs were usually rather above the middle stature, well proportioned, and their countenances were rather agreeable. Their foreheads had an extraordinary appearance, as they were flattened by having a board bound tight on the forehead when they were infants, and kept there till the head had taken the fashionable form. The forehead then continued flat, so that they could see perpendicularly when standing erect, and over their heads when lying down. These were the objects aimed at, and so they, at least, had a reason for their ridiculous custom; which is more than can be said of all the customs of modern refined society.

They had small black eyes, beautiful teeth, white and even, and long, glossy, black hair. The hair was always kept well anointed with oil of palmachristi. It was difficult to judge of the color of their skin, because they were always painted with rouco, which gave them the appearance of boiled lobsters. The coat of paint preserved their skins from the hot rays of the sun, and from the stings of the musquito and gnat. It was thus far a useful invention, but they also considered it highly ornamental. When they wished to appear exceedingly grand, they added black mustaches, and other black strokes on their red-painted faces, with the juice of the geripa apple.

The men wore ornaments, called caracolis, in their ears, noses, and the under lip. The metal of which these ornaments were formed came from the South American continent, but no one but an Indian could ever find it. It is exceedingly brilliant, and does not tarnish. A full-dressed Carib wore a caracolis in each ear. The ornament was in the form of a crescent, suspended by chains about two and a half inches long, which were fastened in the ear by a hook. Another caracoli of the same size was attached to the gristle which separates the nostrils, and hung over the mouth. The under part of the lower lip was pierced, and thence hung another caracoli, which reached to the neck; and in the last place, they had one six or seven inches long, enchased in a small board of black wood, and suspended from the neck by a small cord.

When they did not wear the caracolis, they inserted little pieces of wood in their ears, &c., that the holes might not grow up; sometimes they stuck the feathers of parrots in these holes, and thus looked very queerly. They had a habit of sticking the hair of their children full of feathers of different colors, which was done very prettily, and looked quite appropriate with their round, red faces, and bright, laughing eyes.

The women were smaller than the men, but equally well-formed. They had black hair and eyes, round faces, their mouths were small, and teeth beautiful. They had a gay and lively air, and their countenances were smiling and very agreeable; but they were in their behaviour perfectly modest.

Their hair was tied at the back of their heads, with a cotton fillet. They wore belts and a little apron called a camisa. It was made of cotton cloth, embroidered with beads, and had a bead fringe. They wore scarfs of cotton cloth, about half a yard wide, called a pagn. It was wrapped twice round the body under the armpits, and then was tied, and the ends hung down to the knee. They wore necklaces, composed of several strings of beads, and bracelets of the same. They had buskins also, which were ornaments for the legs, very tasteful, and in high fashion. The females performed most of the cooking, and made the hammocks; and they had likewise to carry all the burdens which were borne in baskets. A man would have been dishonored forever if he had spun or woven cotton, or painted a hammock, or carried a market-basket. But all the hard labor was performed by the men, and they were very kind to their wives and children.

They had some singular customs respecting deceased persons. When a Carib died, he was immediately painted all over with the red paint, and had his mustaches, and the black streaks on his face, made very deep and shining. He was next put into a hole surrounded with mats, and kept till all his relations could see and examine the body. No matter how distant they lived, if on another island, they must be summoned and appear, before the dead body could be buried. But the thick coat of paint preserved it from decay for a long time.

In their wars, I have told you, the Caribs were murderous and cruel. They often poisoned their arrows, and probably often eat their captives. They fought with bows and arrows, and clubs. But when their angry passions became cool, they treated their prisoners with humanity, and never tortured them like the northern savages.

In some instances these islanders were faithless and treacherous. In 1708 the English entered into an agreement with the Caribs in St. Vincents, to attack the French colonies in Martinico. The French governor heard of the treaty, and sent Major Coullet, who was a great favorite with the savages, to persuade them to break the treaty. Coullet took with him a number of officers and servants, and a good store of provisions and liquors. He reached St. Vincents, gave a grand entertainment to the principal Caribs, and after circulating the brandy freely, he got himself painted red, and made them a flaming speech. He urged them to break their connection with the English. How could they refuse a man who gave them brandy, and who was red as themselves? They abandoned their English friends, and burnt all the timber the English had cut on the island, and butchered the first Englishman who arrived. But their crimes were no worse than those of their christian advisers, who, on either side, were inciting these savages to war.

But the Caribs are all gone, perished from the earth. Their race is no more, and their name is only a remembrance. The English and the French, chiefly the latter, have destroyed them.

There is, however, one pleasant reflection attending their fate. Though destroyed, they were never enslaved. None of their conquerers could compel them to labor. Even those who have attempted to hire Caribs for servants, have found it impossible to derive any benefit or profit from them; they would not be commanded or reprimanded.

This independence was called pride, indolence, and stubbornness by their conquerors;—if the Caribs had had historians to record their wrongs, and their resistance to an overwhelming tyranny, they would have set the matter in a very different light. They would have expressed the sentiment which the conduct of their countrymen so steadily exemplified—that it was better to die free than to live slaves.

So determined was their resistance to all kinds of authority, that it became a proverb among the Europeans, that to show displeasure to a Carib was the same as beating him, and to beat him was the same as to kill him. If they did anything it was only what they chose, how they chose, and when they chose; and when they were most wanted, it often happened that they would not do what was required, nor anything else.

The French missionaries made many attempts to convert the Caribs to Christianity, but without success. It is true that some were apparently converted; they learned the catechism, and prayers, and were baptized; but they always returned to their old habits.

A man of family and fortune, named Chateau Dubois, settled in Guadaloupe, and devoted great part of his life to the conversion of the Caribs, particularly those of Dominica. He constantly entertained a number of them, and taught them himself. He died in the exercise of these pious and charitable offices, without the consolation of having made one single convert.

As we have said, several had been baptized, and, as he hoped, they were well instructed, and apparently well grounded in the christian religion; but after they returned to their own people, they soon resumed all the Indian customs, and their natural indifference to all religion.

Some years after the death of Dubois, one of these Carib apostates was at Martinico. He spoke French correctly, could read and write; he had been baptized, and was then upwards of fifty years old. When reminded of the truths he had been taught, and reproached for his apostasy, he replied, “that if he had been born of christian parents, or if he had continued to live among the French, he would still have professed Christianity—but that, having returned to his own country and his own people, he could not resolve to live in a manner differing from their way of life, and by so doing expose himself to the hatred and contempt of his relations.” Alas, it is small matter of wonder that the Carib thought the christian religion was only a profession. Had those who bore that name always been Christians in reality, and treated the poor ignorant savages with the justice, truth and mercy which the Gospel enjoins, what a different tale the settlement of the New World would have furnished!

A good Reply.—A countryman drove up his cart to a grocer’s door, and asked him what he gave for eggs. “Only seventeen cents,” he replied, “for the grocers have had a meeting and voted not to give any more.” Again the countryman came to market, and asked the grocer what he gave for eggs. “Only twelve cents,” said the grocer, “for the grocers have had another meeting and voted not to give any more.” A third time the countryman came and made the same inquiry, and the grocer replied, that “the grocers had held a meeting and voted to give only ten cents. Have you any for sale?” continued the grocer. “No,” says the countryman; “the hens have had a meeting too, and voted not to trouble themselves to lay eggs for ten cents a dozen.”

Pet Oyster.—There is a gentleman at Christ Church, Salisbury, England, who keeps a pet oyster of the largest and finest breed. It is fed on oatmeal, for which it regularly opens its shell, and is occasionally treated with a dip in its native element; but the most extraordinary trait in the history of this amphibious pet is, that it has proved itself an excellent mouser, having already killed five mice, by crushing the heads of such as, tempted by odoriferous meal, had the temerity to intrude their noses within its bivalvular clutches. Twice have two of these little intruders suffered together.—Eng. Journal, 1840.

The Shetland Pony.

This diminutive breed of horses, many of which are not larger than a Newfoundland dog, is common in Shetland, and all the islands on the north and west of Scotland; also in the mountainous districts of the mainland along the coast. They are beautifully formed, and possess prodigious strength in proportion to their size. The heads are small, with a flowing mane and long tail, reaching to the ground.

They are high-spirited and courageous little animals, but extremely tractable in their nature. Some of them run wild about the mountains, and there are various methods of catching them, according to the local situation of the district which they inhabit.

The shelties, as they are called, are generally so small, that a middling-sized man must ride with his knees raised to the animal’s shoulders, to prevent his toes from touching the ground. It is surprising to see with what speed they will carry a heavy man over broken and zigzag roads in their native mountains.

When grazing, they will clamber up steep ascents, and to the extreme edge of precipices which overhang the most frightful abysses, and there they will gaze round with as much complacency as if on a plain.

These horses, small as they may be, are not to be considered a degenerate breed, for they are possessed of much greater physical strength in proportion to their size than larger horses. They are called garrons in the highlands of Scotland.

Many years ago, when turnpikes were first established in Scotland, a countryman was employed by the laird of Coll to go to Glasgow and Edinburgh on certain business, and furnished with a small shelty to ride upon. Being stopped at the gate near Dunbarton, the messenger good-humoredly asked the keeper if he would be required to pay toll, should he pass through carrying a burthen; and upon the man answering “Certainly not,” he took up the horse in his arms, and carried him through the toll-bar, to the great amusement of the gate-keeper.

A gentleman, some time ago, was presented with one of these handsome little animals, which was no less docile than elegant, and measured only seven hands or twenty-eight inches in height. He was anxious to convey his present home as speedily as possible, but, being at a considerable distance, was at a loss how to do so most easily. The friend said, “Can you not carry him in your chaise?” He made the experiment, and the shelty was lifted into it, covered up with the apron, and some bits of bread given him to keep him quiet. He lay quite peaceable till he reached his destination; thus exhibiting the novel spectacle of a horse riding in a gig.

A little girl, the daughter of a gentleman in Warwickshire, England, playing on the banks of a canal which runs through his grounds, had the misfortune to fall in, and would in all probability have been drowned, had not a little pony, which had long been kept in the family, plunged into the stream and brought the child safely ashore, without the slightest injury. The engraving at the head of this article exhibits this interesting scene.

A gentleman had a white pony, which became extremely attached to a little dog that lived with him in the stable, and whenever the horse was rode out, the dog always ran by his side. One day, when the groom took out the pony for exercise, and accompanied as usual by his canine friend, they met a large dog, who attacked the diminutive cur, upon which the horse reared, and, to the astonishment of the bystanders, so effectually fought his friend’s battle with his fore feet, that the aggressor found it his interest to scamper off at full speed, and never again ventured to assail the small dog.

Shelties sometimes attain a great age. There was in the small village of Haddington, Eng., a very small black pony, not exceeding eleven hands high, of the Shetland breed, which in the year 1745, at only two years of age, was rode at the battle of Preston Pans, by a young gentleman, who afterwards sold it to a farmer near Dunbar. This pony, at forty-seven years of age, looked remarkably fresh; trotted eight miles an hour for several miles together; had a very good set of teeth; eat corn and hay well; was able to go a long journey; and had not, to appearance, undergone the least alteration, either in galloping, trotting, or walking, for twenty years preceding.

Curious.—In a book of accounts, belonging to a small dealer, who had become bankrupt, in the west of England, were found the following names of customers to whom credit had been given: “Woman on the Key; Jew Woman; Coal Woman; Old Coal Woman; Fat Coal Woman; Market Woman; Pale Woman; A Man; Old Woman; Little Milk Girl; Candle Man; Stable Man; Coachman; Big Woman; Lame Woman; Quiet Woman; Egg Man; Littel Black Girl; Old Watchman; Shoemaker; Littel Shoemaker; Short Shoemaker; Old Shoemaker; Littel Girl; Jew Man; Jew Woman; Mrs. in the Cart; Old Irish Woman; Woman in Cow street; A Lad; Man in the country; Long Sal; Woman with Long Sal; Mrs. Irish Woman; Mrs. Feather Bonnet; Blue Bonnet; Green Bonnet; Green Coat; Blue Britches; Big Britches; The woman that was married; The woman that told me of the man.”

“I hope I don’t intrude,” as the knife said to the oyster.

Instinct.

As M. Moreau de Johnes was riding through a wood in Martinique some years since, his horse reared and exhibited the greatest degree of alarm, trembling in every limb with fear. On looking around to discover the cause of the animal’s terror, he observed a serpent, called fer de lance, standing erect in a bush of bamboo, and he heard it hiss several times.

He would have fired at it with his pistol, but his horse became quite unmanageable, and drew back as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes fixed on the snake. M. de Johnes, on looking around for some person to hold his horse so that he might destroy the viper, beheld a negro, streaming with blood, cutting with a blunt knife the flesh from a wound which the serpent had just inflicted.

The negro entreated M. de Johnes not to destroy it, as he wished to take the animal alive, to effect a cure on himself, according to a superstitious belief; and this M. de Johnes allowed him to do.

Varieties.

Little Chimney-Sweeper.—About three o’clock, one cold, dark, damp day, at the end of December, I met a little chimney-sweeper in England, who had come with his father that morning from a town eight miles off, to sweep the various chimneys about. He was nearly ten years old.

“Do you go home to-night, my little fellow? Where is your father?” “He went forward to the village of D——, and I am to follow.” “Are you afraid to go?” “No, I don’t feel afraid.” “I hope you are a good boy and don’t swear—do you say your prayers?” “Yes, always, every night and morning.” “Do you like sweeping chimneys?” “As to that, I don’t think any one could like it much; but there are nine children of us, and we two eldest boys must help father; and mother is good, and gets us breakfast early; and father is good to us, and we do pretty well.” “Do you go to Sunday school?” “Some of us always go.” Here ended our conversation.

About four o’clock a message came, “May the chimney-sweeper’s boy sleep here?—he cries, and says it is so wet and dark.” After a minute’s thought, we replied, “Yes, if he is willing to be locked up in the stable till morning.” With this he was well content; and after a clean bed of straw was made, he seemed delighted with his new quarters.

After the key had been turned a few minutes, an old servant coming by heard a voice—a steady, pleading voice; and on listening, she heard the child distinctly repeating collect after collect, and various church prayers. She went round, and looking in, saw our poor boy, kneeling by his bed of straw, with his hands clasped, and praying very earnestly. She said, “The tears came in my eyes as I watched the little fellow, and to see him rise from his knees, and so happily lay himself down to sleep.”

In the morning, they watched the child, when he repeated just the same before he left the stable. Upon coming out, the servants asked him, “Who taught you to say your prayers as you do?” “Mother,” he replied. “Then your mother’s a good scholar?” “No, she can’t read a word—none in our house can read.” “How then did she learn all these prayers?”

“Mother goes to church every Sunday, and says them after the parson, and so she learns them; and every night we all kneel round her that are old enough to speak, before she puts us to bed, and she says them first, bit by bit, and we all say them after her; and sometimes she learns a new one, and then she teaches us that. She tells us always to say our prayers when we are away from her, and so I do.”

A Shower of Ashes.—A late number of Silliman’s Journal contains the following memorandum, handed in by Rev. Peter Parker, M. D., who was a passenger in the ship Niantic, from Canton for New York:

“Ship Niantic, L. F. Doty, master, April 5th, 1840, being in lat. 7 deg. 5 min. north, lon. 121 deg. 10 min. east, at 2 h. A. M., sixty miles west from Mindanuo, one of the Philippine islands, came up a fine breeze from the northeast, which was attended with a shower of dust, resembling that of ashes. It came so thick that it obscured the moon and stars, which were all out very clear before. It filled the sailors’ eyes so full that they were obliged to retreat from the deck below. It lasted about one hour, and cleared away. At daylight the Niantic looked like an old furnace, completely covered, from the royal-masthead down to the water’s edge. The decks I should judge were one quarter of an inch thick with the ashes. We took up one half bushel, and might have saved three or four. It fell in small quantities, at different times, for two or three days after. On the 14th of April, spoke the English barque Margaret, whaler; reported likewise on the 5th of April had a similar shower of ashes, being at the time three hundred miles north-northeast of us. He informed me that on the 12th of April he visited several villages on the island of Madura, entirely deserted by the people, from one of which he had taken two brass cannon and several other articles. This led us to think that some volcanic eruption had lately happened in that neighborhood. After the 9th, perceived no more ashes in proceeding northward.”

Circumstances alter Cases.—“Is Mr. Bluster within?” “No; he is out of town,” remarked the servant. “When can I see him?” “I don’t know;—have you any especial business with him?” “Yes, there is a small bill which I wish to settle.” “Well,” said the servant, “I don’t know whether he will return this week or not.” “But I wish to pay the bill, as I am to leave the town immediately.” “Oh! you wish to pay him some money—he is up stairs, I’m thinking; I will call him. Take a seat, sir; Mr. Bluster will be with you in a moment!”

Fatal Attack of a Serpent.—A letter from Martinique, in the Journal of Guadaloupe, states, that M. De Pickery, merchant, was met while on a hunting excursion by an enormous serpent, which attacked him, and inflicted several severe wounds in his legs. He defended himself with great courage; but, although timely succor was administered to him, he died four hours after. The serpent was nearly seven feet in length, and when opened there were found in it one hundred and sixty-two little ones. (1840.)

TEARS.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Slow & Pathetic.

Tears, tears may speak of grief,
More deep than words e’er spake,
And yet tears bring relief,
When else the heart would break.

Tears, tears may tell of pleasure,
Too sweet for words to show;
For the heart is like a measure—
Too full, ’twill overflow.

Then give, oh give me tears!—
For sorrow’s load they lighten—
And rainbow joy appears,
Amid their showers to brighten.

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM.

EDITED BY

S. G. GOODRICH,

AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY’S TALES.

VOLUME II.

BOSTON:
BRADBURY & SODEN,
10 School Street.
1841.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1841.

The Siberian Sable-hunter, | 1, 33, 69, 103, 156
The Wolf that pretended to be robbed, | 7
Beware of Impatience, | 8
Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter, | 8, 44, 74, 144
Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America, | 14, 54, 121, 135, 161
Lion Hunting, | 16
Merry’s Life and Adventures, | 17, 39, 65, 97, 149, 178
Toucan, | 19
The Newfoundland Dog, | 21
The Mysterious Artist, | 24, 51
Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates, Nos. 2 & 3, | 27, 140
Egyptian Schools, | 30
Varieties, | 31
The Boy and the Lark,—a Song, | 32
Origin of Words and Phrases, | 43
Hymn, | 50
Anecdote, | 50
The Sparrow and Robin, | 51
The Alligator, | 60
Braham’s Parrot, | 61
Mungo Park and the Frogs, | 62
A Child lost in the Woods, | 63
The Sun, | 63
Autumn,—a Song, | 64
Habit, | 73
The Oak and the Reed, | 80
Sincerity, | 81
The Hyena, | 84
Jewish Women, | 84
Story of Philip Brusque, | 85, 100, 130
An Incident from Ancient History, | 89
Effects of Prohibition, | 89
Saturday Night, | 90
Oliver Cromwell, | 92
Musings, | 93
Anecdote of an Atheist, | 94
Who made this? | 94
Wisdom of the Creator, | 94
Yankee Energy, | 95
Who made Man? | 95
Power of God, | 95
The Bird’s Adieu,—a Song, | 96
Wisdom of the Creator, | 106
Washington, a Teacher to the Young, | 107
The Poet and the Child, | 111
The Ostrich, | 112
What do we mean by Nature? | 112
A Vision, | 114
The Sun and Wind, | 116
The Kamskatka Lily, | 116
Habits which concern Ourselves, | 117
Anecdotes of Haydn, | 118
The Fox and Raven,—a Fable, | 119
I don’t see why, | 120
Charles and his Mother, | 124
John Doree, | 127
Letter to the Publishers, | 127
Bees, | 128
Up in the Morning early,—a Song, | 128
London, | 133
Aurelian and the Spider, | 133
Exotic Fruit and Flowers in England, | 134
Benevolence of the Deity, | 134
The Rhinoceros, | 137
Briers and Berries, | 138
The Crows’ Court of Law, | 138
The Story of the Supposed Miser, | 139
The Mouth, | 139
The Pilot, | 148
A Little Child’s Joy, | 151
The Mammoth, | 152
Geordie and the Sick Dog, | 152
The Tongue, | 158
What is Selfishness? | 159
A Thought, | 159
Winter,—a Song, | 160
A Long Nap, | 171
Lord Bacon, | 172
Habits which concern Others, | 173
The Black Skimmer of the Seas, | 175
The Squirrel, | 176
Gothic Architecture, | 177
The Apple,—a German Fable, | 181
The Pretender and his Sister, | 182
Winter, | 183
The Hand, | 184
Nuts to Crack, | 185
To the Black-eyed and Blue-eyed Friends of Robert Merry, | 186
Winter,—a Song, | 188

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by S. G. Goodrich, in the Clerk’s Office of the
District Court of Massachusetts.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER I.

In the northern part of Asia, there is a vast country called Siberia. It is nearly destitute of mountains, and consists of a great plain, stretching out to an immense extent, and being in many parts almost as level as the sea. In some places it is barren and bare, but in others it is covered with forests. Sometimes these are of pine, cedar, hemlock, and other evergreens, and grow so thickly as to make it difficult to pass between the trees.

Several great rivers cross this country, the chief of which are the Irtish and Obi, the Yenisei, and the Lena. These are almost as large as our great rivers of America. They flow from south to north, and empty themselves into a wide sea called the Arctic Ocean.

Siberia is a cold and desolate region, where the summer is short, and where winter reigns about two thirds of the year. There are few towns or cities, especially in the north, and thus large portions of the country are both uncultivated and uninhabited. There are vast tracts given up to solitude, or visited only by wolves, bears, and other savage animals, or are occasionally crossed by wandering parties of Tartars, who are the chief inhabitants of the country, and who are almost as wild as our American Indians.

This great country, which is more extensive than the whole of Europe, and about three times as large as the entire territory of the United States, belongs to Russia. It is under the government of the emperor of that country, who, you know, reigns over a larger portion of the earth than any other ruler.

It would seem that it could be no great advantage to hold possession of such a cold and dreary land as Siberia; but yet it produces a good deal of gold, silver, and copper, and the southern portions, having a rich soil, yield vast quantities of grain. The Tartars are fond of rearing horses and cattle, and so abundant are these creatures in some places, that a horse sells for two dollars and a half, and an ox for a dollar and a quarter! Oatmeal is sold for five cents a bushel, and a man may live for ten dollars a year! But though articles seem so very cheap, it must be remembered that a man must labor for about four cents a day; so that, after all, he has to work pretty hard for a good living.

But what I have been saying relates to the southern part of Siberia, where the climate is milder and the soil rich; as you go northward, the cold increases, and vegetation diminishes. At last you come to a country where there are few people, and where, as I have said before, the whole region seems to be given up to savage animals. In the loneliness of the forests here, the wolf and bear roam at their pleasure, being the sovereigns of the country. Yet it is in these very regions that a great source of wealth is found—for here are various animals which yield fine and beautiful furs. The most celebrated and valuable are produced by a species of weasel, called the sable—one skin of which sometimes sells for a hundred and fifty dollars. Beside the sable, the black fox, whose skin sells for twenty to seventy-five dollars, martens of two or three kinds, and other animals, are found, which produce valuable furs; and it is to be considered that it is the very coldness of the country which renders the furs so excellent. Creatures living here have need of very warm shirts and jackets, and nature, like a kind mother, takes good care of her children. Considering that the animals of the north of Siberia live among regions of snow and frost, where summer comes only for a few weeks in the year, and winter holds almost perpetual sway, she gives the sable, and the marten, and the fox, and even the wolf and bear, such nice warm clothes, that kings and queens envy them, and hunters are sent two thousand miles to procure these luxuries.

Thus it is that Siberia, after all, yields a great deal of wealth, and the emperor of Russia therefore holds on to it with a greedy grasp. But it is not for its productions alone that he holds it; for the emperor has a large family—about fifty millions in Europe and Asia—and as he is a hard master, some of them are pretty often rebellious; and to punish them, he sends them to Siberia. This is a kind of prison,—though a large one,—where those are banished who have incurred the displeasure or dislike of his majesty. So numerous are these exiles, that Tobolsk, one of the largest towns, and lying in the western part of the country, is to a great extent peopled by them and their descendants. It is about some of these exiles that I am going to tell you a story.

A few years since, a Polish officer, by the name of Ludovicus Pultova, was banished to Siberia, by Nicholas, the present emperor of Russia. His offence was, that he had engaged in the struggle of 1830 to liberate Poland, his native country, from the tyranny exercised over it by its Russian masters. The Poles had hoped for aid in their efforts from other nations; but in this they were disappointed, and they were overwhelmed by the power of the emperor. Thousands of them fled to other lands, to escape the fate that awaited them at home; others were shot, or shut up in dungeons; and others, amounting to many hundreds, were sent to Siberia.

The wife of Pultova was dead, but he had a son and daughter, the first about eighteen years of age, and the other sixteen, at the time of his banishment. It was no small part of his misery that they were not permitted to accompany him in his exile. After a year, however, they contrived to leave Warsaw, where they had lived, and, passing through many dangers and trials, they at last reached their father at Tobolsk.

This city is about as large as Salem in Massachusetts, and consists of a fort and citadel, with numerous dwellings around them, on a hill, and another portion on the low ground, bordering on the river Obi. The people, as I have said before, are chiefly exiles, or their descendants; and as it has been said that tyranny never banishes fools, so the society embraces many persons of talent and merit. Some of them, indeed, were celebrated for their genius, and numbers of them were of high rank and character. But what must a city of exiles be?—composed of people who have been separated from their native land—from their homes, their relatives—from all they held most dear; and that, too, with little hope of return or restoration to their former enjoyments? Most of them, also, are stripped of their property, and if they possessed wealth and independence before, they come here to drag out a life of poverty, perhaps of destitution.

Such was in fact the condition of Pultova. He was, in Warsaw, a merchant of great wealth and respectability. When his countrymen rose in their resistance, he received a military commission, and distinguished himself alike by his wisdom and bravery. In the fierce battles that raged around the walls of the city before its fall, he seemed almost too reckless of life, and in several instances hewed his way, at the head of his followers, into the very bosom of the Russian camp. He became an object of admiration to his countrymen, and of equal hatred to the Russians. When Warsaw fell, his punishment was proportioned to the magnitude of his offence. He was entirely stripped of his estates, and perpetual banishment was his sentence.

It is not easy to conceive of a situation more deplorable than his, at Tobolsk. The friends that he had there, like himself, were generally oppressed with poverty. Some shunned him, for fear of drawing down the vengeance of the government; for the chief officer of the citadel was of course a spy, who kept a vigilant watch over the people: and there are few persons, reduced to servitude and poverty, who do not learn to cower beneath the suspicious eye of authority. What could Pultova do? Here was no scope for his mercantile talents, even if he had the means of giving them exercise. His principles would not allow him to join the bands of men, who, driven to desperation by their hard fate, took to the highway, and plundered those whom they could master. Nor could he, like too many of his fellow-sufferers, drown his senses in drunkenness. Could he go to the mines, and in deep pits, away from the light of heaven, work for three or four cents a day, and that too in companionship with convicts and criminals of the lowest and most debased character? Could he go forth to the fields and labor for his subsistence, where the wages of a man trained to toil, were hardly sufficient for subsistence?

These were the questions which the poor exile had occasion to revolve in his mind; and after his son and daughter joined him, and the few dollars he had brought with him were nearly exhausted, it became necessary that he should decide upon some course of action. Nor were these considerations those alone which occupied his mind. He had also to reflect upon the degradation of his country—the ruin of those hopes of liberty which had been indulged—the wreck of his personal fortunes—and the exchange, in his own case, of independence for poverty.

It requires a stout heart to bear up against such misfortunes, and at the same time to support the heavy burden which is added in that bitter sense of wrong and injustice, which comes again and again, under such circumstances, to ask for revenge or retribution. But Pultova was not only a man of energy in the field—he was something better—a man of that moral courage which enabled him to contend against weakness of heart in the hour of trouble. I shall best make you understand his feelings and character by telling you how he spoke to his children, a few weeks after their arrival.

“My dear Alexis,” said he, “you complain for want of books, that you may pursue your studies and occupy your mind: how can we get books in Siberia, and that without money? You are uneasy for want of something to do—some amusement or occupation;—think, my boy, how many of our countrymen are at this very hour in dungeons, their limbs restrained by chains, and not only denied books and amusement, but friends, the pure air, nay the very light of heaven! Think how many a noble Polish heart is now beating and fluttering, like a caged eagle, against the gratings that confine it—how many a hero, who seemed destined to fill the world with his glorious deeds, is now in solitude, alone, emaciated, buried from the world’s view, and lost to all existence, save that he still feels, suffers, despairs—and all this without a friend who may share his sorrow! How long and weary is a single day to you, Alexis; think how tedious the hours to the prisoner in the prolonged night of the dungeon!”

“Dear father,” said Alexis; “this is dreadful—but how can it help our condition? It only shows us that there is deeper sorrow than ours.”

“Yes, Alexis; and from this contrast we may derive consolation. Whether it be rational or not, still, by contemplating these deeper sorrows of our fellow-men, and especially of our fellow-countrymen, we may alleviate our own. But let me suggest another subject for contemplation: what are we to do for food, Alexis? My money is entirely gone except five dollars, and this can last for only a few weeks.”

“Why, father, I can do something, surely.”

“Well, what can you do?”

“I do not know—I cannot say; I never thought of it before. Cannot you borrow some money?”

“No; and if I could I would not. No, no, Alexis, our circumstances have changed. It is the will of God. We are now poor, and we must toil for a subsistence. It is a grievous change—but it is no disgrace, at least. We are indeed worse off than the common laborer, for our muscles are not so strong as his; but we must give them strength by exercise. We have pride and long habit to contend with; but these we must conquer. It is weakness, it is folly, to yield to circumstances. If the ship leaks, we must take to the boat. Heaven may prosper our efforts, and bring us, after days of trial, to a safe harbor. But my greatest anxiety is for poor Kathinka.”

“Fear not for me,” said the lovely girl, rushing to her father and kneeling before him—“fear not for me!”

“Kathinka, I did not know you was in the room.”

“Nor was I till this moment; but the door was ajar, and I have heard all. Dear father—dear Alexis—fear not for me. I will be no burthen—I will aid you rather.”

“My noble child!” said the old man, as he placed his arms around the kneeling girl, and while his tears fell fast upon her brow, “you are indeed worthy of your mother, who, with all the softness of woman, had the energy of a hero. In early life, while contending with difficulties in my business, she was ever my helper and supporter. In every day of darkness, she was my guiding-star. She has indeed bequeathed her spirit to me in you, Kathinka.”

“My dear father, this is indeed most kind, and I will endeavor to make good the opinion you entertain of me. See! I have already begun my work. Do you observe this collar? I have foreseen difficulties, and I have wrought this that I may sell it and get money by it.”

“Indeed!” said Pultova, “you are a brave girl;—and who put this into your head?”

“I do not know—I thought of it myself, I believe.”

“And who do you think will buy this collar, here at Tobolsk? Who can pay money for such finery?”

“I intend to sell it to the governor’s lady. She at least has money, for I saw her at the chapel a few days since, and she was gaily dressed. I do not doubt she will pay me for the collar.”

At these words a bright flush came to the old man’s cheek, and his eye flashed with the fire of pride. The thought in his mind was—“And can I condescend to live upon the money that comes from the wife of the governor, the officer, the tool of the emperor, my oppressor? And shall my daughter, a descendant of Poniatowsky, be a slave to these cringing minions of power?” But he spoke not the thought aloud. A better and wiser feeling came over him, and kissing his daughter’s cheek, he went to his room, leaving his children together.

A long and serious conversation ensued between them, the result of which was a mutual determination to seek some employment, by which they could obtain the means of support for their parent and themselves. A few days after this had elapsed, when Alexis came home with an animated countenance, and finding his sister, told her of a scheme he had formed for himself, which was to join a party of fur hunters, who were about to set out for the northeastern regions of Siberia. Kathinka listened attentively, and, after some reflection, replied—“Alexis, I approve of your scheme. If our father assents to it, you must certainly go.”

“It seems to me that you are very ready to part with me!” said Alexis, a little poutingly.

“Nay, nay,” said the girl; “don’t be playing the boy, for it is time that you were a man. Think not, dear Alexis, that I shall not miss you; think not that I shall feel no anxiety for my only brother, my only companion, and, save our good parent, the only friend I have in Siberia.”

Alexis smiled, though the tear was in his eye. He said nothing, but, clasping Kathinka’s hand tenderly, he went to consult with his father. It is sufficient to say, that at last his consent was obtained, and in a few days the young hunter, by the active efforts of his sister, was equipped for the expedition. The evening before he was to set out, he had a long interview with Kathinka, who encouraged him to procure the finest sable skins, saying that she had a scheme of her own for disposing of them to advantage.

“And what is that precious scheme of yours?” said Alexis.

“I do not like to tell you, for you will say it is all a girl’s romance.”

“But you must tell me.”

“Indeed—I must? Well, if I must I will. Do you remember the princess Lodoiska, that was for some time in concealment at our house during the siege of Warsaw?”

“Yes; I remember her well. But why was she there? and what became of her? And did father know that she was there? or was it only you and mother and me that saw her?”

“Too many questions at once, Lex! I will tell you all I know. The princess was accidentally captured by father’s troop in one of its excursions to a neighboring village. She had fled from Warsaw a few days before, when the insurrection first broke out, and she had not yet found the means of going to St. Petersburgh. Father must have known who she was, though he affected not to know. He kept the secret to himself and his family, fearing, perhaps, that some harm would come to the lady if she were discovered. It was while she was at our house that our blessed mother died. Father, you know, was at that time engaged with the Russians, without the walls. The princess and myself only were at mother’s bedside when she breathed her last. Her mind was bright and calm. Indeed, it seemed to me that there was something of prophecy in her spirit then. A look so beautiful I never saw. ‘Sweet lady,’ said she, taking the hand of the princess, ‘I see how this dreadful strife will end. Poor Poland is destined to fall—and many a noble heart must fall with her. I know not that my gallant husband may survive; but if he do, he will be an exile and an outcast. For him, I have few fears, for I know that he has a spirit that cannot be crushed or broken. In Siberia, he will still be Pultova. But, princess, forgive if a mother’s heart, in the shadow of death, sinks at the idea of leaving children, and especially this dear girl, in such circumstances. What will become of Kathinka, if my fears prove prophetic?’

“The lady wept, but answered not for some time. At last she said, looking into mother’s face, which seemed like that of an angel—‘I feel your appeal, dear lady, and I will answer it. Your husband has indeed put my life in peril, by bringing me here; but he did it in the discharge of duty, and in ignorance of my name and character. He has at least given me safety, and I owe him thanks. I owe you, also, a debt of gratitude, and it shall be repaid to your child. You know my power with the emperor is small, for I have been a friend to Poland, and this has almost brought me into disgrace at court. But fear not. If Kathinka should ever need a friend, let her apply to Lodoiska.’

“Such were the exact words of the princess. Our mother soon after died, and in a few days I contrived the lady’s escape,—which was happily effected. Father never spoke to me on the subject. He must have known it, and approved of it, but perhaps he wished not to take an active part in the matter.”

“This is very interesting,” said Alexis; “but what has it to do with the sable skins?”

“A great deal—they must go to the princess, and she must make a market for them at court.”

“And who is to take them to her?”

“You—you perhaps—or perhaps I.”

“You? This is indeed a girl’s romance. However, there can be no harm in getting sable skins, for they bring the best price.” After much further conversation between the brother and sister, they parted for the night; and the next day, with a father’s blessing and a sister’s tenderest farewell, the young hunter set out on his long and arduous adventures.

(To be continued.)

The Wolf that pretended to be robbed.

A wolf once made complaint that he had been robbed, and charged the theft upon his neighbor the fox. The case came on for trial before a monkey, who was justice of the peace among the quadrupeds in those parts. The parties did not employ lawyers, but chose to plead their cause themselves. When they had been fully heard, the judge, assuming the air of a magistrate, delivered his sentence as follows:—

“My worthy friends and neighbors,—I have heard your case, and examined it attentively; and my judgment is, that you both be made to pay a fine; for you are both of bad character, and if you do not deserve to be punished now, it is very likely you will deserve to be so very soon. That I have good grounds for this decree, is sufficiently evident by the fact, that Mr. Wolf’s jaws are even now stained with blood, and I can see a dead chicken sticking out of Sir Fox’s pocket, notwithstanding the air of injured innocence which he wears. And beside, one who gets an evil reputation can think it no hardship if he is occasionally made to suffer, for a crime he did not commit.”

This fable teaches us to beware of an evil reputation; for it may cause us to be punished for the misdemeanors of others. Thus, if a person gets the character of a liar, he will not be believed when he tells the truth; and where a theft is known, it is of course laid to some one who has been caught in stealing before.

Beware of Impatience.

There’s many a pleasure in life which we might possess, were it not for our impatience. Young people, especially, miss a great deal of happiness, because they cannot wait till the proper time.

A man once gave a fine pear to his little boy, saying to him, “The pear is green now, my boy, but lay it by for a week, and it will then be ripe, and very delicious.”

“But,” said the child, “I want to eat it now, father.”

“I tell you it is not ripe yet,” said the father. “It will not taste good, and, beside, it will make you sick.”

“No it won’t, father, I know it won’t, it looks so good. Do let me eat it!”

After a little more teasing, the father consented, and the child eat the pear. The consequence was, that, the next day, he was taken sick, and came very near dying. Now all this happened because the child was impatient. He couldn’t wait, and, accordingly, the pear, that might have been very pleasant and harmless, was the occasion of severe illness. Thus it is that impatience, in a thousand instances, leads children, and pretty old ones too, to convert sources of happiness into actual mischief and misery.

There were some boys once who lived near a pond; and when winter came, they were very anxious to have it freeze over, so that they could slide and skate upon the ice. At last, there came a very cold night, and in the morning the boys went to the pond, to see if the ice would bear them. Their father came by at the moment, and seeing that it was hardly thick enough, told the boys that it was not safe yet, and advised them to wait another day before they ventured upon it.

But the boys were in a great hurry to enjoy the pleasure of sliding and skating. So they walked out upon the ice; but pretty soon it went crack—crack—crack! and down they were all plunged into the water! It was not very deep, so they got out, though they were very wet, and came near drowning; and all because they could not wait.

Now these things, though they may seem to be trifles, are full of instruction. They teach us to beware of impatience, to wait till the fruit is ripe; they teach us that the cup of pleasure, seized before the proper time, is turned into poison. They show us the importance of patience.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER VI.

Journey to Mount Ætna.—Mule travelling.—Neglected state of the country.—Melilla, the town of honey.—Narrow escape of the author.—Prospect of Ætna.—A Sicilian village and country-house described.—Comparison of Sicily with New England.

I left Syracuse in the morning, to pursue my journey toward Mount Ætna. There was no road for wheel-carriages, although the distance to the mountain is but about thirty miles, and the city of Catania, which is as large as Boston, stands directly at the foot of the mountain. If this island was inhabited by Americans, they would build a railroad between the two cities in a year’s time; and hundreds of people would be travelling upon it every day. But the Sicilians are so lazy, and so negligent of improving their country, that there is only a mule-path through the wood and along the sea-shore for the whole distance. I found a company of muleteers ready to set out for Catania, with about twenty mules laden with goods, and I hired one of their beasts for a couple of dollars. The mules travelled slowly, going at a very small trot or quick walk: they were stout, strong-backed creatures, and carried heavy loads on their backs. The path was rough and wild, full of ups and downs, and strewed with rocks; but the mules were very sure-footed, and trotted along, jumping like cats from rock to rock, and clambering up and down rough places as if they had hooks to their toes. I had heard before that a mule never slips nor stumbles, but I was astonished to see what rough and craggy spots they would get over without the least difficulty. A horse would have broken his neck and all his legs in attempting to go a quarter of a mile on such a road as we travelled.

We went along in a string, Indian file, as the phrase is. The head mules had bells on their saddles, which made a perpetual tinkling. These bells were very useful in many parts of the journey: sometimes the rear mules lagged behind, stretching out the train to a great length. When the course lay among woods, rocks, and bushes, the track was hardly discernible, and those in the rear would have strayed from the leaders but for the sound of the bells. It was the 27th of February, yet the weather was as mild as the latter part of May, in New England. The almond-trees were covered with blossoms, and the fig-trees were beginning to bud. An almond-tree is about the size of a peach-tree, and when in bloom, looks almost exactly like it. Fig-trees are of all sizes, up to that of a large apple-tree.

It is melancholy to see this fine country so neglected and deserted. We hardly saw a human being upon the road, or houses anywhere; for miles beyond Syracuse, the ground was strewed with ruins, all overgrown with grass, weeds, and prickly pears. Here and there we saw a vineyard, but this was not the season for grapes; the vines were bare, and propped up with cane-poles. A few olive-trees were scattered about: these trees are about the size of a willow, and their leaves are green all the year round. The olives were now nearly full-grown. About ten o’clock in the forenoon, we saw a little town called Melilla on the side of a mountain, about six miles off, but we passed by without entering it; and met with no inhabitants, except a peasant riding on an ass. Melilla produces the finest honey in the world, and this gave the town its name. All along the road in this neighborhood, we saw great abundance of wild thyme and other fragrant flowers, which furnish the busy bees with rich materials for their labors. In a wild part of the road further onward, we met a company of half a dozen men with guns advancing toward us. I asked the muleteers if they were not robbers, and was told that they were gens d’armes, whose business it was to guard the road from robbers. Travelling in Sicily was formerly very dangerous, but it is less so at present.

By-and-by we came to a very rocky place, where I saw a deep gully passing right across the road. I was about to dismount and lead my mule over it, not imagining he would think of passing it with a rider on his back,—when he gave a sudden leap and bounded over the chasm in an instant, alighting on his fore feet with such a shock that he pitched me completely over his head. Luckily one of my feet caught in the stirrup, and this hindered me from being thrown straight forward and dashed head first upon the rock, which would have killed me in an instant. But the catching of the stirrup gave me a whirl to the left, so that I fell against the low branches of a wild fig-tree, and escaped with only a slight bruise. The men behind jumped off their beasts and ran to pick me up, judging me to be dead, or my limbs broken at least; but I was on my feet before they had time to help me. On learning the cause of the accident, they advised me, in future, always to keep my seat, however difficult the road might appear, for they assured me a mule knew much more than a man about these matters. I ran after my beast, which, I found, had not gone far; he was standing stock-still, waiting for me, and doubtless understanding the whole affair perfectly well. I could not help thinking that he gave a roguish twinkle of the eye as I got on his back again; but this might be fancy.

We continued our course through this wild region for an hour or two longer, when we came to a pretty high ridge of hills. We clambered slowly up the ascent, and on reaching the top, a most magnificent view burst upon my sight. A wide bay stretched out its blue waters before us, beyond which rose, sublimely, the huge bulk of Mount Ætna, its towering summit clad in a sheet of snow, which glistened like silver in the bright sun. At the foot of the mountain I could just discern a cluster of white spots at the edge of the shore, which they informed me was the city of Catania. It was about twenty miles distant. The lower part of Ætna was almost black, but I could see no smoke rising from the crater; it was too far off for this, the distance being nearly fifty miles. Further off, over the sea, we saw the mountains of Calabria, capped with snow, and half hidden by the clouds.

As we descended the hills and approached the sea-shore, the road grew worse and worse. We climbed over broken rocks, gullies, and the beds of mountain torrents, and through wild thickets of bushes, where we could hardly squeeze our way. After a while, we came to a field where laborers were ploughing: this was the first instance of agricultural labor I had yet seen on the journey. The oxen were fine stout animals, with immensely long horns; the plough was of wood, and the clumsiest machine of the kind I ever saw. The rough, rocky chain of hills now sloped away into a fine champaign country, where the soil appeared very rich. As we proceeded, the color of Mount Ætna gradually changed; its black sides were now spotted with dark red patches, which proved to be small mountains that had burst out of the great one, in fiery eruptions. Presently, we could distinguish the smoke proceeding from the crater at the top; it streamed off like a white cloud horizontally, but with so slow a movement that it gave me some idea of its immense distance. It was one of the grandest sights I ever beheld.

About one o’clock the road wound through a thick wood of olive-trees, upon an eminence. Going down this steep descent, we found at the foot a little hamlet, consisting of four or five houses and an oil-mill. We stopped here to rest our mules, and I strolled round the place. The mill was a tall, square tower of stone; great numbers of oil-jars lay scattered about upon the ground: the sight of them made me think of the Forty Thieves. In one part of the mill, I found a large quantity of oranges packed in boxes for shipping; very probably they found their way to Boston in the course of the spring. The houses were rude stone edifices, of one story. I went into one of them for curiosity: the door stood wide open. In the kitchen, I found a great clumsy fireplace like a blacksmith’s forge, and two or three awkward wooden stools, but nothing like a table, except a sort of dresser, on which stood an earthen dish or two, and a few cups. Heaps of straw were lying about, and a few trumpery things, all at sixes and sevens. Pigeons were roosting overhead and flying about the room. It was the oddest looking kitchen I was ever in. Another room had a bed and a chair; and these were all the articles of furniture which the house contained.—Such is the description of an ordinary country-house in this part of the world. Could one of these Sicilian peasants be put in possession of the house of a New England farmer, and behold his chairs and tables, his silver spoons and crockery, his desks and bureaus, and other comfortable and ornamental furniture, he would think himself a rich man. But the Sicilian, although he dwells upon a soil three times as fertile as that of New England, and which is never encumbered with ice or snow, remains poor amidst all the bountiful gifts of nature. A mild climate makes him indolent, and he uses just strength enough to scratch the ground and throw the seed into it; the fertility of the soil does all the rest; and the most of his time is spent in doing nothing, or in unproductive amusement.

Two or three cows stood chewing their cud by the road; half a dozen ragged peasants lay on the ground, lazily basking in the sun, and two or three others were watching their donkeys, who were drinking out of a stone trough. A few half naked children were playing about the house; and everything presented a picture of shiftless poverty and indolent neglect. It struck me as very remarkable, that Providence should so impartially balance the good and evil distributed throughout this world. To one people are given a delicious climate, fertile soil, and the richest productions of nature; while they are denied the gifts of industry, enterprise, and perseverance, which are equally productive sources of wealth. To another people are given an unfriendly climate and hard soil; but these very things force them to labor and exert their faculties, causing in the end industrious and persevering habits, ingenuity and skill, which are more valuable than mines of gold. It is only by travelling and seeing other countries, that we can learn to be contented with our own.

CHAPTER VII.

Perilous adventure in crossing a river.—A Sicilian ferry-boat.—Enormous size of Ætna.—Inhabitants of the mountain.—Another accident with the mules.—Arrival at Catania.

Having rested our mules and munched a bit of dinner, we set out again, meaning to arrive at Catania before night. We passed by some beautiful green fields and groves of olives, but a short time afterward the track led us toward the sea, and we came to a bare, sandy plain. Here was a river in our way, with a wretched straw hut on the bank, inhabited by a man who kept a ferry-boat. We dismounted and crossed in the boat, but the mules were led up the stream to go over a ford at some distance. After passing this stream, we found the country wilder than ever: it consisted of sand-hills, overgrown here and there with low bushes and coarse grass, like the land at Cape Cod. Presently we came to another river, where there was no boat, nor house, nor human being, to be seen. One of the muleteers approached the stream with a long pole, to sound the depth of the water. It was not very deep, but the bottom was a quicksand, and the sounding-pole sunk into it till he found there was no firm bottom. He went up and down the bank, trying other places, but could not find a spot that was passable.

We were now in a great perplexity. I could not imagine any possible means of getting across; the muleteers held a noisy talk together about what was to be done, and at last led the way along the bank down stream. I asked where we were going, and was told that at the mouth of the river was a sand-bar, firm enough to allow us to cross upon it. In about a quarter of an hour, we came to the sea-shore. There was a smooth, sandy beach all along the coast, and the tide ran out of the river with a pretty rapid current. The bar was several feet under water, and the heaving of the sea, with the rapidity of the tide, made a great surf. I thought it a very dangerous thing to ride out into the ocean through the surf of a sand-bar, for the purpose of crossing a river, but there was no other way, and we pushed on. The head mule was frightened as he entered the sea, and seemed unwilling to proceed. One of the muleteers dismounted, and led him by the bridle into the surf, wading up to his middle in the water. By a good deal of coaxing and pulling, he made him advance. The mules are so accustomed to follow one another in a string, that the head one is sure to lead all the rest wherever he goes, so the whole file of them plunged in after him. When I had got a considerable distance out on the bar, my animal became frightened at the waves that were tumbling about his legs, and he sidled off into deep water. I expected hardly anything less than to be drowned, for, on finding the water rising up to his back, he grew so bewildered that he was unable to tell which way he was going, and would have carried me directly out to sea if I had not pulled in the reins with all my might, and brought him to a full stop. After allowing him to recover his breath a little, I drew his head round in the proper direction, and forced him onward; by repeated trials, I regained a shallower spot, where he grew more quiet, and finally got to land. All the others crossed the bar in safety.

The country after we passed the river was sandy and wild, abounding in marshes and lagoons, where we saw a great many wild ducks. Late in the afternoon we came to another stream, much broader and deeper than any of the others. There was a large ferryboat like a mud-scow, which carried us over, mules and all. The animals made a terrible uproar on board, kicking, pushing and biting each other at a furious rate. The boat had neither oars nor sail, but was moved by a rope stretched across the stream from shore to shore. The banks of the river were soft and clayey, and there was a clumsy sort of wharf for a landing-place, made of sticks and bushes tied together.

This river was anciently named Syn[oe]thus; at present it is called Giarretta. It is remarkable for containing amber, which is carried down to the sea in its waters, and afterwards thrown up on the beach by the waves, for many miles along the coast. A great many persons are constantly searching along the beach for this precious material. After my arrival at Catania, I saw a fisherman who had just picked up four or five highly valuable lumps. They were of a beautiful yellow color, and of the most transparent clearness I ever saw. It is well known that this article is made into beads and other ornamental work, but the nature of its origin has never been satisfactorily shown. From the masses being often found in the shape of tears or globules, like bulbs of turpentine or gum, it was formerly supposed to be some hardened vegetable matter; but no tree has ever been discovered exuding amber. Sometimes insects are imbedded in the lumps, and this has led many persons to imagine that the insects manufacture it, as the bees make wax. It is remarkable that it is never found originally on land, and nowhere except on the sea-beach. This part of the Sicilian coast, and the Prussian shore of the Baltic, produce the most of it. It is also found on the shores of the Adriatic and the coast of Maryland.

It was some time before we got ready to start from the ferry after crossing. The mules had become so antic from their squabble in the boat, that they continued to bite and kick and jostle one another, squealing and whirrying most terribly. Several of them threw off their loads in the hurly-burly, and we were forced to bang them lustily with sticks before they would be quiet. At last we mounted and set off again, and I was glad to hear that there were no more rivers to cross on the way to Catania. A little boy, who sat on one of the mules between two great packs, kept singing all the way. Some of the flat marshy spots were all overgrown with canes, such as we use for fishing rods: they were fifteen or twenty feet high. The country people make use of them to prop their vines, as we set up poles for beans. I saw many laborers in the vineyards along the road, setting the vine-props; these are taken down when the grapes are gathered, and the tops of the vine-stalks are cut and dried for fuel. During the winter, the vine looks like a dead and worthless stump, but it sprouts anew in the spring, and by midsummer shoots up to the top of the pole.

Every step of our journey brought us nearer to the great volcano, which more and more excited my wonder as I approached it. I could now plainly distinguish the numerous hills which stud its whole lower surface like warts. Many villages appeared scattered about in various parts of the mountain. I never before had any idea of its enormous magnitude. There are thousands of people who live at a great height upon this mountain, and have never been off it during their lives. Yet it is always smoking at the summit, and often bursts out in fiery eruptions, that lay waste whole towns and destroy many of the inhabitants.

Long after the sun had set to us, I continued to see the snowy top of Ætna brightened with his declining rays. As it grew dark, our road led us down to the sea-shore again, and we travelled many miles along the sandy beach. The mules were sadly tired with their long journey; every five minutes one of them fell from utter weariness and inability to sustain his load. The muleteers set them on their legs again, gave them a sound beating, and drove them onward. In the dark, I rode against the mule who was trotting before me: the beast, either being more vicious than the others, or rendered cross by fatigue, gave a kick, which was intended for my animal, but missed him, and struck me on the left leg. The pain of the blow was so great that I fell instantly from the saddle upon the ground, and should have been left there in the dark, if I had not bawled out loudly. The whole train was stopped when the accident was known. My first belief was that my leg was broken; upon feeling the bone, however, no fracture could be perceived; and, after a good deal of chafing, the pain somewhat abated, and I was helped again into the saddle. I jogged on slowly, keeping a sharp look-out for fear of another accident, having had adventures enough to satisfy me for one day. This affair delayed our progress so that we did not reach Catania till late in the evening, when it was much too dark to see anything of the city. I must therefore reserve my description of the place for the next chapter.

Balboa discovering the Pacific.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of
America.

CHAPTER IV.

Discovery of the Pacific Ocean.—Plans of Columbus.—Avarice of the Spaniards.—Balboa.—Weighing the gold.—The young Indian’s speech.—Indian mode of fighting.—Balboa ascends the mountain.—First view of the Pacific.

Columbus had first seen land in the New World on the 12th of October, 1492. Six years after he surveyed the coast of the American continent by Paria and Cumana. Territory was the grand object with the noble mind of Columbus; he wished to colonize this great country by the settling of Europeans, and thus introduce Christianity and civilization among the Red Men. But the adventurers that followed him sought gold as their only object, and employed the sword as the only means of converting the natives.

The Spaniards who first landed on the continent, saw before them a magnificent country, vast forests, mighty rivers, long ranges of mountains—a dominion wide enough for the widest ambition of conquest, or the richest enjoyment of life; but no treasure. Still their avarice was kept in a perpetual fever by the Indian stories of gold in profusion farther to the west, and their fancy was excited by tales of a sea beyond, which they said stretched to the extremities of the globe.

The first European who set his eye on the Pacific Ocean, was Vasco Thenez De Balboa. His family was of the order of Spanish gentry. He was a man of great enterprise, personal strength, and of a daring courage. He had been disappointed in his expectations of obtaining wealth at Hayti, where he had settled, and an expedition sailing to Darien, he accompanied it. A colony was already established on the eastern side of the isthmus of Darien; but the savages in the vicinity had been found so warlike, that the settlers did not venture to explore the interior.

Indian rumors of the golden country continued to inflame the Spaniards. They heard of one king Dabaibe, who was said to be living in a city filled with treasure, and who worshipped an idol of solid gold. Balboa put himself at the head of his countrymen, and marched to conquer the rich city. But they had first to conquer the surrounding caciques, who would not permit the Spaniards to pass through their territories. At length, Balboa formed an alliance with Comogre, a mountain chieftain, who had three thousand warriors.

The son of Comogre brought a present to the Spanish troops of sixty slaves and four thousand pieces of gold. In distributing the gold, some difficulty occurred, as is usually the case where people are all selfish; the quarrel grew furious, and swords were drawn. The young Indian looked on, first with astonishment, then with scorn. Advancing to the scales in which they were weighing the gold, he threw them on the ground, exclaiming—“Is it for this trifle that you Spaniards quarrel? If you care for gold, go seek it where it grows. I can show you a land where you may gather it by handfuls.”

This speech brought all the Spaniards around him, and he proceeded to detail his knowledge. “A cacique, very rich in gold,” said he, “lives to the south, six suns off.” He pointed in that direction. “There,” said he, “you will find the sea. But there you will find ships as large as your own, with sails and oars. The men of these lands are so rich, that their common eating and drinking vessels are of gold.” This was to the Spaniards their first knowledge of Peru.

Balboa determined to search for this rich country. He collected a hundred and ninety Spanish soldiers, a thousand friendly Indians, and some bloodhounds, and began his march into the wilderness. The Indian tribes were instantly roused. The Spaniards had scarcely reached the foot of the Sierra, when they found the warriors, headed by their caciques, drawn up in a little army.

The Indians, like the ancient Greeks, first defied the enemy, by loud reproaches and expressions of scorn. They then commenced the engagement. Torecha, their king, stood forth in the front of his people, clothed in a regal mantle, and gave the word of attack. The Indians rushed on with shouts; but the Spanish crossbows and muskets were terrible weapons to their naked courage. The Indians were met by a shower of arrows and balls, which threw them into confusion. They were terrified, also, at the noise of the guns. They thought the Spaniards fought with thunder and lightning. Still, the Indians did not fly till their heroic king and six hundred of their warriors were left dead on the spot. Over their bleeding bodies, Balboa marched to the plunder of their city.

Balboa, with his army, now commenced the ascent of the mountains. It took them twenty days. After toiling through forests, and climbing mountains that seemed inaccessible, his Indian guide pointed out to him, among the misty summits of the hills that lay before him, the one from which the Pacific was visible. Balboa determined to have the glory of looking upon it first. He commanded his troops to halt at the foot of the hill. He ascended alone, with his sword drawn, and having reached the summit, cast his eyes around. The Pacific Ocean was spread out before him!

Balboa had invaded the Indian country in search of gold, and murdered the natives to obtain it; but at that time such conduct was not considered very wicked. The Indians were looked upon with horror, because they were savages, and Balboa believed himself a good Christian because he was a Catholic. He fell on his knees, and, weeping, offered his thanksgiving to Heaven, for the bounty that had suffered him to see this glorious sight. He doubtless thought God was well pleased with him.

His troops had watched his ascent of the mountain, with the eagerness of men who felt their fates bound up in his success. When they saw his gestures of delight and wonder, followed by his falling on his knees and prayer, they became incapable of all restraint. They rushed up the hill like wild deer. But when they saw the matchless prospect around them, they, too, shared the spirit of their leader; they fell on their knees and offered up their thanksgiving to God. Yet at the same time they doubtless contemplated plundering and destroying the Indians. They had not learned to do to others as they would have others do to them.

Lion Hunting.

Most people are more disposed to run away from lions than to run after them, unless indeed they are safely locked up in cages. But only think of going to hunt lions in the wilderness! Yet such things are done in Africa, where lions are frequently met with.

In the southern part of that country is a tribe of negroes called the Bechuana. The men of this tribe are accustomed to carry a long staff with a bunch of ostrich feathers tied at one end, which is used to shade themselves from the sun. It is in fact a kind of parasol, but whether it is designed to save their complexion, I cannot say. It seems, at any rate, that the ladies do not use it. But beside serving as a parasol, this feathered staff has another and important use. As I have said, these people sometimes go in pursuit of the lion, and when a party of hunters meet one, they go near to him, and as he springs on one of them, the hunter quickly plants the handle of the staff in the ground and retreats. The fierce lion leaps upon the staff and rends the ostrich feathers in pieces. While he is thus engaged, the other hunters come suddenly upon him from behind, and despatch him with their daggers.

“Isn’t your hat sleepy?” inquired a little urchin of a man with a shocking bad one on. “No; why?” inquired the gentleman. “Why, because it looks as if it was a long time since it had a nap.”

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER IX.

Completion of my education.—Manly sports.—An accident.—The bed of pain.—Recovery from sickness.—A new companion.

In the last chapter I have given an account of a day in spring. I might now proceed to relate the adventures and amusements of a day in summer, then of autumn, and lastly of winter; and each of these, it would appear, had its appropriate occupations and diversions. But I am afraid that I shall weary my readers with long stories. I shall therefore proceed with matters more immediately affecting my fortunes, and tending to get to the end of a long journey.

I must go forward to the period when I was about sixteen years of age, and when I had finally taken leave of the school. I had passed through the branches taught there at the time; but these were few, as I have already stated, and I was far from having thoroughly mastered even them. I had, in fact, adopted a habit of skimming and slipping along, really learning as little as possible. Not only was I indulged by my uncle and his household, but there was a similar system of tolerance extended toward my faults and follies, even by the schoolmaster. It is true that sometimes he treated me harshly enough; but it was generally in some fit of spleen. If he was gloomy and tyrannical to the school, he was usually lenient to me. He even excused my indolence, and winked at my neglect of study and duty.

It would seem that such general favor, should cultivate in the heart of a youth only kind and generous feelings; but it was not so with me. The more I was indulged, the more passionate and headstrong I grew; and perhaps, in this, I was not unlike other young people. It seems that there are wild passions in our very nature, which are like weeds, ever tending to overgrow the whole soil. These passions need to be eradicated by constant care and correction, just as weeds must be pulled up by the roots and thrown away. Of what use is it to plant a garden, if you do not hoe it and rake it, thus keeping the weeds down, and allowing the proper plants to flourish? And of what advantage is it to go to school, to be educated, if the thorns and briers of vice and passion are not destroyed, and the fruits and flowers of truth and virtue cultivated and cherished?

Being no more a school-boy, I now thought myself a man. Bill Keeler had left my uncle, and was apprenticed to a shoemaker; but in the evening I often contrived to meet him, and one or two other companions. Our amusements were not such as would tell well in a book. Too often we went to the bar-room of my uncle’s inn, and listened to the vulgar jokes and coarse fun that were always stirring there, and sometimes we treated each other with liquor. I cannot now but wonder that such things should have given me any pleasure; but habit and example have a mighty influence over us. Seeing that others drank, we drank too, though at first the taste of all spirits was odious to me. I got used to it by degrees, and at last began to like the excitement they produced. And strange to say, the bar-room, which originally disgusted me, became rather a favorite place of resort. I was shocked at the oaths and indecency for a time; the huge puddles of tobacco spittle over the floor, and the reeking flavors of tobacco smoke and brandy, disgusted me; the ragged, red-nosed loungers of the place, the noise, the riot, the brutality, which frequently broke out, and which was called by the soakers, having a “good time,” were actually revolting; but my aversion passed away by degrees. Under the strong infection of the place, I partially adopted its habits; I learned to smoke and chew tobacco, though several fits of nervous sickness warned me of the violence I was doing to my nature. I even ventured to swear occasionally; and, if the truth must be told, I followed out, in various ways, the bad lessons that I learnt.

It is painful to me to confess these things, but I do it for the purpose of warning those for whose benefit I write, against similar errors. Wherever young people go frequently, there they are learning something; and as a bar-room is a place to which young men are often tempted, I wish to advise them that it is a school, in which profanity, coarseness, intemperance, and vice, are effectually taught. It is a seminary where almost every thief, robber, counterfeiter, and murderer, takes his first and last lesson. A man who loves a bar-room where liquors are sold, has reason to tremble; a young man who loves bar-room company, has already entered within the very gate that leads down to ruin. That I have escaped such ruin myself, is attributable to the kindness of Providence, rather than to any resistance of evil which originated in my own breast. If Heaven had deserted me, I had been lost forever.

It was one night after we had been drinking at the tavern, that my companions and myself issued forth, bent on what was called a spree. Our first exploit was to call up the doctor of the village, and ask him to hasten to Miss Sally St. John, who has been noticed before in these memoirs, insinuating that she was desperately ill. Our next adventure was to catch the parson’s horse in the pasture, and tie him to the whipping-post, which stood on the green before the meeting-house. We then proceeded to a watermelon patch, and, prowling about among the vines, selected the largest and finest, and ripping them open, strewed the contents over the ground. We then went to a garden belonging to a rich old farmer, who was celebrated for producing very fine pears. The window of the proprietor looked out into the garden, and as he had the reputation of exercising a vigilant watch over his fruit, we felt the necessity of caution. But we were too much elated by our liquor and success in sport, to be very circumspect. We got over the tall picket fence, and two or three of us ascended one of the trees. We had begun already to pluck the fruit, when the window of the old farmer slid silently upward, and a grizzled head was thrust out. It was soon withdrawn, but in a few moments the barrel of a long gun was pushed forth, and a second after it discharged its contents, with a sound which, at that silent hour, seemed like the voice of thunder.

I was on the tree, with my back to the marksman, and presented a fair target to his aim. At the very instant of the discharge, I felt a tingling in my flesh; immediately after a dizziness came over my sight, and I fell to the ground. I was completely stunned, but my companions seized me and hurried me away. Clambering over stone walls, and pushing through a nursery of young trees, they secured their retreat. At a safe distance the party paused, and after a little space I recovered my senses. I found myself in great pain, however, and after a little examination it appeared that my left arm was broken. As carefully as possible I was now taken toward my home. It was about midnight when we reached it, and my uncle, being informed that I was hurt, attempted to come to me. But he had been in bed but a short time, and according to his wont, about this period, he had taken a “night-cap,” as he called it, and was utterly incapable of walking across the floor. Some of the people, however, were got up, and one went for the physician. The answer returned was, that some madcaps had been there and played off a hoax upon the doctor, and this application was no doubt intended as another, and he would not come. I therefore lay till morning in great distress, and when at last the doctor came, he found that not only my arm was broken, but that my back was wounded, as if I had been shot with bullets of salt! Several small pieces of salt were actually found imbedded in my skin!

I was hardly in a state to give explanations; in fact, my reason already began to waver. Strange visions soon flitted before my eyes: an old grizzled pate seemed bobbing out of a window, and making faces at me; then the head seemed a watermelon with green eyes; and then it turned into a bell-muzzled fowling-piece, and while I was trying to look down its throat, it exploded and scattered my brains to the four winds! Here my vision ended, and with it all remembrance. I fell into a settled fever, and did not recover my senses for two weeks. When my consciousness returned, I found myself attended by a man of the village, named Raymond, a brother of the minister, and whom I had long known. He was sitting by my bedside, with a book in his hand; but as I opened my eyes, I noticed that, while he seemed to be reading, his eyes were fixed on me with an anxious interest. In a moment after he spoke. “Are you better, Robert?” said he, in a tone of tenderness. I attempted to reply, but my tongue refused to move. Raymond saw my difficulty, and coming to the bedside, told me to remain quiet. “You have been ill,” said he, “very ill, but you are better. Your life depends upon your being kept perfectly quiet.”

Thus admonished, I closed my eyes, and soon fell asleep. The next day I was much better, and entered into some conversation with Raymond, who I then found had been my regular attendant. The physician soon after came, and pronounced me out of danger. “You are better, my young friend,” said he; “I think you are safe; but this getting salted down like a herring, and tumbling off of pear trees at midnight, is an awkward business, and cannot be often repeated with impunity.” This latter remark being uttered with a significant smile, recalled to my mind the occasion of my sickness, and a sudden blush of shame covered my face. Raymond noticed my confusion, and by some remark immediately diverted my attention to another topic.

In a few days I was able to sit up in my bed, and was nearly free from pain. My arm, however, was still useless, and I was in fact very feeble. I could talk with Raymond, however, and as his conversation was always engaging, the time did not pass heavily. Raymond was a man of extensive reading, and great knowledge of the world, but, owing to excessive sensitiveness, he had settled into a state of almost complete imbecility. He thought and spoke like a philosopher, yet in the active business of life, in which he had been once engaged, he had entirely failed. He was indeed regarded in the village as little better than insane or silly. He had no regular employment, and spent his time almost wholly in reading—his brother, the minister, having a good library. As he was very kind-hearted, however, and possessed a good deal of medical knowledge, he was often employed in attending upon sick persons, and for his services he would never receive any other compensation than his own gratification, in the consciousness of doing good, might afford.

It was a mercy to me that I fell into the hands of poor Raymond, for my mind and heart were softened by my sickness, and by the humiliation I felt at having been detected in a disgraceful act, and so signally punished. His counsel, therefore, which was full of wisdom, and which he imparted in a way, at once to instruct and amuse, sunk into my mind like the seed sown in spring time, and upon a prepared soil; and I have reason to believe that I may attribute not only the recovery of my body from disease, but the correction of some of the vices of my mind, to his conversations at my sick bedside. I believe I cannot do my readers a better service than to transcribe some of these conversations, as nearly as my memory will restore them, and this I shall do in a subsequent chapter.

Toucan

Is the name of the bird whose picture is here given. I beg my reader not to laugh at his enormous bill, for it is such as nature has given him, and he is no more to blame for it than a person with a long nose, is to blame for having such a one. Bonaparte said that a man with a long nose almost invariably possessed good sense; and this holds true in respect to the toucan; for I assure you he is a very clever fellow in his way. I will tell you all about him and his family.

The toucans are natives of South America, and are very abundant in the forests of Brazil. They only dwell in the warm parts of the country, and they select those portions which are the richest in their productions. It is among spicy groves, and where fruits and flowers are to be found at all seasons of the year, that the toucan family have chosen to make their home. Surely this seems a mark of their sagacity.

The toucan is about eighteen inches in length, and its general color is black, though it is marked with crimson and yellow, and is a very stylish bird. The bill is almost as long as the body, but it is less bony than the bills of other birds; it is, in fact, a great part of it but a thin paper-like substance. Those portions which need to be strong are not solid bone, but consist of two thin laminæ, sustained by bones within, and crossing each other like the timbers which support the sides and roof of a house.

I have intimated that the toucans are pretty sensible birds, and I shall now attempt to prove it. As their legs are very short and far apart, they cannot walk very well on the ground, so they spend a great portion of their time upon the wing, or upon the trees. They have strong, sharp claws, well fitted for climbing; so they are very much addicted to hopping about among the branches of trees, and they may be often seen, like woodpeckers, running up and down the trunks. It is for this climbing propensity that they have got the name of Zygodactilic birds,—a long word, which no doubt signifies a great deal.

Another proof of the good sense of the toucan is furnished by his always sitting and flying with his head to the wind when it blows hard—for the reason, that, if he presented the broadside of his proboscis to the gale, it would bother him to keep himself from being completely blown away. Beside this proof of his sagacity, I may add, that the toucan holds the monkeys, who are very abundant and troublesome in his country, in great detestation; and well he may, for the monkey is fond of birds’ eggs, and is a great robber of birds’ nests. Now the toucan likes eggs himself, and the plundering monkey often deprives the toucan of his breakfast, by getting at the nest first. It is not wonderful that squabbles often ensue between these rival thieves—for two of a trade can never agree, you know. Of course, the robbers care as little for the poor bird that is robbed, as lawyers for their clients—but they think a great deal of themselves, and when interest is touched, they resent it manfully. There is something in a monkey and a toucan over a bird’s nest that seems like two lawyers over a case. Their mutual object is to eat up the eggs, but it makes a mighty difference which gets them. If the monkey gets the case, toucan gives him a tweak with his enormous bill, which gripes like a pair of tongs. If toucan gets the case, monkey slaps him across his beak with the palm of his hand, and often with such force as to make toucan scream outright. It must be admitted that if toucan has a large bill to bite with, he also presents an ample mark for the revenge of monkey. Whether these squabbles show the good sense of toucan, I will not decide, but he can plead the example of one of the learned professions, that of the law, which ranks among the first in society, and exerts more influence over mankind than all others put together.

Another evidence of toucan’s good sense is this,—that he eats everything he likes, if it suits his constitution. There is a delicious little fruit in his native clime, called toucan-berry, which is good for his health, so he feasts upon it when he can get it. He also eats eggs, as I have said; and, in short, he diversifies, and amplifies his pleasures, like civilized men, by fruit, flesh, fowl, or vegetable, if it agrees with him.

I do not know that I need to say more at present, than that toucan does not choose to take the trouble of making nests of stems and twigs, like some other birds, but selects his dwelling in the holes of trees, so that he may have a roof to shelter him from the storm—a preference which again marks his civilization.

THE NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

The Newfoundland Dog.

Of all animals, the dog is most attached to man. His affection is not general, but particular. He does not love all mankind, as a matter of course, for in his natural state he is a wild and savage creature. In Asia, dogs are often outcasts, prowling around cities, and feeding upon offal and dead carcasses. They seem to be, if uncivilized, cousins to the wolf, and near relatives to the hyena. It is in Asia, where the dog is a persecuted, and therefore a skulking kind of animal, that he is the emblem of meanness and cowardice. There, where the people worship power and seem to think little of justice, the lion, a sly, prowling, thieving creature, is the common emblem of courage and greatness.

But here, where the dog is cherished and taken to a home, he seems to have a new character and a redeemed nature. He fixes his heart upon some one, and is ready to run, jump, bark, bite, dig, work or play, to give pleasure to him. He seems to live for his master—his master is his deity. He will obey and defend him while living—he will lie down and die by his master’s grave. It is related of Bonaparte, that one night, after a fight, he was walking by the moonlight over the field of battle, when suddenly a dog sprung out from the cloak beneath which his dead master lay, and then ran howling back to the body, seeming at the same time to ask help for his poor friend, and to seek revenge. Bonaparte was much affected by the scene, and said that few events of his life excited a deeper feeling in his breast than this.

There are at least thirty different kinds of dogs,—some large, some small, some fierce, some gentle, some slender and graceful, some sturdily made and very powerful. There is the lap-dog, with a soft, lustrous eye and silken skin, fit to be the pet of a fine lady—and there is the fierce bull-dog, that will seize a bull by the nose and pin him to the ground. There is the greyhound, that is so swift as to outstrip the deer, and the patient foxhound, that follows reynard with a keen scent, till at last his fleetness and his tricks can avail him nothing, and he surrenders to his fate.

But amid all this variety, the Newfoundland dog is the best fellow. He is, in the first place, the most intelligent, and in the next, he is the most devoted, attached, and faithful. When the people came from Europe to America, they found this fine breed of dogs with the Indians of Newfoundland and the vicinity. They are large, shaggy, webfooted, and almost as fond of the water as the land. They possess great strength, and have a countenance that seems to beam with reason and affection. I give you the portrait of one of these creatures, to prove what I say. There are many pleasant tales of this creature, well authenticated, of which I shall now tell you a few.

One day, as a girl was amusing herself with an infant, at Aston’s Quay, near Carlisle bridge, Dublin, and was sportively toying with the child, it made a sudden spring from her arms, and in an instant fell into the Liffey. The screaming nurse and anxious spectators saw the water close over the child, and conceived that he had sunk to rise no more. A Newfoundland dog, which had been accidentally passing with his master, sprang forward to the wall, and gazed wistfully at the ripple in the water, made by the child’s descent. At the same instant the child reappeared on the surface of the current, and the dog sprang forward to the edge of the water.

Whilst the animal was descending, the child again sunk, and the faithful creature was seen anxiously swimming round and round the spot where it had disappeared. Once more the child rose to the surface; the dog seized him, and with a firm but gentle pressure bore him to land without injury. Meanwhile a gentleman arrived, who, on inquiry into the circumstances of the transaction, exhibited strong marks of sensibility and feeling towards the child, and of admiration for the dog that had rescued him from death.

The person who had removed the babe from the dog turned to show the infant to this gentleman, when it presented to his view the well-known features of his own son! A mixed sensation of terror, joy, and surprise, struck him mute. When he had recovered the use of his faculties, and fondly kissed his little darling, he lavished a thousand embraces on the dog, and offered to his master a very large sum (five hundred guineas) if he would transfer the valuable animal to him; but the owner of the dog (Colonel Wynne) felt too much affection for the useful creature to part with him for any consideration whatever.

A gentleman who lived at a short distance from a village in Scotland, had a very fine Newfoundland dog, which was sent every forenoon to the baker’s shop in the village, with a napkin, in one corner of which was tied a piece of money, for which the baker returned a certain quantity of bread, tying it up in the napkin and consigning it to the care of the dog.

At about equal distances from the gentleman’s mansion there lived two other dogs; one a mastiff, which was kept by a farmer as a watch-dog; and the other a stanch bull-dog, which kept watch over the parish mill. As each was master over all the lesser curs of his master’s establishment, they were severally very high and mighty animals in their way, and they seldom met without attempting to settle their precedence by battle.

Well, it so happened that one day, when the Newfoundland dog was returning from the baker’s with his charge, he was set upon by a host of useless curs, who combined their efforts, and annoyed him the more, that, having charge of the napkin and bread, he could not defend himself, and accordingly got himself rolled in the mire, his ears scratched, and his coat soiled.

Having at length extricated himself, he retreated homeward, and depositing his charge in its accustomed place, he instantly set out to the farmer’s mastiff. To the no small astonishment of the farmer’s family, instead of the meeting being one of discord and contention, the two animals met each other peacefully, and after a short interchange of civilities, they both set off towards the mill. Having engaged the miller’s dog as an ally, the three sallied forth, and taking a circuitous road to the village, scoured it from one end to the other, putting to the tooth, and punishing severely, every cur they could find. Having thus taken their revenge, they washed themselves in a ditch, and each returned quietly to his home.

One day a Newfoundland dog and a mastiff, which never met without a quarrel, had a fierce and prolonged battle on the pier of Donaghadee, and from which, while so engaged, they both fell into the sea. There was no way of escape but by swimming a considerable distance. The Newfoundland, being an expert swimmer, soon reached the pier in safety; but his antagonist, after struggling for some time, was on the point of sinking, when the Newfoundland, which had been watching the mastiff’s struggles with great anxiety, dashed in, and seizing him by the collar, kept his head above the water, and brought him safely to shore. Ever after the dogs were most intimate friends; and when, unfortunately, the Newfoundland was killed by a stone-wagon passing over his body, the mastiff languished, and evidently lamented his friend’s death for a long time.

A Thames waterman once laid a wager that he and his dog would leap from the centre arch of Westminster bridge, and land at Lambeth within a minute of each other. He jumped off first, and the dog immediately followed; but as it was not in the secret, and fearing that its master would be drowned, it seized him by the neck, and dragged him on shore, to the no small diversion of the spectators.

A native of Germany, when travelling through Holland, was accompanied by a large Newfoundland dog. Walking along a high bank which formed the side of a dike or canal, so common in that country, his foot slipped, and he fell into the water. As he was unable to swim, he soon became senseless. When he recovered his recollection, he found himself in a cottage, surrounded by peasants, who were using such means as are generally practised in that country for restoring suspended animation. The account given by the peasants was, that as one of them was returning home from his labor, he observed, at a considerable distance, a large dog in the water, swimming, and dragging and sometimes pushing something that he seemed to have great difficulty in supporting, but which, by dint of perseverance, he at length succeeded in getting into a small creek.

When the animal had pulled what it had hitherto supported as far out of the water as it was able, the peasant discovered that it was the body of a man.

The dog, having shaken himself, began industriously to lick the hands and face of his master; and the peasant, having obtained assistance, conveyed the body to a neighboring house, where, the usual means having been adopted, the gentleman was soon restored to sense and recollection. Two large bruises with the marks of teeth appeared, one on his shoulder, and the other on the nape of his neck; whence it was presumed that the faithful animal had seized his master by the shoulder and swam with him for some time, but that his sagacity had prompted him to let go his hold and shift his grasp to the neck, by which means he was enabled to support the head out of the water. It was in the latter position that the peasant observed the dog making his way along the dike, which it appeared he had done for the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, before he discovered a place at which it was possible to drag his burden ashore. It is therefore probable that the gentleman owed his life as much to the sagacity as to the fidelity of his dog.

These stories will do for the present; but I must add, that the celebrated Lord Byron had a Newfoundland dog, which he loved very much, and when the animal died, he had a marble monument placed over his grave, and the following words were inscribed upon it:—

Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning
Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.

The Mysterious Artist.

One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of Seville, in Spain, approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutations, they entered the studio or workshop of the artist. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or perhaps to admire his work of the previous evening.

“Pray, gentlemen,” exclaimed Isturitz angrily, “which of you remained behind in the studio last night?”

“What an absurd question!” replied Cordova; “don’t you recollect that we all came away together?”

“This is a foolish jest, gentlemen,” answered Isturitz. “Last evening I cleaned my palette with the greatest care, and now it is as dirty as if some one had used it all night.”

“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel, Ferdinand.”

“It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand.

“Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest—”

“You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not capable of sketching such a figure as that.”

“At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.”

“And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly, strange things go on here in the night.”

“Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz.

“Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in my Descent from the Cross.”

With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had descended among them.

“Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.

“Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez.

“Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo, eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch! what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?”

“No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.

“Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?”

But they all gave the same answer as Mendez.

“It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently.

“I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows what to believe.”

“What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of the virgin by the unknown artist.

“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes, washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; but when we return in the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches, (beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, Senor.”

“This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen,” observed Murillo; “but we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant.” “Sebastian,” he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy of about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every night?”

“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.

“And have you done so?”

“Yes, master.”

“Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these gentlemen came? Speak, slave, or I shall make you acquainted with my dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the band of his trowsers without replying.

“Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Murillo, pulling his ear.

“No one, master, no one,” replied the trembling Sebastian with eagerness.

“That is false,” exclaimed Murillo.

“No one but me, I swear to you, master,” cried the mulatto, throwing himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his hands in supplication before his master.

“Listen to me,” pursued Murillo. “I wish to know who has sketched the head of this virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find here every morning, on coming to this studio. This night, instead of going to bed, you shall keep watch; and if by to-morrow you do not discover who the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the lash—you hear! I have said it; now go, and grind the colors; and you, gentlemen, to work.”

From the commencement till the termination of the hour of instruction, Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be spoken but what regarded their occupation, but the moment he disappeared, the pupils made ample amends for this restraint, and as the unknown painter occupied all their thoughts, the conversation naturally turned to that subject.

“Beware, Sebastian, of the lash,” said Mendez, “and watch well for the culprit. Give me the Naples yellow.”

“You do not need it, Senor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the Zombi.”

“Are these negroes fools or asses, with their Zombi?” said Gonzalo, laughing; “pray what is a Zombi?”

“Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Senor Gonzalo,” continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, “for it must be the Zombi who has sketched the left arm of your St. John to such a length that, if the right resembles it, he will be able to untie his shoe-strings without stooping.”

“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting, “that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the point.”

“Oh, they say that negroes have the faces of asses, and the tongues of parrots,” rejoined Gonzalo, in a tone of indifference.

“With this distinction,” observed Ferdinand, “that the parrot repeats by rote, while Sebastian shows judgment in his remarks.”

“Like the parrot, by chance,” retorted Gonzalo.

“Who knows,” said Mendez, who had not digested the Naples yellow, “that from grinding the colors, he may one day astonish us by showing that he knows one from another.”

“To know one color from another, and to know how to use them, are two very different things,” replied Sebastian, whom the liberty of the studio allowed to join in the conversation of the pupils; and truth obliges us to confess that his taste was so exquisite, his eye so correct, that many of them did not disdain to follow the advice he frequently gave them respecting their paintings. Although they sometimes amused themselves by teasing the little mulatto, he was a great favorite with them all; and this evening, on quitting the studio, each, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, counselled him to keep a strict watch and catch the Zombi, for fear of the lash.

(To be continued.)

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 2.

Among my schoolmates, there were two boys who were always inseparable, yet they were as unlike each other in all respects as can well be conceived; What strange sympathy united them so closely, was to us all a matter of wonder; yet their friendship continued to increase, and the one seemed ever unhappy when absent from the other. Bill Hardy was a stout, hearty little fellow, fond of active and athletic sports, and ever the foremost in all feats of daring and mischief. If there was a battle to be fought with the butcher’s saucy imp, or the blacksmith’s grim-faced apprentice, who but Bill was thrust forward as the ready champion. And many a hard-fought contest did he wage with them, and many a black eye did he give and receive in his wars. But his spirit was ever unconquerable. If he received from their wicked fists a sound drubbing to-day, he was nothing loth to-morrow to try his luck again; and thus, by dint of persevering courage, he often contrived by a lucky blow to win a victory over his more powerful adversaries. Often did the graceless youth return to his widowed mother with a disfigured face, and with torn garments, and, after receiving her gentle reprimand, promise better things for the future; but with the next morning’s sun all his good resolutions vanished, and his repentant promises were forgotten. He seemed to overflow with the very spirit of fun and mischief. It was his delight to fasten a tin kettle to the tail of any vagabond dog in the streets, and send him howling with terror from one end of the village to the other. He enjoyed also great satisfaction in worrying every luckless cat that he could lay his hands on; and every poor broken-down horse in the pasture could attest to the weight of his arm and the sharpness of his heel. No unfortunate little bird could find a perch for its nest high enough to be safe from his marauding fingers, for he would fearlessly clamber to the very tops of the highest tree, like a squirrel, and scale the most dangerous precipice, in pursuit of his prey.

Little Jemmy Galt, on the contrary, though he accompanied his friend Billy in all his ramblings, never took an active part or interest in them. He was of a much more quiet and gentle nature, and endeavored to restrain his friend in his thoughtless pranks. He used especially all his little powers of persuasion with him to prevent him from engaging in his frequent pitched battles; but when his remonstrances were all in vain, he barely stood by him, holding his cap and jacket during the contest, and anxiously acting the good Samaritan, in arranging the disordered dress, and removing the stains of dirt and blood from his friend. This truly kind and humane nature often served to check the cruel propensities of his friend, and saved many a poor bird or animal from torture. But if the spirited Billy carried away the palm in the pastimes of the fields and woods, his quiet comrade was no less distinguished and pre-eminent in the school-room; for here his studious habits and intelligent mind gave him a marked precedence. And here his skill in mastering a difficult task enabled him to reward the protecting services of his friend, by helping him through the slough of many a tough sum in the arithmetic, or many a deep bog in grammar, from which less acute Billy was vainly endeavoring to extricate himself. It seemed to be a mutual alliance, in which the one was to fight the battles of the other in return for the intellectual aid rendered him in the school-room.

I happened one bright holiday afternoon to overhear a conversation between them, which may well serve to illustrate their several minds. The subject of their discussion related to the choice of their future profession in life, and the selection of each was such as I should have readily anticipated.

“It is my wish and intention,” said Bill, “to be a sailor. That is the profession that my poor father loved and followed, and nothing but the sea and a ship will ever satisfy my mind. To be sure, you may say that he, poor man, was lost, together with all who sailed with him, on a distant coast, and in a dreadful tempest, but that is no reason why I should meet with the same misfortune. How many there are who sail the ocean for a good long life-time in perfect safety, and at length, after earning a heap of gold and silver, die quietly in their beds at home, mourned and respected by all who knew them. I never look on those rusty old pistols and cutlass in our parlor, which my father always prized so dearly, without a keen desire to pack them away in a chest of my own, and hasten away to B., and enter upon my voyagings in one of those noble ships that you may always see there at the wharves. And then, when I look at those beautiful sea-shells that adorn our mantel, and the shark’s jaw, and the whale’s spine, and the stuffed flying-fish, I feel the strongest inclination to sail myself to foreign shores, and gather such curiosities with my own hands, and bring them home, to still further adorn our little room. Heigho! I wish I had a pea-jacket and was bound for sea to-morrow!”

“I regret,” said master Jemmy, “the choice you have made; for I think you are about to devote yourself to a hard and dangerous life. Far better were it for you to hold the plough than the rudder, to plough up the rich furrows of the farm, than the rough billows of the ocean. Consider how many privations you will have to endure, and what perils you must face. Think of the dark, stormy nights at sea, with the wild winds howling through the rigging, the mast creaking, and bending, and ready to break, and the torn sails flapping and struggling to break free from your feeble grasp. Then will come the pelting rain, and the blinding snow, and the sharp sleet, and the blood will freeze in your veins, and every limb become benumbed with the cold. Then you must endure the sharp and bitter taunts and execrations of your officers, and, after a hard and thankless struggle with the storm, creep to your wet and cheerless hammock, in the dark and comfortless forecastle, and sigh for death, or lament that you ever left the warm fireside and the kind friends of your country home. I have no taste myself for such a boisterous life, and prefer to cultivate my mind, and devote myself to some gentler and more studious employment. How pleasant to stand at the bar and plead the case of some forlorn body, falsely accused, or to visit and heal at the sick bed, or to minister in the sacred desk, or even to preside over the little school in some humble village. Such is the height of my ambition.”

“You present to my view,” said Bill, “only the dark side of the picture. Think, on the contrary, of the brave, stout ship, with all its gaudy streamers flying from each spiring mast, all its snow-white canvass bellying on the tall spars, the fresh breeze blowing us on our course, and the bright and boundless sea smiling, and shining, and rolling around the bow. Then think of the visit to the green islands of the Bermudas and Madeira, and all the fruit-bearing isles of the West Indies. Think of the glorious gallop among the mountains and plantations of Cuba. There the loveliest fruits grow as plentifully as the apples in our orchard, and you have only the trouble to help yourself to the plantain, the banana, the pine-apple, the orange, and the melon. Think of the delicious groves of palm and lemon that cover the land, filled with numberless birds of the richest plumage. Then also what famous shores may we not visit in our voyagings. We may drop anchor at Liverpool and London, and view without cost all the wonders of those mighty cities; view the multitudes of strange faces, and elegant shops, and splendid edifices, palaces, halls, and churches—view at pleasure the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, and all the noble parks of London. Then also we may touch at Havre, or Rochelle, or Marseilles, and take a trip to gay and lively Paris, and visit Versailles, the Tuilleries, the Boulevards, and the Palais Royal; or perhaps touch at Leghorn, and thence make a trip to the Leaning Tower of Pisa—of which we have a print in our school-room—or ride over to Florence and see the beautiful Duomo, and all the rare palaces and galleries of the Medici, of whom we read in our school history;—or perhaps sail into the glorious bay of Naples, and ascend to the very summit of Mount Vesuvius, and bring home to the good folks of our village specimens of the sulphur from the very crater of the burning mountain;—or even ride over to old Rome itself, and visit the Vatican, with all its fine pictures, and the great St. Peter’s, which is said to be bigger than all the churches of Massachusetts put together. Then also we may sail up the blue Mediterranean, and visit Sicily and Malta, and Athens, and all the isles of Greece, and cast anchor off Smyrna and Constantinople, or coast along the shores of Syria, or sail up the harbor of Alexandria and take a look at the Nile, the Desert, and the Pyramids, and get a glimpse of Mehemit Ali himself, in the midst of his wild Egyptian guards. What could you desire better than all that? And all this I can enjoy by only going to sea as a sailor. Then also I can sail across the Pacific and Indian oceans, and take a look at the wonders of Bombay, Madras, Manilla, Calcutta, and Canton, and walk the streets of Pekin itself.”

After some further conversation the two friends parted. Each of the little fellows followed in course of time their several inclinations. Jemmy, after many struggles against poverty, overcame all difficulties, and at length quietly settled down as the “orthodox preacher” in a pleasant, quiet, and happy little village of New England, where he married a pretty little wife, and reared up a thriving and numerous progeny, who, I hope, are following in the good example set before them by their amiable parent. Master Billy had his wish and went to sea, where he was tossed and knocked about by the winds and waters for many a year, and, after rising to the command of a ship, finally retired from the service, and purchasing a farm with the fruits of his hard earnings, quietly settled down as a parishioner of his boyhood’s friend. He several times, however, suffered shipwreck; and at one time nearly lost his life while out in a whaleboat, engaged in that perilous fishery; was once taken by pirates, and had nearly been compelled to “walk the plank.” But he luckily escaped all these perils, and now loves to recite them over to his listening neighbors; but he never omits to confess the errors of his boyhood, and to declare that the habits he then formed had nearly proved fatal to his success in life.

(To be continued.)

Egyptian Schools.

Among the people of Egypt, parents seldom devote much of their time or attention to the education of their children; generally contenting themselves with instilling into their young minds a few principles of religion, and then submitting them, if they can afford to do so, to the instruction of a schoolmaster. As early as possible, the child is taught to say, “I testify that there is no deity but God; and I testify that Mohammed is God’s apostle.” He receives also lessons of religious pride, and learns to hate the Christians, and all other sects but his own, as thoroughly as does the Moslem in advanced age. Most of the children of the higher and middle classes, and some of those of the lower orders, are taught by the schoolmaster to read, and to recite the whole, or certain portions of the Koran, by memory. They afterwards learn the most common rules of arithmetic.

Schools are very numerous, not only in the metropolis, but in every large town; and there is one, at least, in every large village. Almost every mosque, public fountain, and drinking place for cattle in the metropolis, has a school attached to it, in which children are instructed at a very trifling expense; the fickee or master of the school receiving from the parent of each pupil about three cents of our money, or something more or less, every Thursday.

The master of a school attached to a mosque or other public building in Cairo, also generally receives yearly a piece of white muslin for a turban, a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes; and each boy receives at the same time a linen skull-cap, eight or nine yards of cotton cloth, half a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes, and in some cases from three to six cents. These presents are supplied by funds bequeathed to the school, and are given in the month Ramadan. The boys attend only during the hours of instruction, and then return to their homes.

The lessons are generally written upon tablets of wood painted white, and when one lesson is learnt, the tablet is washed, and another is written. They also practise writing upon the same tablet. The schoolmaster and his pupils sit upon the ground, and each boy has his tablets in his hands, or a copy of the Koran, or one of its thirty sections, on a little kind of desk made of palm sticks. All who are learning to read, recite their lessons aloud, at the same time rocking their heads and bodies incessantly backwards and forwards; which practice is observed by almost all persons in reading the Koran, being, thought to assist the memory. The noise may be imagined.

The schoolmasters in Egypt are mostly persons of very little learning; few of them are acquainted with any writings except the Koran, and certain prayers, which, as well as the contents of the sacred volume, they are hired to recite on particular occasions. I have read of a man, who could neither read nor write, succeeding to the office of a schoolmaster in some village. Being able to recite the whole of the Koran, he could hear the boys repeat their lessons; he employed the head boy in school to write them, pretending that his eyes were weak. A few days after he had taken this office upon himself, a poor woman brought a letter for him to read from her son, who had gone on a pilgrimage. The fickee pretended to read it, but said nothing; and the woman, inferring from his silence that the letter contained bad news, said to him, “Shall I shriek?” He answered, “Yes.” “Shall I tear my clothes?” “Yes.”

So the woman returned to her house, and, with her assembled friends, performed the lamentation, and other ceremonies usual on the occasion of death. Not many days after this, her son arrived, and she asked him what he could mean by causing a letter to be written stating that he was dead. He explained the contents of the letter, and she went to the schoolmaster and begged him to inform her why he had told her to shriek and to tear her clothes, since the letter was to inform her that her son was well and arrived at home.

Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows futurity! How could I know that your son would arrive in safety? It was better that you should think him dead, than be led to expect to see him, and perhaps be disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with him praised his wisdom, exclaiming, “Surely, our new fickee is a man of unusual judgment.” And for a while, he found that he had raised his reputation by this trick.

Varieties.

Admiral Duncan addressed his officers, who came on board of his ship for instructions, previous to the engagement with Admiral De Winter, in the following words: “Gentlemen, you see a severe winter approaching. I have only to advise you to keep up a good fire.”

“Come in,” as the spider said to the fly.

“Come on,” as the man said to his boot.

“You make me blush,” as the lobster cried out in the boiler.

“Do you think that these creatures have any feeling?” said an inquisitive consumer of oysters to a well known wit. “Feeling!” replied his friend; “to be sure they have. Did you never hear them crying about the streets?”

Two or three weeks ago, Theodore Hook dined with a Mr. Hatchett. “Ah, my friend,” said his host, depreciatingly, “I am sorry to say that you will not get to-day such a good dinner as our friend L. gave us.” “Certainly not,” replied Hook; “from a hatchet you can expect nothing but a chop.”

THE BOY AND THE LARK.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; BY G. J. WEBB.

“Who taught you to sing, my pretty, sweet birds?

Who tuned your melodious throats?

You make all the woods and the vallies to ring,

You bring the first news of the earliest spring,

With your loud and your silvery notes.

“Who painted your wings, my pretty, sweet birds,

And taught you to soar in the air?

You rise and you dart through the region of light,

You look down on man from your loftiest height,

And your hearts know no troublesome care.

“And where are your fields, my beautiful birds?

And where are your houses and barns?

You sow not the ground, and you reap not the corn,

You spring from your nests at the earliest morn,

But you care not about the wide farms.”

“’Tis God,” said a lark, that rose from the turf,

“Who gives us the good we enjoy;

He painted our wings, and he gave us our voice,

He finds us our food, and he bids us rejoice;—

We’re his creatures, my beautiful boy.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.—No. 2.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER II.

It is the character of young people to engage in new enterprises with ardor: it was so with Alexis, in his fur-hunting expedition. For a time, indeed, after parting with his father and sister, his heart was heavy, and tears more than once dimmed his eyes. He expected to be absent for a year at least, and who could tell what might befall him or them, during that space of time? Such thoughts came again and again into his mind, and as fancy is apt to conjure up fears for those we love, he pictured to himself many possible evils that might beset his friends at Tobolsk.

But these images gradually faded away, and the young hunter began to be occupied with the scenes around him, and with the conversation of his companions. These consisted of two young men of nearly his own age, and their father, an experienced and skilful hunter. They were all equipped with rifles, and each had a long knife like a dagger in his belt. Their design was to travel on foot to the eastward, a distance of more than two thousand miles, and then proceed northward into the cold and woody regions which border the banks of the great river Lena, as it approaches the Arctic Ocean.

Hitherto Alexis had seen little of Siberia; his curiosity was therefore alive, and he noticed attentively everything he met. Soon after leaving Tobolsk, the party entered upon the vast plain of Baraba, which spreads out to an extent of several hundred miles. It is almost as level as the sea, with slight swells, resembling waves. Such plains are called steppes in Siberia, and they are like the prairies of our western country, being generally destitute of trees, except low willows, and large portions having a marshy soil. Upon this plain the travellers met with no towns, but miserable villages of people, their huts half sunk in the mud. They also sometimes encountered small bands of people called Ostiacks. These seemed to be roving people, and in a state of barbarism. The old hunter of the party, whose name was Linsk, seemed to be well acquainted with the habits of these people, and as the four hunters were trudging along, he gave the following account of them, taking care to say something of himself in the course of his story.

“The Ostiacks are one of the most numerous of the tribes of Tartars that inhabit Siberia. They spread over the country to the north of Tobolsk, along the banks of the Obi, and the various streams that flow into it. They do not like to dig the soil, so they live on fish, and by hunting wild animals. Some of them eat so much fish, that they smell like whale oil. I have been in their tents often, and one of these fisheating families have a flavor as strong as a cask of herrings. Bah! how well I remember them! It seems as if I could smell them now! I shall never get them out of my head.

“You must know that I have been a hunter for twenty-five years, and I have made several expeditions into the north country, where the Ostiacks chiefly dwell. It is a cold and desolate region; no trees but pines and willows grow there; there is no grass, and very few shrubs. Still, it was once a good country for furs; but they are nearly gone now, and I don’t wonder at it, for these Ostiacks are such heathens. They are not Christians, but believe in little wooden images, which they will place on their tables, and lay around them snuff, willow bark, fish oil, and other things which they deem valuable. Having done this, they call upon these images, which are their gods, to make them lucky in fishing and hunting. If the gods don’t send them good luck, then these foolish people do give them such a banging! They cuff their heads, and knock them off the tables, and switch them as if they were so many naughty school-boys.

“Now, for my part, I wonder that fish, or sables, or bears, or any other creatures that are useful, will stay in a country where such stupid people live. And then you must know that the Ostiacks almost worship a bear. They think that this creature is a kind of a witch or wicked god, and such horrid notions of it have they, that, when they take the oath of allegiance to the Russian government, they say, to make it very strong—‘We hope we may be devoured by bears, if we do not keep this oath.’

“Beside all this, the Ostiacks, as you see by those whom we have met, are little short people, not more than five feet high. A great many of the women are fat, and such little round dumplings I never beheld! The hair of these people is of a reddish color, and floats down their shoulders. Their faces are flat, and altogether they look like animals, rather than human creatures. Their houses are made of poles, set up in a circle, and thatched with bark. In winter, the windows are covered with expanded bladders. The fire is made on one side of the room, and the smoke circulates above, finding its way out as it can. Generally, there is but one room in a hut, and all the family are tumbled into it, by night and by day.

“Now all this shows what stupid people these Ostiacks are; but there is one thing I have to say in their praise. They understand fishing and hunting. In chasing the bears, they show courage and skill, and in taking the sable so as not to break his skin, they display true genius. I once knew an old Ostiack that was nearly equal to myself in hunting. He could see the track of an ermine, marten, or sable, upon the snow-crust, when nobody else could; he would follow one of these creatures for a whole day, pretending he could see the foot-prints; but I believe the old fellow could smell like a dog. What beautiful sables and grey foxes he did get! He once got two sable skins which were sent to St. Petersburgh, and sold for three hundred dollars. The emperor bought them himself, and sent the old fellow a knife ornamented with a silver plate, and the word “Nicholas” engraved upon it. This the emperor said was to encourage the hunter to get fine furs. But the old hunter died soon after, and the people said it was from mere pride, because the emperor had paid him so much honor. He never hunted any more, but strutted about, brandishing his knife in the air, and saying, ‘Behold! this is what Nicholas, the Czar of all the Russias, has sent to Dwaff Khizan, the greatest hunter of Siberia!’”

Alexis listened with interest to this long account of the Ostiacks by old Linsk: but his heart really palpitated when the hunter told of the rich sable furs sent to St. Petersburgh by Dwaff Khizan, and which not only brought a great price, but won the favor of the emperor. He immediately remembered the injunction of his sister Kathinka, to be particular and get rich sable furs; and he also remembered that she had spoken of sending them to the princess Lodoiska. “After all my thinking that the girl was romantic and conceited, to fancy that she could send furs to a princess, and attract her attention, now that we are poor exiles in Siberia, perhaps she is right, and has more sense then I have. At all events, I will exert myself to procure some sable furs finer than were ever seen before. We are going to the coldest portions of Siberia, and there it is said are the most splendid furs in the world. It will be something to please Kathinka, and to relieve my father from his poverty; and, beside, I should like to beat old Linsk, vain and boastful as he is!”

With this ambitious conclusion, Alexis stepped quicker and prouder over the level road, and, without thinking of it, had soon advanced considerably before his party. Coming to a place where the road divided, he took that which led to the right, as it seemed the best. He had not gone far, however, before he heard the loud call of Linsk. Stopping till the party came up, Alexis found that he had taken the wrong path. “That road,” said Linsk, “leads to the great town of Tomsk; a place which has ten thousand people in it, and I may add that one half of them are drunkards. This is the more wonderful, for the people have enough to do; because the country in that quarter abounds in valuable mines. All around Tomsk there are salt lakes, and the waters are so impregnated with minerals, that the bottoms are covered with a coat as white as snow.

“To the south of Tomsk, a great many miles, are some mountains, called the Altai range. In these mountains there are mines of gold and silver, and of platina, a metal more costly than gold. The mines are wrought by exiles; and, master Alexis, some of your countrymen are there, as they ought to be. You ought to thank the clemency and mercy of the emperor, for not sending you and your father there!”

“Stop! stop! old man!” said Alexis; “say no more of that! say no more of that! My father ought to be sent to the mines! for what? For risking his life to save his country? For giving his wealth to Poland? For shedding his blood for liberty? Is patriotism then a crime? Shame on the emperor who makes it so!”

“Tut, tut, tut, tut!” said Linsk, with an air of authority; “why, you talk rebellion, as if you had drank it in with your mother’s milk. Oh dear! oh dear! what are we all coming to, when youngsters talk such pestilent stuff about liberty and patriotism? Why, what have we to do with liberty and patriotism? Let us take care to obey the emperor, and his officers, and those who are in authority, and do as the priests tell us: that’s all we have to do. But never mind, boy; I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. So don’t think any more of what I said about your father and the mines. I believe he’s an honest and noble gentleman, though I am sorry he’s so much misled. Liberty and patriotism—indeed! Bah! When I hear about liberty and patriotism, I always look well to my pockets, for they sound to my ear very much like roguery and mischief. Liberty and patriotism, forsooth! as if we common men were like wild animals, and, as soon as we are of age, had a right to set up for ourselves! No! no! we are Christians, and it is our duty to honor the emperor; we are his subjects, and he may do as he pleases with us. God bless him.”

“I suppose it would be glory enough,” said Alexis, having recovered his good humor, “to have our heads cut off, provided it was done by command of the emperor.”

“Certainly,” said Linsk, not discovering the irony; and here the conversation took another turn.

“You were speaking of the mines,” said Alexis. “Do they produce great quantities of the precious metals?”

“Yes,” said the old hunter, in reply. “The mines produce the value of more than ten millions of dollars a year. Not only do they yield gold, and silver, and platina, but a great deal of copper. Beside these, many precious stones are found, such as the topaz, beryl, onyx, garnets, diamonds, and green crystals as beautiful as emeralds. All these mines and all the minerals belong to the Czar, and they are wrought by his serfs and slaves, and by such exiles as are very bad and troublesome!”

“Those who talk about liberty and patriotism, I suppose,” said Alexis.

“Yes,” said Linsk, snappishly.

“Well,” said Alexis, “I should like to go to that country, where there are such rich minerals and precious stones. I think I could pick up enough to make myself rich.”

“And get your head taken off besides,” said Linsk. “Let me tell you, my young master, the metals and minerals belong to the emperor, and it’s stealing for anybody to take them, and whoever does so is sure to get punished. I know a story about that—”

“Tell it, I beg you,” said Alexis. So the hunter proceeded.

“There was once a young nobleman of Russia exiled to Siberia for some offence to the Czar. This happened in the time of Paul, near forty years ago. Well, when he came to Tobolsk, he was very poor, so he thought how he might get money and become rich. At last he heard of the mines of the mountains, and thither he went. He was careful, however, not to let anybody know his plan. He proceeded first to the Kolyvan mountains, but, as there were a great many people at work there, he was afraid of being detected in his scheme; so he proceeded farther east, until he came to a tall mountain called the Schlangenberg, which is the loftiest of the Altai range.

“When he had got up to the very top of the mountain, being weary, he laid himself down to get some rest, and here he fell asleep. While in this state, a man, in the dress of a Tartar, seemed to stand before him, and, making a low bow in the Eastern fashion, said, ‘What would’st thou, son of a noble house?’ To this the young Russian replied—‘Wealth—give me wealth: with this I can purchase my liberty and return to Moscow, and live again in happiness. Give me riches: with these I could buy the very soul of the emperor, for all he desires is money.’

“When the young man said this, the image smiled on one side of his face, and frowned on the other; but he answered fairly,—‘Your wish shall be granted: follow me!’ Upon this the Russian arose and followed the mysterious stranger. They descended to the foot of the mountain, and entered a cave which was formed by nature in the rocks. It was at first a dark and gloomy room, with grizzly images around, and a fearful roar as of mighty waterfalls, tumbling amid the gashes and ravines of the mountain. But as they advanced farther, the scene gradually changed. The darkness disappeared, and at last they came to a vast chamber, which seemed glittering with thousands of lamps. The room appeared indeed like a forest turned to crystal, the branches above uniting and forming a lofty roof, in the gothic form. Nothing could exceed the splendor of the scene. The floor was strewn with precious stones of every hue, and diamonds of immense size and beauty glistened around. As the adventurer trod among them, they clashed against his feet as if he was marching amid heaps of pebbles. There were thousands of lofty columns, of a pearly transparency, which seemed to send forth an illumination like that of the moon; and these were studded with garnets, and emeralds, and rubies.

“The Russian was delighted—nay, entranced. He walked along for more than an hour, and still the vast room seemed to expand and grow more gorgeous as he proceeded. The diamonds were larger, and the light more lovely, and by-and-by there came a sound of music. It was faint, but delicious; and our hero looked around for the cause of it. At last he saw what seemed a river, and on going to the border of it, he discovered that it was a stream of precious stones, where garnets, and beryls, and diamonds, and emeralds, and rubies, flowed like drops of water, in one gushing, flashing current; and as they swept along, a sort of gentle but entrancing melody stole out from them, and seemed to melt the heart with their tones.

“‘This is indeed most lovely—most enchanting!’ said the youth to himself. ‘Well and truly has my guide performed his promise.’ Saying this, he looked around for his guide, but he had disappeared. The young man waited for a time, but his guide did not return. At last he began to feel weary, and cast about for a place to lie down; but no such place appeared. The floor of the mighty hall was covered with precious stones, but they were so sharp and angular that they would have cut his flesh, if he had attempted to lie upon them. Pretty soon, hunger was added to the young man’s wants. But how could he satisfy it? There were emeralds, and rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds, but neither meat nor bread. At last he turned around, and began to search for the way out of the grotto; first filling his pockets with the richest and rarest gems he could find. But the more he sought for the passage, the more remote he seemed to be from it. He, however, continued to wander on, but all in vain. At last he became frantic; he threw up his hands, and tore his hair, and ran fiercely from place to place, making the arches ring with his frightful screams. ‘Take your gold, take your jewels!’ said he; ‘and give me rest, give me bread!’ And, repeating this by night and by day, the young man continued to run wildly from place to place; and though forty years have rolled away since he entered the enchanted cave, he is still there, and is still unable to obtain rest or appease his hunger!”

“Is that all?” said Alexis, as the hunter paused in his narration. “Yes,” said Linsk; “and let it warn you and all others not to go into the mountain, to steal the gems and the gold that belong to the emperor.”

“The story is a good one,” said Alexis, “and no doubt it has been used to frighten people from interfering with the emperor’s mines; but it is an allegory, which bears a deeper meaning to my mind. It teaches us that riches cannot bring rest or health, and that a person surrounded with gold and gems may still be a most wretched being. Those very gems, indeed, may be the cause of his distress, as they may have been obtained by crime, or avarice, or other unlawful means.”

(To be continued.)

The Lion and the Mouse;

A FABLE.

A lion was once going to war; he had buckled on his sword, and gathered his forces, and, with the monkey and the bear supporting his long robe behind, he was proudly marching over the plain at the head of his army. As he was proceeding, it chanced that his majesty encountered a mouse, dancing merrily over the ground. The king paused, and observed the little dancer with a grim smile of satisfaction. At this the bear grumbled, and the monkey sneered, for his majesty being in a warlike humor, they thought it meet that everybody else should be so too; but they were both speedily silenced by the lion, who spoke as follows:

“Why do you grumble at this pretty little fellow? See how graceful his movements are, and how cheerful is his countenance! Remember that everything has its use, and nothing is more useful than that which makes us cheerful, provided it is innocent. Even we warriors have need of cheerful excitement, for by this means we are better fitted to discharge our solemn duties. Let us not despise, then, even such sports, and amusements, and trifles, as come in our way, provided always that they are as harmless as the frisks and frolics of this little dancing-master of the meadow; and provided, too, that we never neglect business for pleasure.”

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER X.

A conversation about wealth and poverty.—People to be respected according to their character, not according to their circumstances.

As Paul Raymond was one of the best friends I ever had, it is my desire to make my reader well acquainted with him. He was tall, thin, and bent over, his figure seeming to indicate great humility; his face was meagre and exceedingly pale; his hair black as jet, and hanging in long, thin curls down his neck. His eye was very large, and of a deep blue.

The whole aspect of my friend was marked with a childlike gentleness and timidity, though his high forehead and prominent Roman nose bespoke a manly intellect. A worldly person, judging only by outward form and a first sight, had passed him by with indifference; but one who looks upon mankind as beings of soul and mind, would have been attracted by his appearance. It was so in some degree with myself, for when I first saw poor Paul, as he was called in the village, I scarcely noticed him. And for years after, I saw nothing of particular interest in his person: but now that I was on a sick bed, and had opportunity, as well as occasion, to observe him closer, he seemed to me very interesting, both in looks and manner.

It was one morning after he had been putting my room in order, and, taking his book, had sat down by my bedside, that I mentioned to Paul the change of feeling I had undergone in respect to himself. “I cannot but wonder,” said I, “how different you seem to me now, from what you used to do, Mr. Raymond.”

Raymond. Call me Paul, boy, call me Paul! said he. We are friends now, and mister is always a mischief-maker between friends. You say I seem different now from what I once did. The change is in you, not in me. I am the same poor Paul Raymond, as before. You are something better than before this accident happened.

Merry. How am I better? I think I am worse: I have been guilty of folly, and, though thoughtlessly, of crime; I have been disgraced before the whole village; my poor arm broken; I am sick and emaciated; and after all this, you tell me that I am better than before.

R. And I tell you the truth, boy. You have suffered, it is certain; but that suffering has been like medicine to your mind and heart. You were well in body, you were full of health and spirits, but there was disease within. Your heart was full of selfishness and pride; you felt that you could take care of yourself, and you cared not for the sympathy of others. You have now learnt a good lesson; that pride has been humbled, and you see your dependence upon others. You see how poor and paltry pride is; and how vain is that independence, which leads us to think only of self, and to be regardless of the feelings of our fellow-men. You are more humble than before, and therefore I say you are better than before.

M. Then you think humility is a good thing?

R. Certainly, and pride a bad thing. God looks down upon the humble man with approbation and favor, and he sends to the humble man peace and consolation which the world cannot give or take away. God looks down upon the proud man as a fool, a creature as silly as the moth that buzzes in the flame of the lamp, only to perish in his folly.

M. But this is very different from the view generally taken by mankind. The rich, the haughty, those who are successful in life, who know no sickness or misfortune, and who are seldom or never visited by sorrow—these are those who are esteemed happy by the world at large. The proud are envied and the humble are despised. You would reverse this, and regard the humble as the happy, and the high and haughty as the miserable.

R. Yes, and this is nearly the truth. Health is given us for good; but, strange to say, men seem to turn it to bad account. A person who has always good health, is usually unfeeling: he sneers at those who are feeble, and laughs those to scorn who cannot eat and drink and work as well as he does. He is therefore deficient in one of the greatest of blessings, a kind and tender heart, a heart that feels for the misfortunes and sorrows of others, and that always is seeking to soften them.

Riches are given for good, but these too are abused. The rich man is likely to have very little regard for the poor; he is apt almost to feel that the poor are not human: at all events, he knows and cares little about them. He estimates men by their wealth: if a man is rich, he respects him; if poor, he despises him. Thus wealth begets in its possessor a gross stupidity of mind; it blinds a man to the most useful pleasures and important truths. It makes a man ignorant of his real duty and his true happiness.

M. You think then that health and wealth are misfortunes.

R. Certainly not, if rightly used: they are blessings in the hands of the virtuous, and some such there are. But in too many cases, mankind abuse them. The fortunate are very apt to be vicious; those who go on in an unchanging tide of success, at last fancy that they may indulge their pride and their passions with impunity. Such persons have hard hearts; and though the world, judging of the outside only, call them fortunate, and envy them—still, if we look within and see their real character, we shall pity them, as in fact poor, and destitute, and miserable in all that constitutes real goodness, real wealth—a good heart.

It is for this reason that the Bible—a book more full of virtue than mankind generally think—tells us that “whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.” In other words, God sends sorrow and misfortune upon men in real kindness. He takes away health, but he gives gentleness and humility of soul, as a compensation; he takes away worldly wealth—houses, lands, and merchandises—but he gives charity, good will, kindness, and sympathy, in their stead. He takes away external and earthly riches, and gives in exchange spiritual riches, of infinitely greater price. He takes away dollars and cents, which only pass in this world, and are wholly uncurrent in another, and gives coin that bears upon it an image and superscription, which not only makes it available in time, but in eternity.

M. Most people think very differently from you, on these matters: they seem to imagine that the rich are not only the happiest, but the wisest and best part of mankind.

R. Shallow people may think so, but wise men do not. Our Savior appealed to the poor, not to the rich. Poverty, not wealth, was the soil in which he sowed the seeds of truth; and he knew all things. History justifies Christ’s judgment of human life, for all, or nearly all great improvements in society have been begun and carried on by the poor. For almost all useful inventions; for almost all that is beautiful in poetry, and music, and painting, and sculpture, and architecture; for almost all that has contributed to diffuse truth and knowledge and liberty among mankind—we are indebted to those who have been born and nursed in poverty. If you were to strike out of existence all that the poor have created, and leave only what the rich have created, you would make this world one vast scene of desolation, vice, and tyranny.

Look around, and remark, who are the people that are tilling the soil and producing the comforts and luxuries of life? The poor, and not the rich. Who are paying the taxes and supporting the government? The poor, for they pay, in proportion to their property, much more than the rich. Who are the supporters of religion? The poor, for it is by their prayers, and sacrifices, and efforts, that it is propagated, not only at home, but in foreign lands. No Christian Mission, no Bible Society, no Society for the distribution of Tracts, was ever begun and carried on and supported by the rich.

The simple truth is, that, as the poor are the producers of all the substantial comforts of life, of food, raiment, houses, furniture, roads, vehicles, ships, and merchandises, so are they the cultivators of those spiritual staples which make up the social wealth of the world—religion, knowledge, charity, sympathy, virtue, patriotism, liberty, and truth. Destroy the poor, and you destroy not only the source of worldly wealth, but of that mental, spiritual, and social wealth, which are far higher and better.

M. You think, then, that the poor are not only the wisest, but the best part of mankind.

R. Certainly; but do not misunderstand me. I do not say all rich men are bad, or that all poor ones are good. There are rich men who are good, wise, kind, and virtuous—and those who are so, deserve great praise, for, as a class, the rich are otherwise; and the reasons are plain. In the first place, most men who become rich, do so by being supremely selfish. They keep what they get, and get what they can. A man who has no generosity, who seldom or never gives away anything, who is greedily seeking all the time to increase his possessions, is almost sure, in a few years, to accumulate large stores. Such a man may be very stupid in intellect, and yet successful in getting rich. Riches are no proof of wisdom, but they are generally evidence of selfishness.

A man, by cultivating any passion, increases it. An avaricious man, indulging his avarice, grows more and more so. He not only becomes more greedy, but less regardful of the rights, feelings, and interests of his fellow-men. Thus, as a man increases in riches, he usually becomes vicious and depraved. His vices may not be open—he may not break the laws of the land, but he breaks the laws of conscience, and of God. There is hardly a spectacle more revolting to the eye of virtue, then the bosom of the rich and avaricious man. It is a machine, which grinds in its relentless wheels the limbs, the bowels, the nerves, the hearts of such among his fellow-men as fall within his grasp. He is a kind of moral cannibal, who feasts and grows fat, not on the bodies of his species, but on their peace and happiness.

M. You are severe.

R. But I hope not unjust: remember that Christ forgave the thief on the cross, but declared that it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. He knew by what means men generally grow rich; he knew the effect of riches on the heart; and, as a class, he denounces the rich, as in the view of Heaven among the least favored of mankind. They have their good things in this world, but a fearful penalty is attached to the abuse of these good things—an abuse which is but too tempting and too common.

But the only evil of wealth lies not in the danger which it threatens to the future welfare of the soul; it is very apt to destroy or prevent some of the sweetest pleasures of this life. Humility is the source of more true happiness than wealth. A rich man may possess humility, though he is more likely to be proud; poverty, disappointment, sorrow, and misfortune, are the great producers of humility: and it often happens that God, in taking away wealth and worldly prosperity, and giving humility in return, greatly increases a person’s true wealth and genuine peace. It is thus that he often deals with those he loves. He thinks that a man may well afford to part with his wealth, if he parts with pride at the same time, and obtains humility as a reward; and surely he knows what is best for us.

Nor is peace of mind the only effect of humility. It not only wakes up the heart of man to many kindly exercises of charity to his fellow-men, but it clears his mind and his intellect, so that it is brighter and stronger. Pride dims, dulls, and cheats the mind; the judgment of a proud man is seldom good. Not only does pride beget meanness of soul, but meanness of intellect. Greatness of mind, as well as of soul, is usually associated with humility. For this reason it is, that you find among the poor, who are usually humble, more true greatness of both mind and heart, than among the rich; and it is thus that we see the fact explained, which I have before stated, that for almost all the great religious, benevolent, and social progress of the world, we are indebted to the wisdom, charity, disinterestedness, and patriotism of the poor.

M. Is it then a sin to be rich, or a virtue to be poor?

R. Certainly not: there is no virtue or vice in either poverty or wealth. All I say is this, the usual means taken to get riches are supreme selfishness or craft, or uncommon want of principle; and riches, when once obtained, tend to corrupt and degrade the heart, and stultify the mind. While, therefore, we admit that a rich man may be wise and virtuous, still, as a class, the rich are the least to be respected and trusted. We are borne out in this view by the remarkable words of Jesus Christ, and by the testimony of history. The rich, therefore, are to be shunned and feared, till we know, by positive proof, that they are worthy of our confidence and esteem, by the possession of virtue and wisdom.

On the contrary, if a man is poor, we have reason to believe that he is humble, and if humble, that he is virtuous. I know that this is not the way that the world usually judge, but I know that it is true. If you wish to find sympathy for sorrow or misfortune; or if you wish to find those who will make sacrifices to alleviate your distress, you must go to those who know sorrow and are acquainted with grief. You must go to those who are in the humble walks of life, and have learnt humility—an estimate of ourselves which makes us regard others as our equals, and which renders us willing to do to them as we would have them do to us. No man can feel the sorrow of others, unless he has suffered himself.

“’Tis the poor man alone,
When he hears the poor’s moan,
Of his morsel a morsel will give.”

M. You seem to think, then, that men are to be judged according to their character, and not by their circumstances.

R. Just so: you have stated the case exactly. When the Bible says that God looketh on the heart, it means to affirm, that the wisest and best of beings pays no respect to riches or poverty. In choosing his friends, he does not consider what sort of a house a man lives in, or how he is dressed; he looks to his heart, to his real character: and, be he rich or poor, if he finds that selfishness, greediness, and avarice, occupy the soul, he condemns him; but if he finds that he has a humble heart, one that is kind, and full of love and charity, he approves of him.

M. The great thing for a man to aim at, is to have a good heart, a good character: you think a man should be more careful to be humble, than to be rich.

R. Assuredly: and he is more likely to be humble if he is poor, than if he is rich.

M. Should a man avoid riches, then?

R. No: I have said that riches are intended for good, and that in the hands of the virtuous they are beneficial. But wealth is not necessary to happiness; it is indeed a snare to thousands. Instead, therefore, of seeking for it greedily as the first thing, we should only regard it as secondary, and of infinitely less consequence than virtue. And though we should seek to avoid poverty, if it come, we may enjoy the reflection that it is safer to walk in the humble valley, than to climb along the dizzy pinnacles of prosperity and power. At all events, in wealth or poverty, in prosperity or adversity, let us cultivate humility, and judge ourselves and others by looking on the heart; let us consider that we are good or bad, respectable or despicable, not according to our circumstances, but according to our wisdom and our virtue.

M. I believe what you tell me, Paul, for you are wise, and all you tell me sounds true; but it would be hard to make the world believe that poverty and misfortune are desirable.

R. Perhaps not; but I could tell you a story of real life, in which it would appear that misfortune, or what the world calls such, actually promoted happiness.

M. Pray tell it to me.

R. I will do so to-morrow, if you desire it; you have heard enough for to-day.

Here the conversation ended for the time. Raymond’s story, which he entitled the School of Misfortune, I shall give to my readers in the next chapter.

Origin of Words and Phrases.

“He’s cut a Dido.” It is told in history, that Dido, a queen of Tyre, about eight hundred and seventy years before Christ, fled from that place upon the murder of her husband, and with a colony settled upon the northern coast of Africa, where she built Carthage. Being in want of land, she bargained with the natives for as much as she could surround with a bull’s hide. Having made the agreement, she cut a bull’s hide into fine strings, and tying them together, claimed as much land as she could surround with the long line she had thus made. The natives allowed the cunning queen to have her way, but when anybody played off a sharp trick, they said he has “cut a Dido;”—and the phrase has come down to our day.

“He’s caught a Tartar.” In some battle between the Russians and the Tartars, who are a wild sort of people in the north of Asia, a private soldier called out, “Captain, halloa there! I’ve caught a Tartar!” “Fetch him along, then!” said the captain. “Ay, but he won’t let me!” said the man; and the fact was, the Tartar had caught him. So when a man thinks to take another in, and gets bit himself, they say—“He’s caught a Tartar!”

“Carrying the war into Africa.” In one of the famous wars between Carthage and Rome, about two thousand five hundred years ago, Hannibal, a Carthaginian leader, and one of the most wonderful men of antiquity, led his army into Italy, and for several years continued to threaten the city and lay waste the surrounding country. Scipio, a Roman general, saw the necessity of getting rid of Hannibal and his forces; so he determined to lead an army into Africa, and threaten Carthage, and thus make it necessary for Hannibal to return home for its defence. This scheme had its intended effect; and in all after time, this retaliating upon an enemy, by adopting his own tactics, is called carrying the war into Africa.

“He drives like Jehu.” “And the watchman told, saying, he came even unto them, and cometh not again: and the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously.” 2 Kings ix. 20.

The term “Yankee,” is supposed to have originated with the Indians, who called the English, Yongees, which came at length to be Yankees.

“Hoosiers.” The people of Indiana are called Hoosiers, and it is said to be an abbreviation of “Who’s here?”—a question which used to be shouted aloud by the traveller in that quarter, when, amid the tall grass of the prairies, he heard voices, or saw the smoke of a log cabin, but could see nobody.

“Suckers,” is the designation of the people of Illinois; because, as is said, the Galena miners used to appear in spring about the time the suckers, a large fish of the West, ascended the rivers.

“Wolverene,” is the title of a citizen of Michigan, because an animal of that name, often called the Glutton, and somewhat resembling the raccoon, is common in that state.

“Buckeye,” is a tree resembling the catalpa, and it is common in Ohio; so Ohio is called the buckeye state, and the citizens, buckeyes.

“Corn-crackers,” is the nickname of the Kentuckians, for what reason I cannot tell—but perhaps as a compliment to the soil and climate, which furnishes the people with abundance of corn, and a good appetite.

“John Bull,” is the title given to England and Englishmen, because it is fancied that there is a surly, grumbling manner about the people of that country, which reminds one of a bull.

“Empire State,” is a name given to New York, because of its great extent, population, and wealth.

Pennsylvania is called the “Key-Stone State,” because of its central position, and its importance in a political point of view, as determining by its large vote the character of the national government.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER VIII.

Catania.—Description of the city.—Danger of its situation.—Beauty of the country.—Journey up Mount Ætna.—Great abundance of lava.—Nicolosi.—Visit to the crater of Monti Rossi.—Grand prospect of the mountain.—Continuation of the journey.—A hut in the woods.—A night on the mountain.

Catania is a highly interesting city. I was struck with the beauty of its situation, on the sea-shore at the foot of Mount Ætna, and with the regularity of its handsome streets, which are all straight, like those of Philadelphia. It is about the size of Boston, and is remarkably thriving and busy, for an Italian city. Almost everybody appeared to be engaged in the silk trade. Large manufactories abound in every quarter of the city, and in every street I could see the women at the door spinning and weaving silk. There was some rain while I staid in the city, the first I had experienced in Sicily. The people of Syracuse told me, that a day was never known when the sun did not shine upon their city. The streets of Catania were thronged with people, notwithstanding the rain, and almost every one had a silk umbrella. I remarked that all the umbrellas were of a bright red, which made the crowd look very picturesque.

These rains are caused by Mount Ætna, which attracts the clouds from all quarters. The showers are sometimes so heavy that the streets of the city which run up and down the mountain, become rivers of water, rushing down to the sea with such rapidity that it is impossible to ford them. For this reason all the streets which lie upon a slope are provided with movable iron bridges, for crossing. There are also abundant springs of water under ground, which often burst out the sides of the mountain. I saw one of these which had sprung up through the pavement of one of the principal streets, and had been flowing for many weeks, a stream of beautiful clear water. The longest street is called Strada Ætnea. It runs up the mountain several miles, exactly in the direction of the crater, and the prospect upward is terminated by the magnificent snowy cone of the mountain, thirty miles distant. No other street in the world is equal to this in singularity.

Many times has this city been destroyed by torrents of lava from the mountain, but the beauty and advantages of the situation are such, that the inhabitants have always been willing to rebuild it, rather than seek another spot. The seashore is a black, craggy lava rock, on which the surf is always beautifully dashing. The prospect through some of the streets is terminated by columns of white spray perpetually flying into the air, as the city is built directly on the open sea, and has no harbor except an artificial dock, about as large as the space between two of the common wharves in Boston. The soil of all the neighborhood is black, hard lava, which looks like cast iron; notwithstanding which the country is most beautiful, abounding in gardens, orchards, olive-groves, and everything rich and ornamental. Large numbers of the Sicilian nobility live here, attracted by the beauty of this delicious spot.

It was impossible to look up the mighty mountain which towered into the skies over my head, without feeling a strong desire to venture up and explore its wonders. The top, for many miles, was covered with snow, and I was told that the ascent to the summit was hardly possible. However, I determined to make the trial, and hired a couple of stout mules, which are always the best animals for climbing mountains. I obtained a guide well acquainted with the mountain, who agreed to accompany me for half a dollar a day to any place I dared to approach. We set out on the morning of the second of March. At first we found the ascent very gradual; the ground was a broken lava rock, overgrown with olive and almond trees, and prickly pears. Innumerable villages were scattered all round the lower region of the mountain, surrounded by gardens and groves. The houses appeared to be all built of lava; indeed, there is hardly any other kind of stone or building material to be seen anywhere. Every one of the villages had a church with a dome covered with glazed tiles of variegated colors, bright red, green, blue, and yellow, so as to resemble an enormous inverted bead-bag, glittering in the sun. The people were collected in crowds round the churches, firing off guns, crackers, and other fireworks, as it was a saint’s day. I could see no fences in the fields: in fact, I had not yet seen such a thing as a wooden fence since the day I left home. The fields were all divided by walls of lava. Indeed, lava serves here for stone, brick, marble, wood, and many other purposes besides. They build houses of it, wall their yards and fields, pave their streets, macadamize their roads, gravel their walks, and sand their floors with it. They grind it into soil, mix it up with mortar, manufacture it into snuff-boxes, inkstands, statuary, and more things than I have time to mention. The finer sort is exceedingly hard, and takes a fine polish. In one of the squares of Catania is a lava statue of an elephant with an obelisk on his back.

After going some miles up the mountain, the trees and other vegetation became scarce, and presently the road passed over nothing but rugged, barren lava rocks. At the end of about a dozen miles we came to a village called Nicolosi. Here we left our mules, and proceeded on foot to visit the crater of Monti Rossi, from which the eruption issued that destroyed Catania in 1669. This crater is about one third of the way up the mountain, and at fifteen or twenty miles’ distance, looks like a dark red spot on the black mass of Ætna. We travelled several miles over a great desert of coarse black sand, without seeing a single tree or shrub, till we came to Monti Rossi, which I found to be a mountain with a double summit and very steep sides, consisting of coarse gravel and tufts of long rank grass, with here and there a stunted willow. It was laborious work climbing up this loose soil and holding on by the grass and twigs; now and then we lost our hold and rolled to the bottom, for it was impossible to stay our descent on this steep declivity when once we began to slip. At last we got to the summit, which consists of solid rock. The wind blew in furious gusts on this high elevation, and we were forced to tie our caps firmly upon our heads for fear of losing them.

I was, however, amply repaid for my toil in the ascent, for the view was grand beyond description. Under my feet was the crater, a yawning gulf of craggy rock, blood-red from the action of fire. All this rock had been thrown up from the bowels of the mountain. There was no opening at the bottom of the crater, the orifice having been filled up many years ago by the crumbling in of the sides, so that it is considered perfectly safe to descend to the bottom. I went down and stood over the spot from whence had issued those streams of fire that made such frightful destruction a century and a half ago. It appeared firm to the tread, like any solid earth, but it was startling to think what it once had been and might be again: it was, in truth, a pit of destruction. A prospect of a different description was exhibited from the top of the crater: the high point of this steep elevation shows the great body of Mount Ætna on one side with grand effect. When I recollected that this hill was a mere wart on the huge face of Ætna, I had a most lively impression of the enormous magnitude of the whole mountain,—seeing the wondrous bulk swelling up over my head twenty miles distant. Below, on one hand, was an immense level plain of black sand, on which I could discover winding foot-paths and stone walls, like lines drawn upon paper. Here and there I spied a traveller moving along the plain, mounted on his donkey, but at such a distance that he looked like a grasshopper astride of a mouse. Farther off, other craters and cones were discernible, and more in number than I could count. Each of these was a mountain of itself, but nothing more than a spot on the giant bulk of Ætna, whose bold peak, bright with snow, rose towering above the whole. Many miles above what I should suppose to be the habitable region, I could distinguish the white walls of a monastery, surrounded by a sea of black sand. This great black plain or desert was one of the strangest spectacles I ever saw. Here and there a lonely house could be seen, with a few dwarf willows and cherry trees scattered about, but no other appearance of life except little dots of asses moving slowly along the surface of this barren and forlorn expanse.

I should have remained much longer gazing at the grand prospect which spread around me on all sides, but my guide, who had probably been on the same spot hundreds of times before, was tired of remaining here, and told me it was time to continue our journey up the mountain. A little flurry of snow came on just at this moment, which hastened our departure. We ran down the hill at a rapid pace, tumbling over and over in the loose earth; mounting our beasts at Nicolosi, we jogged on up the mountain. For some miles the country was nothing but lava and black sand; but at length we came to thick woods, through which the road ran for eight or ten miles. It began to grow dark, and I was glad to see something that looked like a house at a distance. When we reached it, however, we found it to be nothing more than a rude hut of lava stones, built for the shelter of travellers. We were obliged to take up our quarters here for the night, though all the accommodations the house contained were a clumsy fireplace and some heaps of dry leaves for our beds. The air was very chilly, and the wind blew in violent squalls, so that we were glad to meet with even so poor a shelter as this. We kindled a large fire and sat down to supper, after which, till bedtime, I amused myself by conversing with my guide. He was very communicative, and seemed highly pleased at the interest which I manifested in my inquiries respecting his personal history. He belonged to Linguagrossa, a little village situated far up the mountain. The inhabitants live by making charcoal, which they carry on asses to Nicolosi and other villages on the lower part of the mountain, for sale. I asked him how much he earned when he was in the charcoal trade. He replied that his average earnings were from three to four cents a day; a sum which I found to be enough for a man’s support, as people live in this country.

There are thousands of people in the villages and hamlets on Mount Ætna who have never been off the mountain during their lives, and pass the whole of their existence in a state of poverty like this. I asked him if his townspeople thought much of their danger in living in a place constantly threatened with showers of fire and torrents of burning lava. He replied, “Niente! Niente!” Not at all! Not at all! because the mountain always gives notice of its eruptions long beforehand, by subterraneous rumblings and shakings, and the people have time to save themselves before the mountain bursts out. So strong is the attachment of man to his native soil!

CHAPTER IX.

A snow-storm on the mountain.—Trick of the guide.—Night’s lodging at the Englishman’s house.—Sunrise.—Journey up the cone.—Arrival at the top.—Description of the crater.

By daylight the next morning we were up and pursuing our journey. The sky was clear, and the air exceedingly cold. After about an hour’s travelling, we got through the woods, and came out into another immense field of barren lava. High above our heads rose the snowy cone of the mountain, glistening bright in the rising sun—a most magnificent spectacle. Farther on we came to a little hamlet consisting of a dozen or fourteen houses, inhabited by charcoal burners, and there were fifteen or twenty shabby-looking asses strolling about, apparently seeking for something to eat; but what sort of food they could pick up in this desolate place, puzzled me to guess. These animals, however, will eat almost anything, and can make a good meal upon coarse stalks and thistles. We passed by two or three large hills of a deep red color, that seemed to be recently thrown up by an eruption. Our path lay over rough heaps of broken lava, where a horse could not have gone without stumbling at every step, yet our sure-footed beasts carried us safely over the most difficult spots. About noon, the sky, which had hitherto been clear, began to grow overcast, and I could perceive that the smoke from the crater, instead of streaming off to the northeast, was now rolling down the side of the mountain directly toward us. This showed that the wind had shifted to the north, and I felt serious apprehensions when I observed the increasing blackness of the sky.

My guide, who had been snuffing the air and stretching his vision in every direction for the last quarter of an hour, now assured me that a snow-storm was coming, and advised an immediate return down the mountain. I was not disposed to comply, as I had heard that these people are very ready to discourage travellers at the least appearance of any danger, because they are unwilling to encounter the cold of the upper regions. I told him to push on, and never mind the wind, which was now blowing in violent gusts. But in a few minutes, large flakes of snow began to fall, and soon the whole air was obscured. The mules showed some reluctance to proceed, and we had much ado to urge them onward. The guide kept talking of the dangers of our undertaking, and told a story of an Englishman who was lost here about six weeks before in a snow-storm, just like the one that was now raging. It seems he was going up the mountain with two others of his countrymen, and being overtaken by the snow, they strayed from the path, and got into a great plain, full of deep pools of water, covered with a thin crust of ice. In attempting to cross one of these, they broke through, and one of the travellers was drowned, the rest escaping with difficulty after losing all their baggage. This melancholy catastrophe called forth all the sympathies of my companion, who related the circumstances with many mournful ejaculations and shakes of the head, assuring me that he was a bel giovanotto, or fine young fellow.

As I had never heard a syllable of this story at Catania in all my inquiries respecting the mountain, I guessed at once that the fellow had made it up out of his own head, to scare me from my undertaking. I asked him if he was sure the story was true. He protested that it was true, every word, and there could be no doubt of it, for he had seen the very mule which the drowned man rode, no longer ago than last Friday, trotting through the Corso of Catania. He was a long-backed beast, dark red, mixed with iron gray; and if that was not the dead Englishman’s mule, whose mule was it? I could not help laughing in his face at this odd proof of the story. He was a good deal disconcerted to see me so much amused instead of being frightened, and jogged on without telling any more tales of the misfortunes of travellers.

The snow continued to fall so thick that we could see only a few yards before us; but the mules, who always follow a beaten path, continued to keep in the track till the middle of the afternoon, when the ground became so deeply covered that there seemed to be danger of their missing the way, and I began to feel some small apprehension that we might encounter an accident of the kind which had been related of the young Englishman, though I did not believe a word of the story. Luckily, about this time, the snow ceased to fall, and before sunset the sky grew clear. The prospect around me was desolate in the extreme. The whole surface of the mountain above was covered with snow, diversified here and there with huge red and black spots, where hills of burnt rock and volcanic sand, or craggy masses of lava, lifted their heads above the white expanse.

Just as daylight shut in we reached a little hut called the “Englishman’s House,” which had been erected here for the accommodation of travellers. The shelter it afforded us was exceedingly welcome, for we were almost frozen to death with the keen air of the mountain. Luckily, the building, though destitute of furniture, contained a considerable quantity of dry sticks, which enabled us to make a good fire; else we should have passed a sleepless night, for my limbs were stiff with cold and fatigue. I lay down to rest as soon as I had eaten my supper, in order to be awake before daylight the next morning, as I was determined if possible to get to the top of the mountain before sunrise. I gave my companion strict injunctions to waken me as soon as his eyes should be open. But we both slept so soundly that it was broad daylight before we knew anything about it; and by the time we were fairly on our journey, the sun rose. I was much disappointed in not witnessing this spectacle from the mountain-top, as it would have afforded me something to boast of all my life; but the sight, as it was, might be thought enough to compensate for the fatigue and trouble of climbing so far. The snowy cap of the mountain, on the lower edge of which we were standing, glowed with the pure rosy tints of morning. Next to this was the green belt of forest, which first appeared dark and gloomy, but by degrees brightened into livelier tints, as the advancing sun threw his beams more directly upon the thick masses of leaves. Further down, the eye expatiated over the diversified surface of the skirts of the mountain, with its red cones, spots of green vegetation, and countless villages and towns, scattered right and left down to the water’s edge. The prospect to the east was bounded by the broad expanse of the ocean, which the brilliant morning sun had brightened up into a mirror of fire. Further to the north, the eye reposed on the dark mountains of Calabria, whose snowy summits glimmered with a faint roseate hue in the distance.

The wind blew a steady breeze from the southwest, which carried the smoke from the crater away from us; and we proceeded on foot directly up the cone of the mountain. The distance to the top was eight or nine miles, though it did not appear to be more than two or three. The snow, instead of being soft like that of yesterday, was frozen into a hard crust, over which we were continually sliding. I could not help thinking, as I looked on this great, steep mountain-top, covered with a glare of ice, what a capital coasting place it would be for the Boston boys! They might slide half a dozen miles at a stretch, and then warm their toes in hot ashes and lava. However, this sliding on the frozen snow was a thing I never thought of when I began my journey, or I should have provided myself with a pair of corks. The only way I could make any progress, was by shambling along sideways, and digging the edges of my boot-soles through the crust, so as to get a footing at each step. This labor was excessively fatiguing, and before we had climbed two miles, the guide flatly refused to go any further, declaring that he was completely out of breath. I told him to go back and wait for me, as I was determined to go on, even if I went alone.

I had no fear of getting lost, because I had but to follow my own tracks backward when matters got to be desperate. I continued to climb upward with the help of a stout walking-stick, and soon lost sight of my companion. Now that I was all alone, trudging up to the top of Mount Ætna, I really felt something of the dignity of a traveller, and was absolutely delighted with the lonely adventure. My fingers were benumbed with the cold, and the rays of the sun, which was now pretty high, were reflected with so fierce a glare from the snow, that in a short time I was unable to keep my eyes open. It was impossible to go any further without the power of looking before me, for every slip and stumble I made sent me a hundred yards backward. I was just on the point of giving up the enterprise, when a thought struck me. I had a black silk handkerchief round my neck: this I took off and bound round my forehead in such a manner as to screen my eyes. The expedient answered admirably well, and with this help I gained the top of the mountain.

When I found myself on the summit of the crater, the excitement of my feelings was such as to banish all sensations of pain, fatigue, or even fear. I stood on the edge of that great yawning gulf, which has vomited smoke and flame, for thousands of years. At the foot of the mountain, this summit appears drawn to a point, but I found it to be an immense hollow, two or three miles in diameter, and shelving down on all sides to the depth of half a mile or more. The bottom of the crater was full of chasms, through which volumes of white smoke were ascending, which rolled over the edge of the crater, and then shot off horizontally through the air. The sides were craggy, red, yellow, and black, with great masses of brimstone, big enough to load a ship. The smoke that burst out through every crevice and opening was loaded with fumes of sulphur, and on thrusting the end of my stick into a crack of the lava at my feet, it took fire.

(To be continued.)

HYMN.

Almighty God, when morning light
Breaks the soft slumbers of the night,
Then I delight to steal away
To read thy word, to kneel and pray.

This helps me, as the hours glide by,

To feel that thou art ever nigh:

When sinners tempt with speeches fair,

I recollect my morning prayer.

Nor can I let the evening close,
And on my pillow seek repose,
Until with thankful heart I raise
Once more the voice of prayer and praise.

Let others scorn in prayer to kneel;

Like them, O may I never feel!

Though oft by thoughtless ones reviled,

Still would I be a praying child.

A poor Irishman advertised an old potato-pot for sale; his children gathered around him, and asked him why he parted with it. He replied, “Ah, my honeys, I would not be after parting with it but for a little money to buy something to put in it.”

The Sparrow and Robin;

A FABLE.

A robin was one summer evening sitting upon a tree and singing its cheerful song right merrily. A critical sparrow was near by, and when the robin had done, he exclaimed, “Bah! what a miserable song! Why, it really seemed as if it would split my ears. How can you, Mister Robin, pretend to sing, when there are those around who understand music so much better?”

“Why, dear little sparrow,” said the robin, “I only sing simple songs, such as nature has taught me; and here is my pretty mate at my side, and she says my song gives her pleasure.”

“The more fool she,” said the sparrow, smartly, “to be captivated with such humdrum stuff. If you want to hear music, you must listen to the catbird, who has been to foreign countries, and the macaws, that are dressed so fine. They have introduced a new style of music, and it’s all the fashion; and your lackadaisical songs are now out of vogue, and none but the vulgar can bear them.”

“Very well, if it be so,” said the robin quietly. “I know my songs are of a very humble kind, but they are still pleasing to me and mine; and I doubt not that my simple melodies give more true pleasure than the more fashionable of these foreign minstrels. One thing proves it, and that is this: when any one of the birds sings our native woodnotes wild, there is a silence all around, and every one has a look of delight. But when one of the fashionable musicians is singing, though the birds roll up their eyes and say, ‘exquisite!’ and ‘enchanting!’ and all that, they look all the time as if they were in the greatest distress. It seems to me very silly for people to praise a thing they dislike or do not understand, merely because it has come into fashion.”

The Mysterious Artist.

(Continued.)

It was night, and the studio of Murillo, the most celebrated painter in Seville—this studio, which, during the day, was so animated and cheerful—was now silent as the grave. A single lamp burned upon a marble table, and a young boy, whose sable hue harmonized with the surrounding darkness, but whose eyes sparkled like diamonds at midnight, leaned against an easel, immovable and still. He was so deeply absorbed in his meditations that the door of the studio was opened by one, who several times called him by name, and who, on receiving no answer, approached and touched him. Sebastian raised his eyes, which rested on a tall and handsome mulatto.

“Why do you come here, father?” said he, in a melancholy tone.

“To keep you company, Sebastian.”

“There is no need, father; I can watch alone.”

“But what if the Zombi should come?”

“I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile.

“He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery.”

“Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.

“It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation.

“God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered—“God! I pray constantly to him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father, good night.”

“Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?”

“My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on earth.”

“Why then, when the pupils asked you who sketched the figures they find here every morning, did you say it was the Zombi?”

“To amuse myself, father, and to make them laugh; that was all.”

“Then good night, my son;” and, having kissed the boy, the mulatto retired.

The moment Sebastian found himself alone, he uttered an exclamation of joy. Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, “Seventy-five lashes to-morrow if I do not tell who sketched these figures, and perhaps more if I do. O my God, come to my aid!” and the little mulatto threw himself upon the mat, which served him for a bed, where he soon fell fast asleep.

Sebastian awoke at daybreak; it was only three o’clock. Any other boy would probably have gone to sleep again; not so Sebastian, who had but three hours he could call his own.

“Courage, courage, Sebastian,” he exclaimed, as he shook himself awake; “three hours are thine—only three hours—then profit by them; the rest belong to thy master, slave! Let me at least be my own master for three short hours. So begin; these figures must be effaced;” and, seizing a brush, he approached the virgin, which, viewed by the soft light of the morning dawn, appeared more beautiful. than ever.

“Efface this!” he exclaimed, “efface this! no! I will die first—efface this—they dare not—neither dare I. No! that head—she breathes—she speaks—it seems as if her blood would flow if I should offer to efface it, and I should be her murderer. No, no, no; rather let me finish it.”

Scarcely had he uttered these words, when, seizing a palette, he seated himself at the easel, and was soon totally absorbed in his occupation. Hour after hour passed unheeded by Sebastian, who was too much engrossed by the beautiful creation of his pencil, which seemed bursting into life, to mark the flight of time. “Another touch,” he exclaimed, “a soft shade here—now the mouth. Yes! there! it opens—those eyes—they pierce me through!—what a forehead!—what delicacy! Oh my beautiful—” and Sebastian forgot the hour, forgot he was a slave, forgot his dreaded punishment—all, all was obliterated from the soul of the youthful artist, who thought of nothing, saw nothing, but his beautiful picture.

But who can describe the horror and consternation of the unhappy slave, when, on suddenly turning round, he beheld all the pupils, with the master at their head, standing beside him.

Sebastian never once dreamt of justifying himself, and with his palette in one hand, and his brushes in the other, he hung down his head, awaiting in silence the punishment he believed he justly merited. For some moments a dead silence prevailed; for if Sebastian was confounded at being caught in the commission of such a flagrant crime, Murillo and his pupils were not less astonished at the discovery they had made.

Murillo, having, with a gesture of the hand, imposed silence on his pupils, who could hardly restrain themselves from giving way to their admiration, approached Sebastian, and concealing his emotion, said, in a cold and severe tone, while he looked alternately from the beautiful head of the virgin to the terrified slave, who stood like a statue before him,

“Who is your master, Sebastian?”

“You,” replied the boy, in a voice scarcely audible.

“I mean your drawing-master,” said Murillo.

“You, Senor,” again replied the trembling slave.

“It cannot be; I never gave you lessons,” said the astonished painter.

“But you gave them to others, and I listened to them,” rejoined the boy, emboldened by the kindness of his master.

“And you have done better than listen—you have profited by them,” exclaimed Murillo, unable longer to conceal his admiration. “Gentlemen, does this boy merit punishment, or reward?”

At the word punishment, Sebastian’s heart beat quick; the word reward gave him a little courage; but, fearing that his ears deceived him, he looked with timid and imploring eyes towards his master.

“A reward, Senor!” cried the pupils, in a breath.

“That is well; but what shall it be?”

Sebastian began to breathe.

“Ten ducats, at least,” said Mendez.

“Fifteen,” cried Ferdinand.

“No,” said Gonzalo; “a beautiful new dress for the next holiday.”

“Speak, Sebastian,” said Murillo, looking at his slave, whom none of these rewards seemed to move; “are these things not to your taste? Tell me what you wish for. I am so much pleased with your beautiful composition, that I will grant any request you may make. Speak, then; do not be afraid.”

“Oh, master, if I dared—” and Sebastian, clasping his hands, fell at the feet of his master. It was easy to read in the half-opened lips of the boy and his sparkling eyes some devouring thoughts within, which timidity prevented him from uttering.

With the view of encouraging him, each of the pupils suggested some favor for him to demand.

“Ask gold, Sebastian.”

“Ask rich dresses, Sebastian.”

“Ask to be received as a pupil, Sebastian.”

A faint smile passed over the countenance of the slave at the last words, but he hung down his head and remained silent.

“Ask for the best place in the studio,” said Gonzalo, who, from being the last pupil, had the worst light for his easel.

“Come, take courage,” said Murillo gaily.

“The master is so kind to-day,” said Ferdinand, “that I would risk something. Ask your freedom, Sebastian.”

At these words Sebastian uttered a cry of anguish, and raising his eyes to his master, he exclaimed, in a voice choked with sobs, “The freedom of my father! the freedom of my father!”

“And thine, also,” said Murillo, who, no longer able to conceal his emotion, threw his arms around Sebastian, and pressed him to his breast.

“Your pencil,” he continued, “shows that you have talent; your request proves that you have a heart; the artist is complete. From this day, consider yourself not only as my pupil, but my son. Happy Murillo! I have done more than paint—I have made a painter!”

Murillo kept his word, and Sebastian Gomez, known better under the name of the mulatto of Murillo, became one of the most celebrated painters in Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he had been found painting by his master; also a St. Anne, admirably done; a holy Joseph, which is extremely beautiful; and others of the highest merit.

At a crowded lecture the other evening, a young lady standing at the door of the church was addressed by an honest Hibernian, who was in attendance on the occasion, with, “Indade, Miss, I should be glad to give you a sate, but the empty ones are all full.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

CHAPTER V.

Peru discovered by Francisco Pizarro.—He invites the Inca to visit him.—Description of the Inca.—Rejects the Bible.—Treacherously seized by Pizarro.—The Inca proposes to ransom himself.—The ransom brought.—Pizarro seizes the gold, then murders the Inca.—Conquers Peru.

When the Spaniards first discovered the Pacific, Peru was a mighty empire. It extended from north to south more than 2000 miles. Cuzco, the capital city, was filled with great buildings, palaces, and temples, which last were ornamented, or covered, rather, with pure gold. The improvements of civilized life were far advanced; agriculture was the employment of the quiet villagers; in the cities manufactures flourished; and science and literature were in a course of improvement which would, doubtless, have resulted in the discovery of letters.

Their government was a regular hereditary monarchy; but the despotism of the emperor was restricted by known codes of law. They had splendid public roads. That from Cuzco to Quito extended a distance of 1500 miles or more. It passed over mountains, through marshes, across deserts. Along this route, at intervals, were large stone buildings, like the caravanseras of the East, large enough to contain thousands of people. In some instances these caravanseras were furnished with the means of repairing the equipments and arms of the troops or travellers.

Such was the ancient empire of Peru, when Francisco Pizarro, an obscure Spanish adventurer, with an army of only sixty-two horsemen and a hundred or two foot-soldiers, determined to invade it. He, like all the other Spaniards who went out to South America, was thirsting to obtain gold. These men, miscalled Christians, gave up their hearts and souls to the worship of mammon, and they committed every horrible crime to obtain riches. But the Christian who now cheats his neighbor in a quiet way-of-trade manner, to obtain wealth—is he better than those Spaniards? I fear not. Had he the temptation and the opportunity, he would do as they did.

At the time Pizarro invaded Peru, there was a civil war raging between Atahualpa, the reigning monarch, or Inca, as he was called, and his brother Huascar. These brothers were so engaged in their strife, that Pizarro had marched into the country without being opposed, and entered the city of Caxamala on the 15th of November, 1532. Here the army of the Inca met the Spaniards. Pizarro was sensible he could not contend with such a multitude, all well armed and disciplined, so he determined by craft to get possession of the person of the Inca.

He sent to invite the Inca to sup with him in the city of Caxamala, and promised then to give an account of his reasons for coming to Peru. The simple-hearted Inca believed the Spaniards were children of the sun. Now the Inca worshiped the sun, and thought he himself had descended from that bright luminary. He was very anxious, therefore, to see the Spaniards, and could not believe they meant to injure him; so he consented to visit Pizarro.

Atahualpa took with him twenty thousand warriors, and these were attended by a multitude of women as bearers of the luggage, when he set out to visit the Spaniards. The person of the sovereign was one blaze of jewels. He was borne on a litter plated with gold, overshadowed with plumes, and carried on the shoulders of his chief nobles. On his forehead he had the sacred tuft of scarlet, which he wore as the descendant of the sun. The whole moved to the sound of music, with the solemnity of a religious procession.

The Inca putting the Bible to his ear.

When the Inca entered the fatal gates from which he was never to return, his curiosity was his chief emotion. Forgetting the habitual Oriental gravity of the throne, he started up, and continued standing as he passed along, gazing with eagerness at every surrounding object. A friar, named Valverde, now approached, bearing a cross and a Bible. The friar commenced his harangue by declaring that the pope had given the Indies to Spain; that the Inca was bound to obey; that the book he carried contained the only true mode of worshiping Heaven.

“Where am I to find your religion?” said the Inca.

“In this book,” replied the friar.

The Inca declared that whatever might be the peaceful intentions of the Spaniards, “he well knew how they had acted on the road, how they had treated his caciques, and burned his cottages.” He then took the Bible, and turning over some of the leaves, put it eagerly to his ear.

“This book,” said he, “has no tongue; it tells me nothing.” With these words he flung it contemptuously on the ground.

The friar exclaimed at the impiety, and called on his countrymen for revenge. The Inca spoke a few words to his people, which were answered by murmurs of indignation. At this moment Pizarro gave the signal to his troops: a general discharge of cannon, musketry, and crossbows followed, and smote down the unfortunate Peruvians. The cavalry were let loose, and they broke through the Inca’s guard at the first shock. Pizarro rushed forward at the head of a chosen company of shield-bearers, to seize the Inca.

Pizarro seizing the Inca.

That sovereign was surrounded by a circle of his high officers and devoted servants. They never moved except to throw themselves upon the Spanish swords. They saw that their prince was doomed, and they gave themselves up to his fate. The circle rapidly thinned, and the Inca would soon have been slain, had not Pizarro called to his soldiers to forbear. He wished to take the Inca alive, that he might extort gold from him for his ransom.

Pizarro, therefore, rushed forward, and, seizing the Inca by the mantle, dragged him to the ground. The Peruvians, seeing his fall in the midst of the Spanish lances, thought he was slain, and instantly gave up the battle. In the force of their despair they burst through one of the walls and fled over the open country. More than two thousand were left dead within the gates, while not a single Spaniard had been killed. It was a murder rather than a battle.

The Spaniards proceeded to plunder the camp of the Inca, and he, seeing their passion for gold, offered to purchase his ransom. He offered to cover the floor of the chamber where he was confined with wedges of gold and silver. The Spaniards laughed at this, as they conceived, impossible proposal. The Inca thought they despised the small sum he had offered, and starting to his feet, he haughtily stretched his arm as high as he could reach, and told them he would give them that chamber full to the mark he then touched with his hand. The chamber was twenty-two feet long, sixteen wide, and the point he touched on the wall was nine feet high.

Pizarro accepted the proposal, and sent messengers to Cuzco to obtain the ransom. These brought back twenty-six horse loads of gold, and a thousand pounds’ weight of silver. The generals of the Inca also brought additional treasures of gold and silver vessels, and the room was filled. Pizarro grasped the treasure, and divided it among his troops, after deducting one fifth for the king, and taking a large share for himself.

Pizarro had promised to set the Inca at liberty; but it is probable he never intended it. After he had, in the name of the Inca, drawn all the gold he could from the country, he barbarously murdered the poor Indian chief!

There is a tradition that the fate of the Inca was hastened by the following circumstance. One of the soldiers on guard over him, wrote the name of God on the thumb nail of the Inca, explaining to him at the same time the meaning of the word. The Inca showed it to the first Spaniard who entered. The man read it. The Inca was delighted; and Pizarro appearing at the moment, the important nail was presented to him. But Pizarro could not read! the conqueror of Peru could not write his name; and the Inca manifested such contempt towards him for this ignorance, that Pizarro resolved he should not live.

After the Inca’s death, another long and bloody war, or, rather, ravage, commenced. The Spaniards finally took Cuzco, the royal city, plundered the temples, and desolated the land, till the Peruvians, in despair, submitted to their chains, and became the slaves of the Spaniards.

Since that time the Spanish power has always governed Peru, till the revolution in 1823, when the colonists threw off the yoke of the mother country. But, in justice to the kings of Spain, it should be remembered that they have frequently made laws to protect their Indian subjects in South America. Still the poor natives were often, indeed always, cruelly oppressed by the colonists. But now the spirit of liberality and improvement is ameliorating the condition of all the laboring classes in the independent Republic of Peru, and the Indians are entitled to the privileges of free citizens.

CHAPTER VI.

Indian tradition.—Manco Capac.—His reign.—Religion.—Property.—Agriculture.—Buildings.—Public roads.—Manufactures.—Domestic animals.—Results of the conquest of the country by the Spaniards.

The Peruvians have a tradition that the city of Cuzco was founded in this manner. The early inhabitants of the country were ignorant, and brutal as the wild beasts of the forest, till a man and woman of majestic form, and clothed in decent garments, appeared among them. They declared themselves to be children of the sun, sent to instruct and to reclaim the human race. They persuaded the savages to conform to the laws they proposed, united them, the Indians, together in a society, and taught them to build the city.

Manco Capac was the name of this wonderful man; the woman was called Marna Ocollo. Though they were the children of the sun, it seems they had been brought up very industriously; for Manco Capac taught the Indians agriculture, and other useful arts; and Marna Ocollo taught the women to spin and weave, and make feather garments.

After the people had been taught to work, and had built houses and cultivated fields, and so on, Manco Capac introduced such laws and usages as were calculated to perpetuate the good habits of the people. And thus, according to the Indian tradition, was founded the empire of the Incas.

The territory was, at first, small; but it was gradually enlarged by conquering the neighboring tribes,—merely, however, to do good by extending the blessings of their laws and arts to the barbarians,—till the dominions of the Inca Atahualpa, the twelfth in succession, extended from north to south along the Pacific Ocean above 2000 miles; its breadth from east to west was from the ocean to the Andes. The empire had continued four hundred years.

The most singular and striking circumstance in the Peruvian government, was the influence of religion upon its genius and its laws. The whole civil policy was founded on religion. The Inca appeared not only as a legislator, but as the messenger of heaven. His precepts were received as the mandates of the Deity. Any violation of his laws was punished with death; but the people were so impressed with the power and sacred character of their ruler that they seldom ventured to disobey.

Manco Capac taught the Peruvians to worship the sun, as the great source of light, of joy, and fertility. The moon and stars were entitled to secondary honors. They offered to the sun a part of those productions which his genial warmth had called forth from the bosom of the earth, and his beams had ripened. They sacrificed some of the animals which were indebted to his influence for nourishment. They presented to him choice specimens of those works of ingenuity which his light had guided the hand of man in forming. But the Incas never stained the altar of the sun with human blood.

Thus the Peruvians were formed, by the spirit of the religion which they had adopted, till they possessed a national character more gentle than that of any other people in America.

The state of property in Peru was no less singular than that of religion, and contributed, likewise, towards giving a mild turn of character to the people. All the lands capable of cultivation, were divided into three shares. One was consecrated to the sun, and the product of it was applied to the erection of the temples, and furnishing what was requisite towards celebrating the public rites of religion.

The second share belonged to the Inca, or was set apart as the provision made by the community for the support of government. The third and largest share was reserved for the maintenance of the people, among whom it was parcelled out. All such lands were cultivated by the joint industry of the community.

A state thus constituted may be considered like one great family, in which the union of the members was so complete, and the exchange of good offices so perceptible, as to create stronger attachment between man and man than subsisted under any other form of society in the new world. The Peruvians were advanced far beyond any of the nations in America, both in the necessary arts of life, and in such as have some title to be called elegant.

Agriculture was carried on by the Peruvians with a good deal of skill. They had artificial canals to water their fields; and to this day the Spaniards have preserved and use some of the canals made in the days of the Incas. They had no plough, but turned up the earth with a kind of mattock of hard wood. The men labored in the fields with the women, thus showing the advance of civilization over the rude tribes which imposed all the drudgery upon females.

The superior ingenuity of the Peruvians was also obvious in their houses and public buildings. In the extensive plains along the Pacific Ocean, where the sky is always serene and the climate mild, the houses were, of course, very slight fabrics. But in the higher regions, where rain falls and the rigor of the changing seasons is felt, houses were constructed with great solidity. They were generally of a square form, the walls about eight feet high, built of bricks hardened in the sun, without any windows, and the door strait and low. Many of these houses are still to be seen in Peru.

But it was in the temples consecrated to the sun, and in the buildings intended for the residence of their monarchs, that the Peruvians displayed the utmost extent of their art. The temple of Pachacmac, together with a palace of the Inca and a fortress, were so connected together as to form one great structure, nearly two miles in circuit.

Still this wide structure was not a very lofty affair. The Indians, being unacquainted with the use of the pulley and other mechanical powers, could not elevate the large stones and bricks which they employed in building; and the walls of this, their grandest edifice, did not rise above twelve feet from the ground. There was not a single window in any part of the building. The light was only admitted by the doors; and the largest apartments must have been illuminated by some other means.

The noblest and most useful works of the Incas, were their public roads. They had two, from Cuzco to Quito, extending, uninterruptedly, above fifteen hundred miles. These roads were not, to be sure, equal to our modern turnpikes; but at the time Peru was discovered there were no public roads in any kingdom of Europe that could be compared to the great roads of the Incas.

The Peruvians had, likewise, made considerable advances in manufactures and the arts which may be called elegant. They made cloth, and they could refine silver and gold. They manufactured earthen ware; and they had some curious instruments formed of copper, which had been made so hard as to answer the purposes of iron. This metal they had not discovered. If they had only understood the working of iron and steel as well as they did that of gold and silver, they would have been a much richer and more civilized people.

The Peruvians had tamed the duck and the llama, and rendered them domestic animals. The llama is somewhat larger than the sheep, and in appearance resembles a camel. The Indians manufactured its wool into cloth; its flesh they used for food; moreover, the animal was employed as a beast of burden, and would carry a moderate load with much patience and docility. The aid of domestic animals is essential to the improvement and civilization of human society.

In short, the Peruvians, when contrasted with the naked, indolent, and ignorant inhabitants of the West Indian Islands, seem to have been a comfortable, ingenious, and respectable nation. The conquest of their country destroyed their system of government. They were made not merely to pay tribute to their new rulers, but, far worse, they were reduced to the condition of slaves. They were compelled to leave the pleasant fields they used to cultivate, and driven in crowds to the mountains in search of gold. They were forced to labor hard, and allowed only a scanty subsistence; till, heart-broken and despairing of any change for the better, they sunk under their calamities and died!

An Indian girl feeding a duck. Llama carrying a burden on its back.

In a few years after Pizarro entered Cuzco, a great part of the ancient population of Peru had been swept away, destroyed by the avarice and cruelty of their conquerors.

The Alligator.

I am not about to recommend this creature to you on account of his beauty or amiable qualities. He has, in fact, too large a mouth, and too long a tail, to be handsome, and his reputation is not of the pleasantest kind. However, it is interesting to hear about all the works of nature, and as this is one of the most wonderful, I shall proceed to describe it.

Alligators live in warm climates, and spend the greater part of their time in the water. There are four or five kinds in America, but the most dangerous are found along the banks of the river Mississippi. These creatures are sometimes fifteen or even twenty feet in length; their mouths are two or three feet long and fourteen or fifteen inches wide. Their teeth are strong and sharp, and their claws are also very strong.

During the middle of the day the alligators are generally at rest—lying lazily upon the shore, or in the water. Toward evening, however, they begin to move about in search of prey, and then the roar of the larger ones is terrific. It is louder and deeper than the lowing of the bull, and it has all the savage wildness of the bittern’s cry. It would seem that this bellowing could not be agreeable to anything, for as soon as the birds and beasts hear it, they fly as if smitten with terror; but still, when an alligator wishes to speak something loving into the ear of another, he goes to bellowing with all his might, and this sound, so awful to other creatures, seems very pleasant and musical to the alligator which is thus addressed. This shows that there is a great difference in tastes.

THE CROCODILE.

The male alligators sometimes engage in ferocious battles. These usually take place in shallow water, where their feet can touch the ground. At first they only cudgel each other with their tails; but the blows given are tremendous, and soon rouse the anger of the parties. They then go at it with teeth and claws. The snapping, scratching, rending and thumping, are now tremendous; the water boils around with the struggle; streams of blood mingle with the waves; and at last one of the combatants is actually torn in pieces by his adversary.

The appetite of the alligator is voracious; I never heard of one that had the dyspepsia. Nothing of the animal kind comes amiss; mountain cat, monkey, vulture, parrot, snake-lizard, and even the electric eel, rattlesnake, and venomous bush-master, are alike swallowed down! Nor does it matter whether the creature be alive or dead, save only that it seems most admired when in a putrid state. It frequently happens that the creature will deposit an animal he has killed in the water till partly decayed, and when most offensive to us, it seems most delicious to the alligator.

In some of the rivers of North and South America, within the tropics, these creatures are very numerous. They also infest the lakes and lagoons all around the Gulf of Mexico; and it is here that the alligator’s paradise is found. When the spring rains come these creatures have a perfect carnival. Many fishes, birds, and animals, are killed during the freshets, and are borne along in the floods; upon their remains these creatures feast; and as the vulture is provided by providence to devour and remove offal from the land, which would otherwise infect the air and produce pestilence; so the alligators are the scavengers of the waters, and clear away putrescence that would otherwise render them poisonous and unapproachable to man. So, after all, the alligator has his part to play in the great economy of nature, and is actually very useful.

The alligator is nearly the same as the crocodile of the eastern continent. The females lay eggs, and one of them is said to produce a hundred in a season. They are of the size of geese eggs, and are often eaten, being esteemed tolerable food. The eggs, being deposited in the sand and covered up, are hatched by the heat.

Braham’s Parrot.—Parrots, like cuckoos, form their notes deep in the throat, and show great aptitude in imitating the human voice. A lady who admired the musical talents of Braham, the celebrated singer, gave him a parrot, which she had taught with much care. A person who saw it at Braham’s house, thus describes it:—“After dinner, during a pause in the conversation, I was startled by a voice from one corner of the room, calling out in a strong, hearty manner, ‘Come, Braham, give us a song!’ Nothing could exceed the surprise and admiration of the company. The request being repeated and not ananswered, the parrot struck up the first verse of God save the King, in a clear, warbling tone, aiming at the style of Braham, and sung it through. The ease with which the bird was taught was equally surprising with his performance. The same lady prepared him to accost Catalani, when dining with Mr. Braham, which so alarmed Madame that she nearly fell from her chair. Upon his commencing Rule Brittania, in a loud and intrepid tone, the chantress fell upon her knees before the bird, expressing, in terms of delight, her admiration of its talents.”

This parrot has only been exceeded by Lord Kelly’s, who, upon being asked to sing, replied, “I never sing on a Sunday.” “Never mind that, Poll; come, give us a song.” “No, excuse me. I’ve got a cold—don’t you hear how hoarse I am?” This extraordinary creature performed the three verses entire of God save the King, words and music, without hesitation, from beginning to end.

Mungo Park and the Frogs.

The tales of travellers often appear to us incredible, merely because they relate things different from our own observation and experience. You know that there are some countries so hot that they never have ice or snow there. Now it chanced that a man from some northern portion of the world, happening to be in one of those hot places, told the people, that, where he lived, the water sometimes became solid, in consequence of the cold, and almost as hard as a stone.

Now this was so different from the experience of the people, that they would not credit the traveller’s story. This shows us that a thing may be a reality, which is, at the same time, very different from our own observation and experience.

Mungo Park was a famous traveller in Africa. He went into countries where no white man had been before, and he saw places which no white man had seen. He tells us many curious things, but perhaps nothing is more amusing than what he says about the frogs. At a certain place that he visited, he went to a brook to let his horse drink; but what was his surprise to find it almost covered with frogs, who kept bobbing up and down, so that his horse was afraid to put his nose into the water. At last Mr. Park was obliged to take a bush and give the frogs a flogging, before he could make them get out of the way so as to let his poor beast quench his thirst.

A Child lost in the Woods.

The Bangor Whig of the 11th of June contains an affecting account of a search made at Linnæus, in the Aroostook country, for a little girl of nine years, the daughter of Mr. David W. Barbar, who, on the 4th, was sent through the woods to a neighbor’s, half a mile distant, to borrow a little flour for breakfast. Not returning that day, the next morning about forty of the neighbors set out to hunt for her, but spent the day without success. The next day sixty searched the woods, with no better fortune. The following morning between two and three hundred of the settlers assembled early, anxious and fearful for the safety of the lost child.

“The company set out,” says the Whig, “for a thorough and a last search. The child had been in the woods three days and nights, and many hearts were sunk in despondency at the utter hopelessness of finding it alive. But to learn its fate or restore it was the determined purpose of each. Half the day had been expended in advancing into the forest. It was time for returning; but who could think of doing so while an innocent child might be wandering but a few rods in advance? On the company pushed, still deeper into the dense wilds. The sun had reached the meridian, and was dipping down toward the west. It seemed vain to look farther, and slowly and heavily those stout-hearted men brushed a tear from their cheeks, gave up all as lost, and, as their hearts seemed to die within them, commenced their return. The line was stretched to include a survey of the greatest possible ground; not a bush or tree, where it was possible for a child to be concealed, within the limits of the line, was passed without diligent search. Those at the extremities of the lines tasked themselves to the utmost in examining the woods beyond the lines. They had travelled for some time, when, at the farthest point of vision, the man on one flank thought he saw a bush bend. He ran with swelling heart. He hesitated. Was it his imagination? He gazed a moment. The bush bent again, and the head of the little wanderer was seen! He rushed forward, and found the little girl seated upon a log, and breaking the twigs she had plucked from the bush which so providentially led to her discovery. She did not appear to be frightened; said she had lain in the woods three nights, and had not seen or heard any wild beasts, and that she thought she should get to Mr. Howard’s for the flour before night! At first she did not appear hungry or weak, but after eating a piece of bread her cries for more were very piteous. She was found about three miles from where she entered the woods. Her clothing was very thin, and the large shawl she had on when she left home she had carefully folded and placed in the pillowcase, not even putting it over her during the night, as she innocently said, ‘to keep from dirtying it, or her mother would whip her.’ Our informant states that she is now as well and happy as the other children.”

The Sun.—If the sun were inhabited as thickly as some parts of our earth, with human beings, it would contain 850,000 times as many as the earth.

AUTUMN.

WORDS AND MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.

Andante.

The summer departed,
So gentle and brief—
Pale autumn is come,
With its sere yellow leaf.
Its breath in the vale,
Its voice in the breeze,
A many hued garment
Is over the trees.

In red and in purple
The leaves seem to bloom,—
The stern slayer comes—
It hath spoken their doom;
And those that may seem
With rubies to vie,—
They tell us that beauty
Blooms only to die.

Yet sad as the whispers
Of sorrow its breath,
And touching its hues
As the garment of death,—
Still autumn, though sad
And mournful it be,
Is sweetest and dearest
Of seasons to me.

THE HYÆNA.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.—No. 3.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER XI.

Raymond’s story of the school of misfortune.

I shall now proceed to repeat, as accurately as I am able, Raymond’s story promised in the last chapter. It was as follows.

“There once lived in a village near London, a youth whom we will call R. His parents died when he was young, leaving him an ample estate. He was educated at one of the universities, travelled for two years on the continent, and, at the age of twenty-four, returned to the paternal mansion, and established himself there. Being the richest person in the village, and the descendant and representative of a family of some antiquity, he became the chief personage of the place. Beside all this, he was esteemed remarkably handsome, possessed various accomplishments, and had powers of pleasing almost amounting to fascination. He was, therefore, courted and flattered by the whole neighborhood, and even lords and ladies of rank and fashion did not disdain to visit him. The common people around, of course, looked up to him; for in England, where distinctions in society are established by government, and where all are taught to consider such distinctions as right and best, the great, as they are called, are usually almost worshipped by the little.

“Surrounded by luxuries, and flattered by everybody, it would seem that R. might have been happy; but he was of a discontented turn, and though, for a time, these things pleased him, he grew tired of them at last, and wished for some other sources of pleasure and excitement. At the university he had imbibed a taste for reading; but he could not now sit down to its quiet and gentle pleasures. He had been in the gay society of London and Paris, and had drank the cup of pleasure so deeply, that nothing but its dregs remained.

“R. was therefore restless, discontented and miserable, while in the possession of all that usually excites the envy of mankind. He was rich beyond his utmost wishes; he was endowed with manly beauty and the most perfect health; he was admired, flattered, cherished and sought after; yet he was unhappy. The reason of this he did not know; indeed, he did not look very deeply into the matter, but went on from one scene to another, seeking enjoyment, but turning with distaste and disappointment from everything. He was, however, too proud to let the world see his real condition; he kept up a fair outside, sustained his establishment with magnificence, and dressed himself, when he went abroad, with elegance and care; he affected gayety in company, often led in the dance, was ever foremost in the chase, and was usually the life of the circle wherever he went.

“There were few, perhaps none, who imagined that, under this aspect of prosperity, the canker of discontent was gnawing at the heart. Yet such was the fact: of all the people of the village, R. was esteemed the most happy and fortunate; but he was in truth the veriest wretch in the place. And though this may doubtless seem a rare instance, yet we have good reason to believe that often, very often, there is deep misery, untold and unsuspected, in the great house, where only elegance and luxury are seen by the world at large; very often the beggar at the door would not exchange conditions with the lord of the lofty hall, if he could know his real condition.

“R. had now reached the age of thirty years, and instead of finding his condition or the state of his feelings to grow better, they seemed rather to grow worse. He became more and more unhappy. Every morning when he rose, it was with a kind of dread as to how he should contrive to kill time, to get through the day, to endure his own listlessness, or dissatisfaction, or disgust. The idea of setting about some useful or honorable employment, that would occupy his thoughts, give excitement to his faculties, and bring satisfaction to his conscience, never entered his head. He had never been taught that no one has a right to lead an idle or useless life, and that no man can be happy who attempts to live only for himself.

“It is indeed a common opinion among rich people that they are under no obligation to engage in the active duties of life; that they are not bound to labor, or toil, or make sacrifices for society; that they are in fact privileged classes, and may spend their time and money with an exclusive regard to themselves. R. was educated in this foolish and narrow-minded opinion; and here was the real foundation of all his misery. Could he only have discovered that happiness is to be found in exercising our faculties; in using the means, and employing the power, that Providence has placed in our hands, in some useful pursuit, and in this way alone, he might have been saved from a gulf of misery, into which he was soon plunged.

“At this period, which was soon after the revolutionary war, America was attracting great attention, and R. having met with one of his college mates who had been there, and who gave him glowing accounts of it, he suddenly took the determination to sell his estates and set out for America, with the view of spending the remainder of his days there. He knew little of the country, but supposed it to be the contrast in everything to that in which he had lived, and thinking that any change must bring enjoyment, he sold his property, and taking the amount in gold and silver, set out with it in a ship bound for New York.

“The vessel had a prosperous voyage till she arrived in sight of the highlands near the entrance of the harbor of New York. It was then that, just at evening, smart gusts began to blow off the land, and the captain showed signs of anxiety, lest he should not be able to get in before the storm, which he feared was coming, should arise. The passengers had dressed themselves to go on shore, and most of them, anxious to see friends, or tired of the sea, were anticipating their arrival with delight. R., however, was an exception to all this. He went upon the deck, looked a few moments gloomily at the land that was visible low down in the horizon, and then retired to the cabin, where he gave himself up to his accustomed train of discontented and bitter thoughts.

“‘I alone,’ said he to himself, ‘of all this company, seem to be miserable; all are looking forward with pleasant anticipations of some happiness, some enjoyment in store for them. But for me—what have I to hope? I have no friends here; this is a land of strangers to me. It is true, I have wealth; but how worthless is it! I have tried its virtues in England, and found that it could not give me pleasure. Wealth cannot bestow happiness upon me; and I should not mourn if every farthing of it were lost in the sea. Life is indeed to me a burthen. Why is it that everything is happy but myself? Why do I see all these people rejoicing at the sight of land, while I am distressed at the idea of once more mingling with mankind? Alas! life is to me a burthen, and the sooner I part with it the better.’

“While R. was pursuing this train of reflections in the cabin, the heaving of the vessel increased; the creaking of the timbers grew louder, and there was a good deal of noise on the deck, occasioned by running to and fro, the rattling of cordage, and the clanking of heavy irons. The commands of the captain became rapid and stern, and the thumping of the billows against the sides of the ship made her shiver from the rudder to the bowsprit.

“R. was so buried in his own gloomy reflections that he did not for some time notice these events; but at last the din became so tremendous, that he started to his feet and ran upon deck. The scene that now met his eyes was indeed fearful. It was dark, but not so much so as to prevent the land from being visible at a little distance; the wind was blowing with the force of a hurricane, and urging the vessel, now perfectly at its mercy, into the boiling waves that fretted and foamed along its edge. The captain had given up all hope of saving the ship, and the passengers were kneeling and throwing up their hands in wildness and despair.

“R. was perfectly calm. The thought of losing his wealth crossed his mind, but it cost him not a struggle to be reconciled to its destruction. He then thought of sinking down in the waves to rise no more. To this, too, he yielded, saying briefly to himself, ‘It is best it should be so.’ Having thus made up his mind and prepared himself for the worst, as he fancied, he stood surveying the scene. The force of the gale was fearful; as it marched along the waters, it lashed their surface into foam, and burst upon the ship with a fury that seemed every moment on the point of carrying away her masts. At last, the vessel struck; a moment after, her masts fell, with their whole burthen of spars, sails, and rigging; the waves then rose over the stern of the helpless hulk, and swept the whole length of it. Several of the passengers were hurried into the tide, there to find a watery grave; some clung to the bulwarks, and others saved themselves in various ways.

“R. was himself plunged into the waves. His first idea was to yield himself to his fate without an effort; but the love of life revived, as he saw it placed in danger. He was an expert swimmer, and exerting himself, he soon approached the masts, which were still floating, though entangled with the wreck. It was in vain, however, to reach them, owing to the rolling of the surf. Several times he nearly laid his hand upon them, when he was beaten back by the dashing waves. His strength gradually gave way, and he was floating farther and farther from the wreck, when he chanced to see a spar near him; with a desperate effort, he swam to this, and was thus able to sustain himself upon the water.

“The night now grew dark apace, and R., being driven out to sea, was parted from the wreck, and could distinguish nothing but the flashing waves around him. His limbs began to grow cold, and he feared that his strength would be insufficient to enable him to keep upon the spar. His anxiety increased; an awe of death which he had never felt before sprung up in his bosom, and an intense desire of life, that thing which he had so recently spurned as worthless, burned in his bosom. So little do we know ourselves until adversity has taught us reflection, that R., a few hours before fancying that he was willing and prepared to die, now yearned for safety, for deliverance, for life, with an agony he could not control. His feelings, however, did not overpower him. Using every effort of strength and skill, and rubbing his chilled limbs from time to time, he was able to sustain himself till morning. He could then perceive that the vessel had become a complete wreck, and that the fragments were floating on the waves; he could not discern a single human being, and was left to infer that all beside himself had perished.

“In this situation, benumbed with the cold, faint and exhausted with exertion, he was on the point of yielding himself a prey to the waves, when a pilot-boat came into view. It gradually approached the place where he was, and at last seemed so near him as almost to be within the reach of his voice. At this critical moment she made preparations to tack, and thus change her direction. R. noticed these movements with indescribable anxiety: if she were to advance a few rods more, he should be discovered and saved; if she were to change her route ever so little, she would pass by, and he, unobserved and helpless, would perish. The experience of years seemed now crowded into one moment of agony. Weary, cold, exhausted, the poor sufferer wished not now to die, but to live. ‘Help, help!’ cried he with all his strength. ‘O God, send me deliverance from these waves!’ This earnest and agonizing petition was the first prayer he had uttered for years, and it was in behalf of that existence which, in the days of luxury and splendor, he had thought a burden and a curse.

“Watching the pilot-boat with the keenest interest, poor R. now sat upon the spar, almost incapable of moving, on account of his sufferings and his weakness. He saw at last the helm put down; he saw the vessel obey the impulse; he saw her swing round, the sail flapping in the wind, and then filling again; he then saw her shoot off in another direction, thus leaving him destitute of hope. His heart sank within him, a sickness came over his bosom, his senses departed, and he fell forward into the waves. It was at this moment that he was discovered by the pilot. The vessel immediately steered towards him, and he was taken on board. In a few hours, he was at New York, and put under the care of persons who rendered him every assistance which he needed for his immediate comfort.”

Do as you would be done unto.—The horse of a pious man living in Massachusetts, happening to stray into the road, a neighbor of the man who owned the horse put him into the pound. Meeting the owner soon after, he told him what he had done; “and if I catch him in the road again,” said he, “I’ll do it again.” “Neighbor,” replied the other, “not long since I looked out of my window in the night and saw your cattle in my meadow, and I drove them out and shut them in your yard, and I’ll do it again.” Struck with the reply, the man liberated the horse from the pound, and paid the charges himself. “A soft answer turneth away wrath.”

Money.—He who expends money properly, is its master; he who lays it up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it, a slave; and he who adores it, an idolater.

Country of the Samoides.—Aurora Borealis.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER III.

For several days the adventurers continued their journey, without encountering anything worthy of being recorded. It is true that an hour seldom passed in which thoughts, feelings, or incidents, did not occur to Alexis, of some interest; and if we could transfer them here with the same vividness that they touched his mind and heart, it would be well to put them down. But, after all, the pen can give but a poor idea of what is going on in the brain and bosom of a lively and sanguine youth, separated from home and going forth to hunt sables in the wilds of Siberia.

In about three weeks after their departure, the travellers reached Yeniseisk, a considerable place, situated on the Yenisei. The town is built chiefly of wood, the houses being low. Leaving this place, they proceeded in a northeasterly direction, usually travelling about twenty-five miles a day.

It was now the month of September, and already the weather began to grow severe, and the snow to fall. The country also became more and more desolate, and the inhabitants were more scattered. They met with no villages, and frequently travelled a whole day without seeing a single human habitation. There were extensive marshy plains, upon which a few groups of stunted willows were to be seen; but this was almost the only vegetation that the soil produced.

The journey was not only uninteresting and depressing, but it was, in some
respects, laborious and severe. Old Linsk, however, kept up the spirits of the party by his incessant prattle; and, as he had seen a good deal of life and possessed a retentive memory, he not only enlivened his companions, but he communicated a large amount of useful information. It is true that all his opinions were not just or wise, but among some chaff there was a good deal of wheat.

After crossing the river Yenisei, and leaving the town of Yeniseisk, he had a good deal to say about these things, particularly the former. “I once went down that river,” said he, “entered the Arctic Ocean, passed into the sea of Obi, and up the river Obi to Tobolsk. The whole distance was more than twenty-five hundred miles, and we were gone four months.

“The purpose of our trip was to get elephants’ teeth, which are found on the banks of the rivers, and along the shores of the Arctic sea. There are no elephants living in these regions now, nor are there any in all Siberia; the country is so cold that these creatures cannot dwell there. It appears that Siberia must have had a warmer climate once than it has now, for not only do we find elephants’ bones, but those of the buffalo, and other animals, which can only subsist in warm countries. It was interesting to see the bones of buffaloes and elephants along the shore of the ocean; but teeth were scarce; for, cold and desolate as the country is, many people had been there before us, and gathered up most of them. We made out pretty well, however; for we entered the forests as winter approached, and shot some bears, and sables, and ermines; and what we lacked in elephants’ teeth we made up in furs. Beside what we gained in the way of trade, I got a good deal of information and enjoyed some fun; my plan being to make the best of everything.

“Along the banks of the Yenisei, the inhabitants are Ostiacks, and are chiefly fishermen; and a sad set they are. I don’t know how it happens, but it seems to me that those who live on fish have the most thirsty throats of any persons in the world. All the people were addicted to drinking brandy, and never did I see so much drunkenness and riot. It is bad enough all over Siberia; the people generally believe in evil spirits, but brandy is the worst of them all. The man that invented brandy has done more mischief to the human race than it is possible to conceive; and those who contrive to sell it and diffuse it, are only aiding in brutifying the human species. But it is a thrifty trade, and many rich men are engaged in it. They flourish in this world; and so did the rich man we read of in Scripture; but he did not fare very well in another world. I can’t say how it was, but I have always thought that Dives was a brandy dealer, and that was the reason he was so tormented.”

“This is very strange,” said Alexis, “for you drink brandy yourself, Linsk.”

“That’s all true,” was the reply. “I can’t help it. I’ve got into the habit of it, and I can’t get out of it. It’s one of the worst parts of the story, that when brandy has got its clutches upon you, you can’t pull them off. It’s with brandy as with the evil spirit—when you’ve once made a bargain with him, you must go through with it. So it is with those Ostiacks along the Yenisei; they whip their wooden gods because they don’t send them good luck in hunting and fishing; but they should whip their own backs, for if they fail in anything, it is generally because they get drunk, and are incapable of using their skill and strength to advantage. They know that brandy is at the bottom of all the mischief, but still they drink, and lay all to the gods that they do not like to impute to themselves.

“To the north of the Ostiacks are the Samoides, who live along the shore of the Arctic Ocean the whole extent of Siberia. They are few in number, for the country is so cold and barren, that it is impossible they should greatly increase. They are very short, and I believe are the smallest people in the world. They eat a great deal of fish, and, what is very odd, they seem to like it best when it is a little tainted. They have many reindeer, and in the autumn hunt white foxes, with the skins of which they buy brandy.

“The country inhabited by the Samoides is the most cold and dreary that can be imagined. The snow lasts for nine months of the year; the storms are almost incessant for a great part of the time, and in winter the cold is so intense as to freeze brandy, though the people contrive to thaw it again. But the most wonderful thing is this: the sun sets in November, and does not rise again till the next May; so the night is six months long! The moon, however, shines a great part of the time, and it is never dark during that period. The northern lights, sometimes called aurora borealis, are very brilliant, and it is easy to read by them. The Samoides, however, have no books; they spend most of their time in winter in sitting in their huts and telling long stories. I will tell you one, which an old fisherman said he had heard repeated in one of their dwellings while he was staying with them.

“There was once upon a time an old Samoide fisherman that had the most beautiful daughter that ever was seen. She was very short and very fat, and her skin shone like blubber oil; her eyes were small and black; her teeth were large, and of a beautiful yellow hue. Her hair, also, was yellow, and being matted together, hung down in a thick mass upon her shoulders.

“This fair girl was of an olive color, and such were her charms that all the young men who saw her fell desperately in love with her, save one. This latter was a fisherman, and famous for his skill in every species of adventurous sport. He was very dexterous in spearing the seal and sea otter, in managing the seal-skin boat, and in driving the reindeer sledge over the snow.

“Now, although the beautiful lady, whose name was Lis, enslaved all others, this hero of the fishhook and spear set her charms at nought; and, as the fates are very whimsical, the beautiful girl, disdaining the addresses of all besides, became desperately enamored of him. She took every opportunity in her power to please and fascinate him, but all to no purpose. Loord, for that was the name of the fisherman, resisted her advances, and in fact treated her with marked neglect, if not disdain.

“This appeared very wonderful to everybody, and especially to Lis, who made up her mind that some evil-minded spirit had bewitched Loord, and thus enabled and disposed him to resist her charms. She therefore determined to go to an island at some distance in the ocean, where she had an uncle living, and, under pretence of visiting him, to consult a famous sorcerer, or magician, who dwelt there, and, if possible, to obtain his counsel in the matter.

“Now Lis was well skilled in the arts of managing a boat; so she determined to go alone. She got into a boat made of seal-skins, and set forth upon the sea, having bade her friends farewell, who were at the landing to take leave of her. It was expected that she would return the next day—but she came not; the second day, the third, and the fourth, passed away, but the beautiful Lis did not return. At length some anxiety existed among her friends as to her welfare, and even the interest of Loord was roused. He determined to set forth in search of her; and that very day, entering his seal-skin boat, he departed for the magician’s island.

“It is important to observe that, previous to starting, Loord, who generally avoided brandy, took a large draught, by the advice of an aged fisherman, not so much to exclude the cold as to keep out witchcraft.

“Things went pretty well with Loord in the first part of his voyage, but after a while, according to his account of the matter on his return, as he began to approach the magician’s island, he caught a glimpse of it, but it was bobbing up and down like a porpoise before a squall. He kept his eye upon it steadily for some time, when at last it sunk, and did not rise again. Loord used all his strength to reach the place, and finally came to it, and the water was whirling and boiling round; but not a bit of an island was to be seen. Loord sailed over and over the place, and waited a long time to see if he could not pick up somebody, and particularly the beautiful Lis, but he found no one.

“Loord at last returned; he had been gone all day, and it was late at night when he reached his home. He was in a bewildered state, but told his story as I have related it. It was intimated to him that perhaps the brandy got into his head, and that the island’s being sunk was all a mistake; but he laughed at the idea. In a few days, however, a boat came from the magician’s isle, and behold the beautiful Lis was in it, as well and as charming as ever. Her friends came to see her, and her lovers returned, and all congratulated her upon her good looks, and upon her escape from being carried to the bottom of the sea with the magician’s island. This made her stare, upon which they told her the adventure of Loord.

“It being now ascertained that the island of the magician was still standing in its place, Loord became an object of general ridicule; and as he was no longer a hero in the estimation of the people, Lis began to think she could live without him. Accordingly, when she met him she tossed up her head, and passed him by with disdain. This brought Loord to his senses, and he began to see that Lis was very beautiful, and pretty soon he found out that he could not live without her. So he wooed her, but at first she would not listen to him; after a great deal of teazing, however, she consented, and they were married; but ever after, if anything went wrong, Lis would jeer him about the magician’s island, that bobbed up and down like a porpoise before a storm, and at last went down to the bottom! This would always bring Loord to terms; and, in short, by means of this affair, Lis not only got her husband, but she used the story ever after to manage him; for it gave her a power over him like that of a strong bit in the mouth of a headstrong horse.

“Nor was this all. The people in those parts found out that Lis went to the island to consult the magician, and they imputed Loord’s conduct entirely to his interference in behalf of the beautiful girl. But the only real magician in the case was the brandy, for Lis did not find the magician at home; and, though she waited some days, she did not see him. However, when people are superstitious common things always grow mighty wonderful in their eyes. Superstition is like a pair of spectacles that I heard of once; they happened to have a musquito on one of the glasses when the owner put them on; so he thought he saw a flying bear skipping over the distant hills, when it was only the musquito upon his spectacles!”

Habit.

When we have performed any action once, it is easier to do the same or a similar act on a second occasion. Jugglers acquire great skill in using their hands and all parts of their bodies by this means. We can exercise our minds with less difficulty, the more frequently we attempt it. We call this the law of habit.

This law extends over our moral natures; so that morals consist very much in habits. We do right the more easily as we practise it, and wrong increases in our characters by every new violation of right. He who tells a small untruth to-day, will be likely to tell a larger one to-morrow; and that little girl who begins to obey her conscience when very young, may hope, through the power of habit, to obtain great goodness when she comes to be a woman.

If we wish to be good and happy, we must form correct moral habits; that is, we must do right always, so that it shall soon become easier to us than to do wrong. It would be very difficult for a lad, who had never used a profane word, to speak even one such word. Pure language would be as easy to him as to breathe. This is the state in which every person should keep himself; for if he does wrong but a single time, he knows not how soon he shall do it again and again, until he becomes utterly vicious.

Habit not only strengthens our active propensities, but also weakens the impression things make upon us. If we saw a man’s limb amputated by a surgeon, it would excite our feelings deeply. But those who perform those operations frequently, feel little sympathy with the sufferer. It is not only what we do, but what we see, and hear, and feel, therefore, that is to be regarded in the formation of our habits.

In regard to impressions, we should recollect, that, although we cannot prevent a thing from affecting us as it does, when actually before us, yet we can keep ourselves out of the sight and reach of objects that affect us unfavorably. In order to relieve others who are in pain, it is necessary we should feel a sympathy for their sufferings. But if we look on men, or even on animals, that are in pain, frequently, and from mere curiosity, we shall soon feel no sympathy for the distressed, nor desire to relieve them. It is therefore wrong to accustom ourselves to witness sufferings needlessly and without reflection.

Many bad objects may give us powerful impressions at first, but if we dwell upon them, and strive to resist their effects, we shall perhaps overcome them. So of good impressions; the young lady who is tempted to resort to public places of amusement, where health and morals are exposed—suppose it to be to spend the whole night in dancing and festivity—may think that pleasanter than to attend a useful lecture, or to engage in instructive conversation. But let her remember the force of habit. If she frequent public balls, her taste for valuable objects of pursuit will diminish; while the habit of preferring the lecture-room, or a profitable volume to read, or a useful conversation, when once formed, will make the employment more agreeable than scenes of dissipation.

Accustom yourself to contemplate the beauties of nature, and you will soon learn to associate all that is pure, elevating, and holy with the works of God. The glorious sun, once merely a convenient object, will now seem to you a teacher of the sublimest emotions. River, forest, flower, and field will teem in your mind with the choicest influences and impressions.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER XI.

Descent into the crater of Mount Ætna.—Novel site for a house.—The great chesnut tree.—Return down the mountain.—Journey to Messina.—Beauty of the scenery.—Sicilian spinners.—Extraordinary strength of the ass.—Mountain torrents.—Sights on the road.

My readers left me in the last chapter at the top of Etna, standing on the edge of the crater and looking down into that smoking gulf with feelings of wonder and awe. The situation was not without its dangers; but the sublimity and grandeur of the scene tempted me to additional hazards. I determined to go down into the crater, though I had heard of people making the same attempt, and paying for their rashness with their lives. It is natural enough that there should be such stories, but I never knew one well authenticated. In fact, the inside of the crater offers as firm footing as the outside, and the only risk is in going too far down. I ventured in, taking good care to feel the way before me with my stick, and holding on to the projecting crags in my descent. I found the surface to consist of broken rocks of lava, mingled with hard sulphurous masses, cinders, and ashes. By the time I had descended a stone’s throw, I encountered a strong smell of sulphur, which soon became overpowering, and forced me to direct my course farther to windward. I proceeded along laterally, some distance, and then struck downward again; but the sulphurous smoke steamed up so hot from all the crevices and openings around me, that I was obliged to stop for fear of suffocation.

I then seated myself for a few moments on a brimstone rock, and gazed at the strange scene around. The edge of the crater rose up like an immense wall over my head, shutting out every prospect except that of the sky, and the tremendous gulf beneath my feet was full of smoking hills and yawning chasms. There was no fear of being interrupted in this strange solitude, and notwithstanding the wild and threatening looks of this fiery region, I felt as safe as if I had been at the foot of the mountain. While sitting here, I was struck with a notion which I believe never entered a man’s head before; namely, that of building a house inside the crater! It was a Yankee notion indeed, but there is a house on the edge of Niagara falls, and I am confident that if Ætna were in the state of Massachusetts, some Yankee would have a house inside the crater, and take boarders and lodgers. There is as good a foundation within as without, and the situation would be warm and well sheltered from the violent cold winds which are almost always blowing at the top of the mountain!

After I had satisfied my curiosity by this close prospect of the mouth of the great volcano, I climbed back over the edge, and descended the cone much faster than I went up, although the descent was far more painful and hazardous than the ascent; much caution was necessary to avoid sliding from the top to the bottom. I found my companion at the foot of the cone, snuggling under the shelter of a rock, thrashing his arms, blowing his fingers, and complaining of being half frozen. I only laughed at him for not accompanying me to the top, where I told him he might have warmed himself very comfortably. As for myself, I did not feel chilled in the least, and I set off down the mountain in excellent spirits, having accomplished the main object of my journey.

There was, however, another great curiosity on the other side of the mountain, which I would not lose the sight of. This was the famous chesnut tree, called the Chesnut of the Hundred Horses, because it is so large that a hundred horses may stand inside the trunk. We accordingly struck off to the eastward along the edge of the forest. The cork and chesnut trees were very numerous in this quarter, and many of the latter were of an enormous size. When we approached the great chesnut, and the guide pointed it out to me, I took it for a group of half a dozen trees, for so it appeared. In fact, when we reached it, I could hardly persuade myself that it was a single tree. The interior of the trunk is entirely decayed; leaving nothing but five or six detached portions, which look like separate trees, but on digging to the roots, they are found united; and there is no doubt the whole formerly composed a solid trunk. There is no bark on the inside, and the tree has been in this decayed state for a century or more. Its age no one can tell. I looked upon its enormous size with astonishment. It is about 200 feet in circumference; so that the interior might contain a large house, and leave much vacant space besides. It was not the season for fruit, but I remarked to the guide that if the nuts bore any proportion to the tree, they must be bigger than cocoanuts. I did not learn, however, that the fruit is larger than that of other chesnut trees in this quarter. The European chesnuts, I must observe, are three times as large as the American, but they are not so sweet, and are hardly ever eaten raw.

There are several other chesnut trees of enormous size upon the mountain. The surprising fertility of the soil which produces this gigantic vegetation is owing to the ashes thrown out by the mountain. In every part where the surface has not been covered by the lava and sand, the growth of the trees and vegetables is most luxuriant. The ashes have been found to contain abundance of nitre, which, when combined with the soil in a proper quantity, is known to be of wonderful efficacy in quickening the growth of plants.

I could have spent a month upon the mountain with great satisfaction, exploring its wonders and curiosities, but having so long a journey before me, I found myself obliged to leave it without visiting a great many interesting spots. I should, in particular, have been pleased to pass some time in the queer little village high up the mountain. The inhabitants are certainly a strange sort of people, and must have some very odd notions of the rest of the world, which it would be amusing to know. I shall certainly visit Ætna again, when a chance offers.

I returned to Catania, where I staid two or three days, and then set out for Messina. Having been informed that there was a good road the whole distance, instead of a rambling mule-track like that from Syracuse, I ventured on this part of the journey alone, with a good stout mule, which I bought for the purpose. The road ran along the seashore at the foot of the mountain, and I was more and more struck with the beauty and grandeur of the scenery. The slopes of the mountain were covered with villages, gardens, and groves of orange, olive, cherry, almond and fig trees; the great white cap of Ætna everywhere towering over all. The houses along the road were painted with huge staring figures in bright colors, like landscape paper-hangings. The fields, as usual, were divided by walls of black lava, and long-horned oxen were ploughing in them. Droves of donkeys were going to the city with loads of dry vinestalks for the bakers’ ovens, and others bore casks of wine, long and shaped like eel-pots, slung over their backs. I met also wagons loaded with lemons, as our countrymen cart their potatoes to market. In the walls along the road, at almost every step, were niches containing pictures of the virgin, to which the people paid their adorations. As I proceeded further, I came to huge rocky cliffs overhanging the road, and all overgrown with the prickly pear. Herds of goats were clambering up and down the steep precipices, and browsing among the rocks. Sometimes the road passed along the side of a mountainous crag overhanging the sea, with a parapet on one side, over which I looked down a fearful depth, and saw the ocean dashing under my feet. In other places the road was cut through a solid rock.

Everywhere the prospect offered the most enchanting scenery. In some places the slope of the mountain was cut into terraces, which looked like tiers of gardens piled one upon another. The vineyards did not look so blooming as most of the other cultivated grounds, for the vines were not yet in leaf; the peasants were hoeing round them and setting the props. The road passed through a great many villages, and in all, the streets were full of women. Many of them carried jugs of water on their heads, and others sat before the doors spinning tow. They use only a spindle and distaff; they hold the distaff in the left hand, give the spindle a twirl with the right, and let it swing in the air, the spinner drawing out the tow as it flies round. The thread is then wound up on the spindle, and another twirl given to it. In this manner they are accustomed to run about the streets and spin, which I think may fairly be called spinning street-yarn.

I had often heard that the ass was a strong-backed animal, but I never had stronger evidence of the fact than upon this journey. As I was jogging along the road towards noon, I espied a figure coming towards me with the strangest movements that ever I witnessed. It had the appearance of a man, but he moved in so awkward a manner, shambling and toddling onward by jerks and hitches, that I knew not what to make of the sight. When he came nearer, I discovered that it was an enormous long-legged fellow, astride of a little dwarfish donkey, not bigger than a two-year-old calf. The beast was so much smaller than the man, that I did not observe him till he was very near. The fellow’s legs were so long that he was obliged to hold them up behind him to keep his feet from dragging on the ground. The poor little donkey tottered and staggered under his enormous load, and seemed ready to stumble every moment. I stopped the man, and asked him if he was not afraid of breaking the back of his beast. He appeared quite astonished at the question, and replied that an ass’s back was a thing that never broke; at least, he had never heard of such an accident. I told him he was much better able to carry the ass than the ass was to carry him; on which he burst into a broad laugh, gave the donkey a bang with his cudgel, and trotted on.

Now and then the road crossed the bed of a mountain torrent, caused by the heavy rains which fall on the regions above. When the rains are violent, the waters pour down these beds with such impetuosity as to sweep everything before them, and stop all travelling upon the roads. Sometimes a river is thus formed half a mile in width, which continues full, as long as the rains last. In dry weather nothing is left but beds of coarse gravel and stones, with small streams of water trickling through them. It is impossible to build bridges over these torrents, as the waters often rise to an extraordinary height, and rush with such force that nothing could stand against them.

I met very few wheel carriages of any description. Regular stage-coaches, I believe, are unknown, and most of the travellers I passed were either on foot, or mounted on mules and asses. Carts and wagons, too, are uncommon; almost everything being transported on the backs of these animals. The few vehicles that I saw were of the most rude and clumsy make, and their harness nothing but a slovenly snarl of old ropes. I could not help wishing the inhabitants of this fine country were blessed with a little Yankee smartness and industry.

CHAPTER XII.

A wedding party.—Strange ignorance of the Sicilians.—The tavern at Giardini.—Ruins of Taormina.—Remarkable theatre.—Cities on mountain-tops.—Cliffs covered with goats.—Odd fashion of dressing infants.—Sicilian husbandry.—A squall in the straits.—Arrival at Messina.

As I approached a little village, I overtook a wedding party going home from church. They were all mounted on asses, and were accompanied by the priest, a fat little round-faced, pleasant-looking fellow, with a three-cornered hat. The bride was a blowzy, hoydenish country girl, all bedizened out in tawdry finery, simpering and giggling to every one, and apparently full of spirits. The bridegroom was a sheepish-looking peasant, who appeared to feel very awkward in his new situation. All the rest of the company were full of fun and jollity, and very readily entered into conversation with me. At first they took me for an Englishman, but when they learnt that I had come from the New World, they stared in utter astonishment: they had never seen an American before, and always imagined we were all Indians or blacks. They invited me to accompany them, and partake of their entertainment, which I agreed to very willingly. I went along with them to the house, where we found more company already assembled, and great numbers of ragged children trooping about to stare at the show. The house was a small, one-story building, and I was afraid they would find it a difficult matter to accommodate so many guests. But presently benches were brought and placed in front of the house, under the shade of the olive trees, and we sat down in the open air. The fare consisted of bread, olives, kid’s flesh, green fennel, fruit and red wine. The old priest was the most jolly and talkative of the whole company, and I may add that he ate and drank as much as any three of them. He sat by my side, and asked me a hundred questions about America: whether the people were Christians, whether they dressed in clothes like civilized people, or wore the skins of wild beasts, whether they did not eat one another, and many more things equally extravagant.

My readers may think it hardly possible that such ignorance can be found in a person pretending to superior knowledge; but instances of the same kind came under my observation so frequently during my travels, that at last they ceased to excite any surprise. It must be borne in mind that the country in which I was travelling is not, like the United States, full of roads, in which crowds of people are continually hurrying backwards and forwards; and full of newspapers and books, which are constantly circulating through the country, and carrying knowledge to the remotest village in the Union. There are but two or three roads, deserving of the name, in the whole island of Sicily, and hardly such a thing as a newspaper. Very few books are printed here, and general knowledge, even among the better sort of people, is very scanty.

Being in a hurry to proceed on my journey, I could not wait till the close of the entertainment, but mounted my mule just as the company had struck up a dance. I travelled till sunset, when I reached a little fishing town called Giardini, romantically situated under the brow of a high hill, with the sea at the foot. I found a snug little tavern in a street which ran along the shore, where I put up for the night. The host was a simple, good-natured old man, in a red cap, and his house was quite comfortable, though small for a tavern. From my chamber window I had a grand prospect of the sea, which came rolling in with a beautiful surf directly under my feet. High rocky hills, with a castle and heaps of ancient ruins, rose up over me close at hand; and far off across the water, the eye rested upon the dark blue mountains of Calabria.

Early the next morning I climbed up the hill over the town to visit the ruins of an ancient city called Taormina, which formerly stood there. I was struck with the beautiful situation of the theatre, which is still in tolerable preservation, although upwards of two thousand years old. This edifice looks directly towards Mount Ætna; so that the spectators always had the magnificent picture of the mountain as a background to the scenery of the stage. It is certainly the grandest situation in the world for such a building. Other ruins abound in the place, but I have not time to describe them. The hill on which this city stood is so steep of ascent that no wheel carriage can go up, though asses and mules climb up and down tolerably well. I remarked that almost all ancient cities in this country were built on the tops of hills and mountains, difficult of access, showing that these communities
sprung up in barbarous times, when every town feared the hostilities of its neighbors, and the sea-coasts were perpetually liable to be plundered by pirates. As civilization advanced, the population descended into the plains.

After breakfast, I continued my journey toward Messina. The country still presented the same beautiful and picturesque scenery. Groves, gardens, orchards and fresh green pastures greeted the eye in every direction. Numerous towns and villages were seen perched on the tops of almost inaccessible mountains; town above town and castle above castle, mounting into the air. Sometimes the road passed under high rocky crags, where I saw herds of goats hanging over my head and clambering among the dizzy precipices. Often the tinkling of a bell aloft caused me to gaze upwards, when I beheld numbers of these adventurous animals sticking against the rocks like flies on the side of a house, and seeming ready to fall on my head every moment. The fields were full of laborers at work, ploughing and hoeing. They all wore white cotton caps, and a group of them at a distance looked like a flock of geese. These white caps afford a better defence against the sun than a covering of any other color. The sun here is very powerful, and a sun-stroke is dreaded more than any other accident from the weather.

In one of the fields I saw a countryman ploughing, while his little infant child lay under a tree; the mother, I suppose, had run off to gossip. Nothing can look more droll than one of these little things in swaddling-clothes. They wind long bandages of cloth tightly round the child from head to foot, so that it looks very like an Egyptian mummy, without being able to kick, wince, or sprawl, but may be rolled about like a stick of wood. This little fellow was stuck up against a tree, as stiff as a turkey skewered and spitted for roasting, his eyes rolling upward to the sky, and winking like a toad in the sunshine. I could not help bursting into a roar of laughter at the sight. The man stopped his oxen and looked round, intending, as I thought, to give me some rude greeting; but seeing me so convulsed with merriment, he joined in, and laughed as heartily as I did. I asked him if the children did not suffer from this tight swathing. He said no, but, on the contrary, they were very fond of it. I told him I doubted this very strongly; but he assured me the children never complained of it, and that was proof enough. I afterwards found this practice was common throughout all Italy.

I did not see a cow during the whole journey; horses too were of rare occurrence. The country people hardly ever own these animals; but, instead of them, use goats and asses, which are much cheaper. Pasturage for cows and horses is expensive; but the goats can clamber among the rocks and nibble the herbage that grows beyond the reach of man. The asses feed upon thistles, and any sort of coarse vegetation. The multitude of these animals makes the landscape look exceedingly picturesque to the eyes of an American. Nothing can be more diverting than the frolics and caperings of the little kids, as they gallop round their mothers while feeding. The young donkeys look very comically; they are ragged, scraggy and wild, and I have been many times startled by their uncouth appearance when I have met with them browsing among the lonely mouldering ruins. If it were not for their long ears, they might be taken for young lions.

I continued to pass rich cultivated fields and immense groves of olives. About the middle of the afternoon I came in sight of a wide extent of the coast of Calabria on the opposite side of the straits. The land was black, craggy and mountainous, with steep and rugged chasms. Nearly opposite, I could discern the white walls of Reggio. The sky, which had hitherto been clear and serene, now became obscured, and dark clouds gathered in the north-east. Presently I observed great heavy, spongy masses of cloud rolling down the Calabrian mountains toward the sea, looking very ragged and wild. I judged that a squall was about to burst upon us, for this narrow strait, hemmed in by mountains on each side, is particularly subject to sudden and violent gusts. The sky continued to grow blacker, and presently the wind came down the strait with a most furious blast, lashing the sea up into a perfect foam. There were twelve or fifteen vessels in sight, standing up the strait, when the squall came on. Among them were a Neapolitan sloop of war and an English merchant brig. The rest were small vessels with latine sails. All except the Englishman took in sail at the first appearance of the squall; they were familiar with these parts, and knew what was coming. The Englishman, thinking there could be no danger, kept all his canvass spread, when, in an instant, the blast struck him with such force that both masts snapped off like pipe-stems, and the vessel lay a mere hulk on the water. A heavy shower of rain came pouring down the next moment, which drove me into a house for shelter, and when the sky cleared up, there were no vessels to be seen. I continued my journey, and just after sunset arrived at Messina.

(To be continued.)

There is sense in truth, and truth in virtue.

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities.

The Oak and the Reed.

A FABLE.

An oak stood on the bank of a river, and growing at its foot was a reed. The oak was aged, and its limbs were torn away by the blasts of years; but still it lifted its head in pride, and looked down with contempt upon the reed.

At last there came a fearful tempest. The oak defied it, but the reed trembled in every fibre. “See,” said the oak, “the advantage of strength and power; see how I resist and triumph!” While it spoke thus, a terrible rush of the gale beset it, its roots gave way, and it fell to the earth with a tremendous crash! But while the oak was thus destroyed in its pride, the humble reed bowed to the blast, and, when this was past, it arose and flourished as before.

Thus it is that the weak and the humble are often safe, when the strong and proud are dashed to the earth. Humility is a great virtue, for it teaches us to submit to the ways of Providence, and not to place a proud dependence on our own strength, which, after all, is but weakness.

Sincerity.

“Emma,” said Mr. Robinson to his daughter, “I could not help feeling hurt to-day at the very cool way in which you greeted your cousin. I thought my child was warm and affectionate, and had, besides, an especial love for Eliza.”

“So I have, papa,” replied Emma, blushing, “and I should have expressed pleasure, only I had just said I hoped no one would come to prevent my writing some letters this morning.”

“But, my love, that is a poor affection which could not stand such a trifling self-denial.”

“Indeed, papa, you do not understand me: I did not at all mind relinquishing my intention, and I thoroughly enjoyed my cousin’s company.”

“Then why did you not receive her joyfully?”

“Simply because I was afraid of being insincere. To speak so differently in the space of a few minutes, I thought would be like the man who blew hot and cold from the same mouth.”

“Oh, now I see and respect your motive; but still, Emma, it was a mistaken one. Were you really pleased to see Eliza?”

“Oh yes, papa.”

“And could you have had your choice, which would you have liked—to keep the morning to yourself, or to spend it with her?”

“To spend it with Eliza; because I can write to-morrow, and she could not come again this week.”

“Well, then, without the slightest insincerity, you might have said, ‘I am glad to see you.’ And even in cases less clear and decided, a well regulated mind, schooled in habits of self-denial and attention to the feelings of others, will find sincere pleasure in gratifying those feelings, even at the sacrifice of its own wishes. Instead, therefore, of lowering our expressions to suit a selfish heart, let us pray and strive after that Christian sweetness, which will enable us to use pleasant words and looks of kindness, without being chargeable with hypocrisy. Indeed, the law of kindness, thus dwelling upon our lips, may prove a means of imbuing our hearts with a similar spirit. The inward feeling and the outward manner will act mutually, strengthening each other. In future, therefore, Emma, do not hesitate to manifest that amiability, which I feel assured it is your desire to possess. While, on the one hand, it is a blessing to have such a strong sense of uprightness as makes the conscience tender; on the other hand, we shall find it important to have our ideas of duty well defined, lest conscience, being needlessly shackled, should become a timid or even an erring guide.”

“I view the matter now, papa, in its true light, and will try both to feel and appear agreeable. But, really, when staying with Mrs. Merlin, I did see such turns, and twists, and contradictions, often occurring in the course of five minutes, that, in order to avoid such despicable deceit, I have almost run into the opposite extreme. Of course, I have mentioned the subject to no one; for it would ill become me to remark on the conduct of an elder and superior, who has always treated me kindly: though, for ought I know, my visit might have been very unpleasant. But may I, papa, tell you the curious history of the refusal of an invitation, the day after I arrived, and ask you what you think of it?”

“Certainly. I have just said it is important to have well defined views of right and wrong, and shall, therefore, be most happy to assist in forming yours.”

“Well, then, papa, we were walking in the garden after breakfast, when a note was brought to Mrs. Merlin; she glanced her eye over it, and then, turning to me with a smile, said, ‘How perplexing! I wished to enjoy you entirely to-day; I have several things to show you; but Mrs. Morley invites us to dinner, and I have already declined her favors three times. What shall we do? You have a cold.’

“I replied, ‘I should greatly prefer a quiet afternoon with you, but I have no cold that deserves to be named.’

“Mrs. Merlin stood for a few moments gazing up into the clouds, with the note in her hand; then all at once, in a very animated tone, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, we can manage it; only look how heavy the clouds are. I shall press your slight cold into my service, and say, if it be fine, we will give ourselves the pleasure of going; but should it rain, our friend must kindly excuse us. Rain it will; so we shall please ourselves, and not displease any one. The visit might have proved tolerably agreeable, but we shall spend our evening much more pleasantly at home.’

“The answer was dispatched, and afterwards, as we came in from a drive, Mrs. Merlin said to the servant, ‘James, watch the weather, and let me know the moment it begins to rain.’ The rain came just in time to serve our purpose. So when Dr. Merlin returned from his medical round, we sat comfortably down to dinner; in the midst of which, my first surprise began. ‘We were invited to Mrs. Morley’s to day, dear,’ said Mrs. Merlin; ‘but I knew you would be tired, and not fit to go, and I should not have liked to leave you alone, so I declined it.’

“The doctor thanked her with a grateful smile, which I could not help thinking was very little merited. Trifling, however, was this variation, compared with the hypocrisy of the following morning, when Mrs. Morley herself happened to call. I looked so provokingly well, that Mrs. Merlin was forced to say ‘she really hoped my cold had almost departed; but, being an only child, I was such a precious charge, that she sometimes felt almost a nervous responsibility. I told my friend,’ continued she, ‘what an agreeable visit it would be, and charged James to watch the weather to the very last minute.’ Now, papa, both these assertions were, in a sense, verbally true, but do you not think, in reality, they were falsehoods?”

“Most assuredly. I would not knowingly have placed you under such influence upon any consideration. I cannot feel sufficiently thankful, my love, that you were not contaminated. The reaction produced on your mind is harmless, compared with what assimilation would have been. We will take care how we subject Mrs. Merlin again to such a nervous responsibility.”

“Yet, papa,” observed Emma, half frightened at the decision with which her parent spoke, “Mrs. Merlin is uniformly kind to me; and she is often an improving, and always a most entertaining companion. The society, too, which I meet there, is calculated to impart a little polish, of which I have considerable need.”

“No, Emma, I would not give a farthing for such varnish. May your character shine throughout with Christian brightness, springing from the cultivation, not the destruction of principle. I thought more favorably of Mrs. Merlin; for with characteristic dexterity, when conversing with me, she has suited herself to my taste. Even now, however, I would not speak with severity; she has been brought up under much disadvantage, and possibly persuades herself that these subterfuges are harmless, polite, and ingenious. I trust one day she will judge more correctly; but in the mean time I should grieve to subject you to such familiarity with deceit as might lessen your abhorrence of it. I can never consent to any future intimacy with Mrs. Merlin, till I have reason to regard her as a recipient of that grace, which teaches truth in the very heart. You remember the hymn, Emma,—

‘Let those who bear the Christian name
Their holy vows fulfil;
The saints, the followers of the Lamb,
Are men of honor still.

Still with their lips their hearts agree,
Nor flattering words devise;
They know the God of truth can see
Through every false disguise.

They hate the varied hosts of lies,
In all their crooked lines;
Firm to the truth until they rise
Where truth resplendent shines.’

“And now, my child,” continued Mr. Robinson, “let us turn our inquiries upon our own hearts.

‘Does no dark sign, no ground of fear,

In practice or in thought appear?’

“How strange it is that we, who have such high notions of integrity in our intercourse with our fellow-creatures, should so often fail in our transactions with Him before whom all things are naked and open, and who will accept only the worship of the heart. O, my child, when our prayers, our praises, our duties, are laid in the balance, what must be said of them all?”

“They are found wanting,” replied Emma, with deep and solemn feeling.

“Most wanting,” said her father emphatically; “corrupt fruits from a wild and poisonous tree. Let us then take those hearts which God’s word and our own experience declare to be deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked—let us take them to the fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, even the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin. Without his precious atonement and perfect obedience to the divine law, how ruinous must have been our guilt; how utterly naked and destitute our souls! But can we hope that they are pardoned and accepted? Let us seek, also, their daily renewal; continuing instant in prayer, and watching thereunto with all perseverance, let us unsparingly detect all their crooked ways, and pray that the spirit of holiness and truth would work in us to will and to do of his good pleasure. O, how can we sufficiently magnify that complete and great salvation, which redeeming mercy offers to our fallen race? Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for He hath visited and redeemed his people! And blessed be his glorious majesty forever; let the earth be filled with his glory, and let the whole world say, Amen!”

“I do say Amen, papa,” rejoined Emma, fervently; “and I do hope I am truly thankful for those instructions which have shown me the value of spiritual blessings, and taught me also that in simplicity and godly sincerity I ought to have my conversation in the world.”

S. S. S.

“That’s a very bad cough you’ve got, friend Smith.”

“Yes, neighbor Jones, but it’s the best I’ve got!”

The man who is guilty of the theft is frequently the first to cry, “Stop thief!”

The Hyena.

I am a very good-natured person; apt to see things in a favorable light; fond of picking out pleasant objects to contemplate, and am usually able to find agreeable qualities in every body and every thing. But I must confess, that, with all my disposition to be pleased, I can see very little that is pleasant in the countenance of the hyena. What a horrid fierce look he has! His countenance seems to bespeak perpetual hunger and thirst for blood; he looks as if his supper would taste all the better if it were attended by the agonized struggles and cries of the victim upon which he feasts! He really looks as if pain and distress would be but as pepper and spice to his meal.

But the fact is, no animals are cruel; that is, fond of inflicting pain from mere malice. Even the tiger slays but to eat, and the hyena, ill-favored as he is, has his part assigned to him by nature, and this is a useful one to man and beast. He is a native of the warm parts of Africa, and the southern part of Asia. He seldom kills an animal except when pressed by want, preferring to feed upon the carcasses of those he may find slain. It is a horrid part of the story of this creature, that he will sometimes go into a grave-yard and dig up the remains of people buried there; and he will, also, follow the march of an army to feast upon the slain after a battle.

Living in hot countries, and feeding upon the decayed flesh of animals, the hyena is useful by removing putrid masses of flesh that would otherwise infect the air with pestilence. He is thus a scavenger, and shares with the vulture the task of delivering the countries they inhabit from fruitful causes of fatal disease. Though we may not admire the face of the hyena, still we perceive that the world could not well do without him.

There is a common notion that the hyena is so wild in his nature as to be untamable; but this is a mistake. The creature is frequently tamed in India, and then lives quietly about the house like a dog. He is attached to those who are kind, but is spiteful and revengeful to those who abuse him.

This change in the character made by training, is a strong proof of the force of education; for not only is the tamed hyena made gentle in reality, but his countenance is actually rendered mild and inoffensive. This shows that the character is written in the face, and bids young people beware how they let their passions mark themselves upon their countenances.

Jewish Women.

We do not read that a Jewess was to be seen among the crowds of priests and the rabble who insulted the Son of man, scourged him, crowned him with thorns, and subjected him to ignominy and the agony of the cross. The women of Judea believed in the Savior; they loved, they followed him; they assisted him with their substance, and soothed him under afflictions. A woman of Bethany poured on his head the precious ointment which she kept in a vase of alabaster; the sinner anointed his feet with a perfumed oil, and wiped them with her hair. Christ, on his part, extended his grace and mercy to the Jewesses; he raised from the dead the son of the widow of Nain, and Martha’s brother Lazarus; he cured Simon’s mother-in-law, and the woman who touched the hem of his garment. To the Samaritan woman he was a spring of living water. The daughters of Jerusalem wept over him; the holy women accompanied him to Calvary—brought balm and spices, and, weeping,
sought him at the sepulchre. His first appearance, after his resurrection, was to Mary. He said unto her, “Mary!” At the sound of that voice, Mary Magdalene’s eyes were opened, and she answered, “Master!” The reflection of some very beautiful ray must have rested on the brow of the Jewesses.

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER VI.

Serious Adventures.

It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie would have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged from the shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the moon; but she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she proceeded directly towards the person, and was soon clasped in his arms. The meeting was evidently one of affection; yet apparently there was more of grief than joy—for sobs and sighs seemed to choke the utterance of both. When at last they spoke, it was in broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued voice, as if they were apprehensive of discovery.

After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her companion a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light and hurried step proceeded toward the tent which had now become her home. She was still at some distance, however, and as she was passing through a thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted by a man, who placed himself in her path, and calling her by name, took hold of her arm, as if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a glance that it was Rogere, and her eye did not fail to remark, at a little distance, a dark group of men, whom she readily conjectured to be his companions.

Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her self-possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof, she said—“Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere? It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because she is alone and unprotected!”

“A gentleman!” said Rogere, sneeringly. “I am no gentleman, thanks to the gods—no, no, fair Emilie—I am something better—I am a freeman and a lover!”

“Indeed!” said Emilie. “Is he a freeman who takes advantage of the strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one who is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults the pretended object of his regard?”

“Nay, fair lady,” said Rogere; “this sounds mighty pretty, and in France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under the tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now restored to the rights and privileges of nature. There is no government here, save that which is established by the God of nature.”

“I will not stay to hear you,” said the young lady, indignantly. “Every word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you are guilty of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a Frenchman who can forget to be woman’s protector, and become woman’s tyrant!”

“Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate France and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough, and I shall assert man’s privileges. You must listen; you shall hear me. Look around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of nature all is regulated by force. There is a power of gravitation, which controls matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter, then, the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey the law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.

“Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is regulated by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest has the first choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is so throughout nature—might is right. It is on this universal principle that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen—you shall obey! Why is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant of man?”

“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer.”

“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”

“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!”

As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment. As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. “Hold!” said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!”

Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her, but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her bed.

The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. “It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to hear you say these things—would that I were more worthy of your esteem.”

“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a feeling of humility—I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was not so once, my dear friend.”

“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return and reward. But I am changed.”

“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are changed; for you are distant and reserved, and once you were all confidence and truth.”

“Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar with the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was. These hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once loved—nay, I love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.”

Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated. “Speak to me, my friend,” said he; “dry up those tears, and let your sense and reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by you; if you banish me, I will depart forever.”

“No, no indeed,” said the weeping girl. “You must stay—you must stay and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector also, for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of protection from violence and wrong.”

Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that seemed to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a cloud upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, “Why this doubt? Why this concealment? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you?”

“I will be frank,” said he. “Since we have been upon this island, I may have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart has ever been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I have been near you;—this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-shore, and witnessed your meeting with some one there. Tell me, Emilie, who was that person?”

Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly, “That is a secret, and must remain so for the present. It shall be explained in due time; but I pray you, do not seek to penetrate the mystery now.”

“Well, Emilie, it is not for one like me to dictate terms. My confidence in you is so complete, that I believe you are right, however strange it may seem, that, on this lone island, you are in the habit of meeting a man, and a stranger, upon the solitary sea-shore, and with marks of affection that seem only due to a brother!” Emilie started at these words, but she made no reply. Brusque went on. “I submit to your law of silence; but, my dear Emilie, as you have appointed me your protector, and given me a right to consider myself as such, let me tell you that events are approaching which will demand all our courage, as well as our wisdom; and I cannot but feel the most anxious fears as to the result.”

“You allude to the state of the island.”

“I do. The anarchy is now at its height. Rogere has rallied round him the rough and the ignorant, and taught them that license is liberty. While he cajoles them with dreams of freedom, he is seeking his own object, which is to become sole master and despot of this island; and I fear these deluded men will be his dupes and instruments. It is always the case that the ignorant and degraded portion of the community are disposed to run after those who flatter, only to cheat them.

“The condition of the island is in every respect becoming alarming. The fruits, that were lately so abundant, are fast diminishing, because they belong to no one in particular; and no one has any power or interest to preserve them. We have no fields tilled, for the lands are common to all. If a man were to cultivate a field, he has no right to it, and if he had, there is no government which can secure to him the product of his toil. Everything is therefore going to waste and ruin. We shall soon be in danger of starving if this state of things continues. Nor is this the worst. Rogere will soon bring matters to a crisis, and try the law of force.”

“And what is your plan?”

“I intend to procure, if possible, a meeting of all the men of the island to-morrow, and after showing them the actual state of things, and the absolute necessity of established laws to save us from famine and from cutting each other’s throats, I shall appeal to them once more in behalf of settled government. I have hopes as to the result—but still, my fears outweigh them. It is impossible to yield to the demands of Rogere. Nothing but giving up all to him and his brutal followers, will satisfy him. If we cannot obtain the consent of a majority to the formation of some settled laws, we must come to the question of necessity and determine it by blows. If it comes, it will be a struggle of life and death.”

“I know it, dear Philip; I have long foreseen it.”

“I am glad that you take it so calmly. I should be flattered if your quiet were the result of confidence in me.”

“Well, well, but you are fishing for a compliment, and I will not tell you that I depend on you alone! I may have hopes from another source.”

“Will you tell me from whom?”

“Nay—I shall keep my secret; but be assured that in the hour of danger, should it come, Heaven will send us succor. Good night.”

“Good night, dear Emilie—good night.” And so the lovers parted.

Brusque sought his home, but with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain. The restoration of former relations between him and Emilie, was a source of the deepest satisfaction; but many circumstances combined to cloud his brow, and agitate his heart with anxiety.

An Incident from Ancient History.

About 470 years before Christ, Xerxes, king of Persia, was leading an immense army against the Greeks. It is said that it consisted of a million of men. When they were all gathered in a vast plain, the king mounted a throne on the brow of a hill to review them. It was a splendid spectacle! There were the young, and the strong, and the ambitious, and the enterprising; and some were richly attired, and gallantly mounted on fine horses, and armed with shields and swords of glittering steel. It was, indeed, a proud army. But suddenly the thought came across the mind of the king—“In the space of one hundred years; all these living and breathing men will be in their graves!” It was a solemn thought; and it is said that even Xerxes shed tears.

Effects of Prohibition.

Mankind have seldom a strong desire for any thing lawful, that is easily obtained. We are not driven to our duty by laws so much as by ambition. If it were enacted that persons of high rank only should dine upon three dishes, the lower grade would desire to have three; but if commoners were permitted to have as many dishes as they pleased, whilst the rich were limited to two, the inferior class would not exceed that number. If gaming were reckoned ungenteel, cards and dice would lose half their attraction. In the history of the Duke of D’Ossuna, there is a remarkable instance given of this perverse nature in man.

A rich Neapolitan merchant prided himself upon not having once set his foot out of the city during the space of forty-eight years. This coming to the ears of the duke, the merchant had notice sent him that he was to take no journey out of the kingdom, under the penalty of 10,000 crowns. The merchant smiled at receiving the order; but, afterwards, not being able to fathom the reason of the prohibition, he grew so uneasy that he paid the fine, and actually took a short trip out of the kingdom.—English paper.

Saturday Night.

“Oh! it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that. A Bible story, then. I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or that about Isaac, or the prodigal son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as interesting as a fairy story.”

“They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles.

It was the custom of Ellen’s mother to tell her children a short story every night after they were in bed. She was very glad to find that the true and instructive histories from the good book, interested her children as much as those stories that were contrived to delight them.

“My dear children,” she said, “I shall not tell you a story from the Bible to-night, but I am going to relate an anecdote—which, you know, means a short story—of some little children of our acquaintance.

“There are two children who have a great and kind Friend, who is always taking care of them, whether they are awake or asleep.”

“I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was always impatient to get at the story.

“No, my love; this Friend gave them their father and mother.”

“Oh, you mean God,” whispered Ellen.

Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded,—

“This bountiful Friend has given to them the most beautiful and wonderful gems in the world.”

“Gems! what are gems, mother?” asked Charles.

“Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small, but so curiously formed that as soon as the casket which contains them is opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful picture of all the objects toward which they are turned. If it be a landscape, like that which you see every morning from your chamber window, there appear on the gems those beautiful mountains that rise one above another; the mist that curls up their sides; the bright lake that glistens in the depth of the valley, and which you call the mountain mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees gracefully bending with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite to us, with its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose-bushes clustering about the windows.”

“What, mother!” exclaimed Charles; “all these things painted on a little gem?”

“Yes, Charles, all; the high mountains, and the rose-bushes, every leaf and bud of them. And then, if the gems are turned towards the inside of the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is painted on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends; not such pictures as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless, but smiling, speaking, and moving.”

“Oh, mother, mother,” exclaimed Ellen, “this is a fairy story, after all.”

“Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles, who did not like that the story should turn out a fairy story.

“There are, my dear Charles; and the same Friend who gave the children these gems has given to them many other gifts as wonderful. He has given to them an instrument by which they can hear the music of the birds, the voices of their friends, and all other sounds; and another by which they can enjoy the delicious perfume of the flowers; the fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the fruit trees were in blossom, and the locust trees in flower, and the clover in bloom.”

“Oh, what a generous friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give such valuable presents, and so many of them. Are there any more, mother?”

“Yes, Charles, more than I can describe to you if I were to talk till to-morrow morning. There is a very curious instrument by which they can find out the taste of everything that is to be eaten; and another that, by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing is smooth or rough, hard or soft.”

“Why, I can tell that by my fingers,” exclaimed Charles.

“Yes, my dear,” said his mother; “and cannot you taste by putting food into your mouth? and is there not an instrument set in your head by which you can hear?”

“My ear, mother?” asked Charles.

“Yes, my dear,” said his mother.

“And do you mean the eyes by those wonderful gems?” asked Ellen.

“Yes.”

“But I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.”

“Yes, Ellen; every object you behold is painted upon a part of the eye called the retina; but that you cannot understand now, and you must let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they arose in the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such good care of them when they slept that they felt no pain; that their limbs were all active, and they could every moment receive pleasure from the precious gems and instruments I have mentioned. They both looked out of the window, and exclaimed, ‘What a beautiful morning!’ The little girl turned her gems toward the multiflora, now full of roses and glistening with dew-drops, and she clapped her hands, and asked her brother if he ever saw anything so beautiful; and he turned his gems to a pair of humming-birds, that were fluttering over the honey-suckle, and thrusting their tiny pumps into the necks of the flowers; and as their bright images shone on his gems, he shouted, ‘Did you ever see anything so handsome?’”

“You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the humming-birds, when you say he turned his gems?”

“Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they make with their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head which you call the ear. There was not a moment of the day that the children did not enjoy some good thing their Friend had given to them. They learnt their lessons by using the memories he had given them, because he had given them minds by which they understood them. They loved their parents, and relations, and companions, because their Friend had given them affections.”

“It seems to me,” interrupted Charley, “that Friend gave them everything. It must be God, mother, for I know he gives us everything we have.”

“Yes, my dear Charley; and I am sorry to say these two children neglected their Friend. They had often been told by their mother never to get into bed without first kneeling and thanking him for all his gifts; but they did not think of him. They used and enjoyed his gifts, but they sometimes forgot the Giver.”

Ellen laid her head on her mother’s bosom,—

“Mother,” she said, “you mean us.”

“My dear Ellen,” replied her mother, “your conscience is like the ring in the fairy tale. Yes, I did mean you and Charles. I was sorry, when I came into the room to-night, to see you getting into bed without saying your prayers. God has given you a voice to speak, my children. Your dog, Dash, Charles, cannot speak to thank God for anything he receives; but you can.”

“And I will!” exclaimed the good little boy, ashamed that he had been ungrateful and thoughtless. “Come, Ellen, we will jump up and say our prayers; and,” he added in a whisper, “we’ll speak for Dash too.”

Cromwell at Croyden palace.

Oliver Cromwell.

This individual was one of the most wonderful men that ever lived. He was born at Huntingdon, in England, April 28, 1599. It is related of him, that, when an infant, a large ape seized him, and ran with him up to the top of a barn; there the creature held him, and refused, for a long time, to give him up, frightening the people with the idea that he should let him fall. It is said that, while he was still young, a gigantic female figure appeared at his bedside, and foretold his future greatness.

Cromwell was well educated; but, after quitting the university, he became very dissipated. At twenty-one, he married Elizabeth Bouchire, from which time he became regular in his life.

In 1625 he was chosen to parliament; and thus began, at twenty-six years of age, that public career which ended in his becoming the sole ruler of England, and one of the most energetic and powerful sovereigns of Europe. He was soon distinguished as a speaker in parliament, always taking part against the court and the established church. In 1642, when civil war was about to commence, he raised a troop of horse, and seizing the plate of the university of Cambridge, appropriated it to the paying of the expenses of the army. He was engaged in several battles, where he displayed the utmost skill and courage. In 1645, the famous battle of Naseby was won by his valor and good management; and, in consideration of his services, parliament voted him the annual sum of £25,000 during his life.

King Charles I., against whom Cromwell and his party were acting, was betrayed into their hands by the Scotch. By the intrigues of Cromwell, he was tried, condemned, and beheaded. Cromwell himself became, soon after, the ruler of the kingdom, under the title of Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland. Though he had obtained his power by a series of violent acts, and by the practice of every species of hypocrisy, Cromwell now set himself about promoting the strength, power, and prosperity of his kingdom. Though this was done harshly, yet it was with wisdom and energy. The country flourished at home, and the name of England was much respected abroad.

But though Cromwell had risen to the utmost height of honor and power, he was a miserable man. He was perpetually haunted with superstitious fears, the promptings of a conscience ill at ease. The death of the king, which was effected by his management, weighed upon his spirit like a murder. He went constantly armed, and yet he was constantly in fear. At last, when Col. Titus wrote a book, entitled, Killing no Murder, in which he attempted to prove that it was a duty of the citizens to kill Cromwell, he was thrown into a fever, and died, Sept. 3, 1658, leaving his weak brother, Richard, to wield the sceptre for a few years, and then surrender it to a son of the murdered Charles I. Cromwell was buried in Westminster Abbey; but, after Charles II. came to the throne, his body was dug up and hung on a gibbet, beneath which it was buried!

Musings.

I wandered out one summer night—
’Twas when my years were few:
The breeze was singing in the light,
And I was singing too.
The moonbeams lay upon the hill,
The shadows in the vale,
And here and there a leaping rill
Was laughing at the gale.

One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes;
It floated like an angel there,
Between me and the skies.
I clapped my hands and warbled wild
As here and there I flew;
For I was but a careless child,
And did as children do.

The waves came dancing o’er the sea
In bright and glittering bands:
Like little children wild with glee,
They linked their dimpled hands.
They linked their hands—but ere I caught
Their mingled drops of dew,
They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought,
Away the ripples flew.

The twilight hours like birds flew by,
As lightly and as free;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand in the sea;
For every wave with dimpled cheek
That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.

The young moon too, with upturned sides,
Her mirrored beauty gave;
And as a bark at anchor rides,
She rode upon the wave.
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole,
Save that it seemed to thrill with love,
As thrills the immortal soul.

The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air—
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard,
And answered with a prayer:
For ’twas upon the dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,
I learned at first to worship God,
And sing such strains as these.

The flowers, all folded to their dreams,
Were bowed in slumber free,
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
Where’er they chanced to be.
No guilty tears had they to weep,
No sins to be forgiven;
They closed their eyes, and went to sleep,
Right in the face of heaven.

No costly raiment round them shone,
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon upon his throne
Was ne’er arrayed like these:
And just as free from guilt and art
Were lovely human flowers,
Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours.

I heard the laughing wind behind,
A playing with my hair—
The breezy fingers of the wind,
How cool and moist they were!
I heard the night bird warbling o’er
Its soft, enchanting strain—
I never heard such sounds before,
And never shall again.

Then wherefore weave such strains as these,
And sing them day by day,
When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay?
I’d give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine;
I’d give the world to melt one heart,
As they have melted mine.
Sou. Lit. Mess.

Anecdote of an Atheist.—An atheist on his death-bed was addressed by his son,—“Father, the physician says you can live but a few hours.” “I know it, my son. Have you anything to say to me?” “My father, you and my mother have held different creeds; my mother is a Christian—you believe there is no God. Shall I follow her faith or yours?” “My son,” said the dying parent, “believe in the God of your mother.”

Thus it is in the hour of sickness, at the moment when the frail supports of pride and passion are wrecked, that the sinking atheist clutches at the plank of the Christian. Thus it is that the atheist, when he is brought upon the stand before his Maker, confesses that his creed is not one that he would wish to bequeath to his children.

Who made this?

Here is a picture of the bones or skeleton of a horse. What a wonderful piece of mechanism it is! How many bones and joints, and how they are all fitted to each other!

Now, every horse has such a skeleton or frame-work of bones: and who contrives and makes them? Can men make such curious machinery? Certainly not. Men may make steamboats, and ships, and cotton-factories, but they cannot make the bones of an animal; nor can they put muscles and life to these bones. Now, if man cannot do these things, who can? God only: he only can do these wonderful things.

Wisdom of the Creator.—The happy proportioning of one thing to another shows the wisdom of the Creator. Man, for instance, is adapted to the size and strength of a horse. If men were giants, they could not ride horses. If men were either pigmies or giants, they could not milk cows, mow grass, reap corn, train vines, or shear sheep, with anything like the conveniency they do now. If men were pigmies, they would be lost in the grass and rushes, and their children would be carried off by birds of prey. Every one can see, that, other things being as they are, man would suffer by being either much larger or smaller than he is.

Yankee Energy.—A few days since, a gentleman of the city of New York was standing near the canal, at Albany, when he saw a small yawl-boat approaching him, propelled by a lad about seventeen years of age. The boat contained also the boy’s mother, six sisters, and a small brother. Our friend asked him where he was from, and where bound, and was answered, in substance, as follows:

“We are from Ohio. My father died there, and as we were nearly destitute, mother thought we had better go back to Saybrook, Conn., where we used to live; so we raised money enough to get this boat, and started from Ohio last fall. We came through Lake Erie, and got into the canal, where we were stopped by the ice. During the winter we hauled our boat up by the side of the canal, where we remained till the ice broke up. Sometimes we were considerably cold, and at times were sick a little, but on the whole we all got along right smart. We shall go down the North river, and up the sound to Saybrook.”

During this conversation, our friend was walking along the margin of the canal; our noble Yankee boy, being unwilling to lose any time, kept constantly propelling his boat forward, the younger brother, a lad of only seven or eight years of age, steering the craft. It was Sunday morning, and the mother and daughters were clad in their Sabbath suits, and engaged in reading. A small furnace was standing on the deck of the boat, and a sail, snugly stowed, was lying fore and aft. The few cooking utensils, bedding, and clothing belonging to this poor family, were securely placed under the deck.

Here is an instance of industry and perseverance, which commends itself to the notice of the rising generation—ay, and the present one too. No doubt, if this boy lives, he will yet make a stir in the world; and if we knew his name, we would publish it.

Who Made Man?—Look at the foot—how ingeniously is this contrived! Look at the arm: what piece of mechanism can compare with it? But of all parts of the body, the eye is perhaps the most wonderful. It has in it a lens, like that of a telescope, through which the rays of light pass; and at the back of the eye a little picture of whatever comes before the eye is formed. This picture falls upon a nerve which lines the interior of the eye, and thus it is we see. All this contrivance is very ingenious. And observe how the eye itself is placed in the head. See how easily it turns this way and that! Consider these things, and tell me, who but a Superior Being, one who contrives, one who thinks, could have made man?

Power of God.—The sun is as large as three hundred and thirty-seven thousand of our worlds. Jupiter is as large as one thousand two hundred and eighty-one of our worlds. Mercury flies along in its path at the rate of twenty miles in a second. Uranus is seventeen times as large as our world, one billion eight hundred milions of miles from the sun, and flies along at the rate of two hundred and forty miles every minute!

Here, then, is the power of God! A world, with all its mountains, and oceans, and kingdoms, is but a pebble in the hands of the Almighty!

THE BIRD’S ADIEU!

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Farewell to the meadow,
For summer is past;
Farewell, for its leaves
Now whirl o’er the blast.
Farewell to the bough
Where my cradle was swung,
And the song of my mother
Was joyously sung.
2
How sweet was that song
Of the light-hearted bird;
No other I’ll sing—
’Twas the first that I heard.
And though to far lands
I must hasten away,
Wherever I roam,
I will carry that lay.
3
How sweet are these scenes,
For my birth-place is here;
And I know that in absence,
They’ll be but more dear.
I’ll sing of them there,
In the land where I roam,
And, winter departed,
I’ll return to my home.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.—No. 4.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER XII.

Raymond’s story of the School of Misfortune—concluded.

“It was several hours after his arrival at the city before R. had fully recovered his senses. When he was completely restored, and began to make inquiries, he found that all his ship companions had perished. He, who probably cared least for life—he, who had no family, no friends, and who was weary of existence—he only, of all that ship’s company, was the one that survived the tempest!

“There was something in this so remarkable, that it occupied his mind, and caused deep emotions. In the midst of many painful reflections, he could not, however, disguise the fact, that he felt a great degree of pleasure in his delivery from so fearful a death. Again and again he said to himself, ‘How happy, how thankful I feel, at being saved, when so many have been borne down to a watery grave!’ The loss of his property, though it left him a beggar in the world, did not seem to oppress him: the joy of escape from death was to him a source of lively satisfaction; it gave birth to a new feeling—a sense of dependence on God, and a lively exercise of gratitude towards him. It also established in his mind a fact before entirely unknown, or unremarked—that what is called misfortune, is often the source of some of our most exquisite enjoyments. ‘It seems to me,’ said R., in the course of his reflections, ‘that, as gems are found in the dreary sands, and gold among the rugged rocks, and as the one are only yielded to toil, and the other to the smelting of the fiery furnace,—so happiness is the product of danger, suffering, and trial. I have felt more real peace, more positive enjoyment from my deliverance, than I was able to find in the whole circle of voluptuous pleasures yielded by wealth and fashion. I became a wretch, existence was to me a burthen, while I was rich. But, having lost my fortune, and experienced the fear of death, I am happy in the bare possession of that existence which I spurned before.’

“Such were the feelings and reflections of R. for a few days after his escape; but at length it was necessary for him to decide upon some course of action. He was absolutely penniless. Everything had been sunk with the ship. He had no letters of introduction, he had no acquaintances in New York; nor, indeed, did he know any one in all America, save that a brother of his was a clergyman in some part of the United States; but a coldness had existed between them, and he had not heard of him for several years. R. was conscious, too, that this coldness was the result of his own ungenerous conduct; for the whole of his father’s estate had been given to him, to the exclusion of his brother, and he had permitted him to work his own way in life, without offering him the least assistance. To apply to this brother was, therefore, forbidden by his pride; and, beside, he had every reason to suppose that brother to be poor.

“What, then, was to be done? Should he return to England? How was he to get the money to pay his passage? Beside, what was he to do when he got there? Go back to the village where he carried his head so high, and look in the faces of his former dashing acquaintances—acknowledging himself a beggar! This was not to be thought of. Should he seek some employment in America? This seemed the only plan. He began to make inquiries as to what he could find to do. One proposed to him to keep school; another, to go into a counting-room; another, to be a bar-keeper of a hotel. Any of these occupations would have given him the means of living; but R.’s pride was in the way;—pride, that dogs us all our life, and stops up almost every path we ought to follow, persuaded R. that he, who was once a gentleman, ought to live the life of a gentleman; and of course he could not do either of the things proposed.

“But events, day by day, pressed R. to a decision. His landlord, at last, became uneasy, and told him that for what had accrued, he was welcome, in consideration of his misfortunes; but he was himself poor, and he begged him respectfully to make the speediest possible arrangements to give up his room, which he wanted for another boarder. ‘I have been thinking,’ said R. in reply to this, ‘that I might engage in the practice of physic. In early life I was thought to have a turn for the profession.’ This suggestion was approved by the landlord, and means were immediately taken to put it in execution. Dr. R., late of England, was forthwith announced; and in a few weeks he was in the full tide of successful experiment.

“This fair weather, however, did not continue without clouds. Many persons regarded Dr. R. only as one of the adventurers so frequently coming from England to repay the kindness and courtesy of the Yankees with imposition and villany. Various inquiries and stories were got up about him; some having a sprinkling of truth in them, and, for that reason, being very annoying. R., however, kept on his way, paying little heed to these rumors, fancying that, if left to themselves, they would soon die. And such would, perhaps, have been the result, had not a most unfortunate occurrence given matters another turn.

“In the house where R. boarded, several small sums of money, and certain ornaments of some value, were missed by the boarders, from time to time. Suspicions fell upon a French servant in the family; but as nothing could be proved against him, he was retained, and a vigilant watch kept over his actions. Discovering that he was suspected, this fellow determined to turn the suspicion against R.; he, therefore, in the dead of night, took a valuable watch from one of the rooms, and laid it under the pillow of R.’s bed. This was done with such address, that neither the gentleman from whom the watch was stolen, nor R. himself, saw anything of it at the time. The watch was missed in the morning, and the French servant was arrested. But as soon as the chambermaid began to make up R.’s bed, behold, the pilfered watch was there! The French servant was at once released, and R. was arrested, briefly examined, and thrown into prison.

“The circumstances in which he had come to the country now all made against him. The unfavorable rumors that had been afloat respecting him were revived; all the stories of swindlers that had visited the country for twenty years back, were published anew, with embellishments. In short, R. was tried and condemned by the public, while he lay defenceless in prison, and long before his real trial came on. The subject became a matter of some notoriety; the circumstances were detailed in the newspapers. A paragraph noticing these events met the eye of R.’s brother, who was settled as a minister of the gospel in a country parish not far distant, and he immediately came to the city. Satisfying himself by a few inquiries that it was indeed his brother who was involved in difficulty and danger, he went straight to the prison, with a heart overflowing with sympathy and kindness. But pride was still in the way, and R. haughtily repulsed him.

“The pious minister was deeply grieved; but he did not the less seek to serve his brother. He took care to investigate the facts, and became persuaded that the French servant had practised the deception that has been stated; but he was not able to prove it. He employed the best of counsel; but, in spite of all his efforts, and all his sympathy, R. was found guilty, condemned, and consigned to prison.

“Up to this time, the pride of R. had sustained him; but it now gave way. He had borne the loss of fortune, but to be convicted of a low, base theft, was what his spirit could not endure. His health sunk under it, and his reason, for a time, departed. His sufferings during that dark hour, God only knows. He at last recovered his health and his senses, and then he heard, that, on his death-bed, the French servant had confessed his iniquity. It was from the lips of his brother, and under his roof, where he had been removed during his insanity, that R. learnt these events. He was released from prison, and his character was cleared of the imputation of crime.

“From this period R. was an altered man. His pride was effectually quelled; no longer did that disturber of earth’s happiness,—the real serpent of Eden,—remain to keep him in a state of alienation from his brother. The two were now, indeed, as brothers. But there were other changes in R.; his health was feeble, his constitution was broken; his manly beauty had departed, and he was but the wreck of former days. But, strange as it may seem, he now, for the first time, found peace and happiness. He had now tasted of sorrow, and was acquainted with grief. This enabled him to enter into the hearts of other men, to see their sorrows, and to desire to alleviate them. A new world was now open to him; a world of effort, of usefulness, of happiness. In the days of prosperity, he had no cares for anybody but himself; and mere selfishness had left him a wretch while in possession of all the supposed means of bliss. He had now made the discovery,—more important to any human being than that of Columbus,—that pride is the curse of the human race, and humility its only cure; that trial, sorrow, and misfortune are necessary, in most cases, to make us acquainted with our own hearts, and those of our fellow-men; and that true bliss is to be found only in a plan of life which seeks, earnestly and sincerely, the peace and happiness of others.”

Here ended R.’s story of the School of Misfortune; and I had no difficulty in discovering that he had been telling the story of his own life, though he had, in some respects, as I had reason to suppose, departed from its details.

(To be continued.)

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER VII.

A new effort to form a government.—Speeches.—Anarchy and violence.—Despotism.

The morning after the events detailed in the last chapter, was one of deep interest to the people of Fredonia. Brusque, in connection with others, had taken pains to call a meeting of all the men, to consult once more upon events of common importance, and to make another effort to form some kind of government, that might establish order, protect life, and ensure freedom. There were none whose feelings were more deeply enlisted than those of the women; and, as is usual with this sex in matters of a public nature, they were on the right side. They felt their own weakness and dependence, and appreciated the necessity of government and law to protect them from brutality and violence. Nor did they feel alone for themselves; they perceived that where there is no government, there can be no safe and comfortable home; that children cannot live quietly and securely with their parents; that everything we cherish in life is insecure, and liable to be taken away by the wicked and the violent.

The several dwellings of the settlement being near together, on the occasion of which we are speaking, the women were gathering in groups, with anxious faces; those who had young children, were seen hugging them to their bosoms, as if, before night, these innocent and helpless things might have no other protection than a mother’s arm could give. There was much passing to and fro among them, and they spoke with their heads close together, and in whispers, as if fearful of being overheard.

At nine o’clock in the morning, persons began to assemble upon the southern slope of the beautiful hill on which the cave called the “Castaway’s Home” was situated. It was a lovely spot, covered with a thick clump of palm-trees, and commanding, through the openings of the branches, a wide prospect of the surrounding ocean. All the men of the island were soon there, and as they gathered under the trees, they were divided into two groups, by their sympathies, feelings, and purposes, though not by design. In one group was the father of Emilie, M. Bonfils, a man of more than seventy years, whose locks were as white as the snow, and whose face beamed at once with benevolence and spirit. There was, however, in his countenance, at this time, a mingled look of grief and anxiety by no means usual to him. By his side sat all the oldest men of the company, together with Brusque, and most of the educated and intelligent men of the island.

The other group was composed of Rogere, most of the sailors, and several other men. They were generally young persons, whose education had been neglected, and whose course of life had left them to the indulgence of their passions. There were two or three of them who were kind-hearted, though ignorant and simple men.

The two parties consisted of about equal numbers, some twenty of each. They sat for some time, looking each other in the face, but saying little. The Rogereites looked gloomy and scowling; the Brusqueites had an air of anxiety, but still of resolution. It was apparent to all, that, if something could not be done for the cause of good order on the present occasion, riot and bloodshed were likely to be the inevitable and immediate consequence.

After a long period of silence, M. Bonfils, being the oldest man in the assembly, arose, and proposed that they should come to order by choosing a moderator to preside over the assembly. There was instantly a shout of “M. Bonfils! M. Bonfils!” and as Rogere’s people took no part, one of the men put it to vote whether M. Bonfils should preside, and it was decided in the affirmative. The old man, therefore, taking off his broad-brimmed palm-leaf hat, his long white hair floating down upon his shoulders, stood before the company. His lip quivered, and for a moment he seemed hardly able to utter a word; but at length, in a tone tremulous and faint, and exceedingly touching from its thrill of feeling, he spoke as follows:

“My friends and compatriots; we are all members of the great human family, companions in the misfortunes that have borne us hither, and the mercy which has saved us from a horrible fate. We should then have a common feeling; we certainly have the same interests.

“I ask you to come to the consideration of the great question to be proposed here to-day, with a sense of our responsibility, and a due regard to these considerations. The question to be here proposed is, I believe, whether this little community shall be delivered from that state of lawless anarchy and violence which now afflicts it, and be blessed with a government that shall at once secure liberty and peace. The real questions are these: Shall our lives be secure? Shall our homes be safe? Shall our wives and children live in quiet? Shall right, and not might, be the governing principle of society?

“It is to decide questions thus vital to our happiness and that of those who are dependent upon us, that we have now met; and I beg you as fellow-men, as brothers, as friends and neighbors, as you value life, and liberty, and justice, and a good conscience, to come to their consideration ready and determined to act for the best good of the greatest number. Let no man act for himself alone; let no man indulge prejudices or private feelings. Let us look to the good of all—the best interests of society, and proceed accordingly.”

Having uttered these words, the aged moderator sat down upon a little elevation that was near. There was then a deep silence around. At last Rogere arose, and every eye was fixed upon him, while he spoke as follows:

“Mr. Moderator; I respect the feelings that have dictated the speech just uttered by yourself. I acknowledge the obligation to cast aside selfishness, and look only to the public good. But in reasoning according to my sense of duty, I come to a very different conclusion from what some others do. We are all bound to consult the greatest good of the whole; but how shall we do it? That is the question. We have already met once before, and the persons here present, after mature deliberation, have decided that they will have no other government than such as is founded in nature; they have decided that an artificial system of government and laws only tends to mischief, to enslave the many and favor the few. Then why this meeting? Are we a parcel of boys or silly women, as fickle as the winds, undoing one day what we have done another?

“Sir, I am opposed to a constitution; I am opposed to enacted statutes and laws. I am opposed to kings, presidents, judges, legislators, and magistrates. What are these but public blood-suckers, living upon the toil and sacrifices of the rest of the community? Away with them, and let every man do what seemeth good in his own eyes. Things will all get adjusted to this system in good time. There is an instinct in the animal tribes which is thought to be borrowed from divine wisdom. The heron and the bittern are astronomers and navigators by nature; they know by instinct what man learns with difficulty. They are legislators too, but that divine instinct bids them leave things to their natural course. The strongest, by necessity and the laws of nature, become the leaders, and the rest have only to follow and obey. This is the great system of the universe; and man, by adopting an artificial scheme of government, is only sinning against nature, history and experience. I move you, therefore, that this assembly do now adjourn.”

Scarcely had Rogere finished, when his party shouted in the most animated manner, and there was a look of satisfaction and triumph in their faces that seemed to say that their leader had settled the whole question. When the applause had subsided, the moderator stated that there was a motion to adjourn, and asked if any one had anything to say against it. Upon this, Brusque rose, and spoke as follows:

“Mr. Moderator; you have already stated the high and solemn purposes of this meeting. We are to decide, in the first place, whether we will adopt some form of government, and if so, what system shall be established? At the very outset, and before the subject has been discussed, a motion is offered that we adjourn. It is moved that we separate, and leave this little colony to that anarchy which is now desolating the island. We are asked to adjourn, and follow the bittern and the heron as our examples in legislation. Man is to be the pupil of the bird; the brute is to be the lawgiver of human beings!

“What, sir, is the state of things? Riot, crime, and violence are now the order of the day. One murder has already been committed, and the man whose hand is stained with his brother’s blood is here, as free as the rest; and that murderer’s hand is lifted up in an assembly, as if entitled to all the privileges of citizenship. Sir, look at the fruits of the island, lately so abundant; they are fast disappearing, for no one has any interest to preserve or increase them. Not only are we in a state of confusion and fear, not only are the women and children in the community in distress from apprehension, but, sir, our means of living are wasting away,—starvation is at our very doors.

“And what is the remedy for all these evils? A good government, that shall parcel out these lands to the people, and secure to each man his own; a good government, that shall protect a man in his home, his earnings, his property; a good government, that will enforce right and restrain might; a good government, that will punish murder, theft, violence, and crime. This, and this alone, will bring peace to the island; this, and this alone, will give security and happiness to all. Let us have a government, to secure the rights of the people and punish injustice, and this island may become a paradise. Its rich hillsides and lovely valleys will be cultivated, and will produce the greatest abundance of comforts and luxuries. Let us have protection to life, home, and property, and commerce will spring up, and we can get from other lands all that they produce which can minister to our enjoyment.

“Who will till the soil, if any man stronger than himself can drive the laborer away and take the produce? Who will toil, if the violent, and selfish, and powerful man may take away the result of that toil? Sir, we are told to follow nature, to look to the instinct of animals for a guide. And is man, gifted with reason, to throw that reason aside and follow instinct? The proposition is absurd. If we follow animals, we must adopt their modes of life. If you adopt the government of wolves, you must live in rocks and dens, feast upon blood, and have no other covering than nature provides. If you allow the strong to take what they can grasp, we go back at once to the savage state.

“Let us then be more wise, more reasonable, more just. Let us remember that we men act not only for ourselves, but for others. I beseech you to look upon the anxious groups of wives, mothers, and daughters in that little valley, whose hearts are now palpitating with anxiety; they are waiting the result of our deliberations, as involving interests more dear than life to them. Let them know that you have this day resolved to establish a good government, and they will ask ten thousand blessings on your heads. Let them know that this state of anarchy is to continue, and they will mourn the day that saved them from the billows to which the relentless pirate had doomed them.”

This speech of Brusque’s had an evident effect, and when the question of adjournment was put, there was a majority against it. Brusque, greatly encouraged, then rose, and moved, that it was the sense of the assembly that the best good of the people required the immediate adoption of some form of government. No sooner was this motion put, than Rogere, fearing that it might be carried, sprang to his feet, and, drawing a dagger, brandished it in the air, at the same time addressing his party as follows:

“My friends, are you not sick of this folly, this hypocrisy, this child’s play? Away with it all! let us be men—let us be free. Down with that hoary fool, and this false-hearted knave!” Saying this, and pointing to M. Bonfils and Brusque, he led the way, and rushed upon them. His men followed as with one impulse. The aged moderator was struck to the ground by a single blow, and Brusque, taken by surprise, was thrown down, and two stout men, seizing upon him, tied his hands and feet fast. The rest of Brusque’s party, after a short skirmish, fled down the hill to the village, where they were received with cries of consternation and despair.

M. Bonfils and Brusque were taken to the “Castaway’s Cave,” which Rogere now made his head-quarters, and where his party soon assembled. After a brief interval, it was proposed by one of the men that Rogere should be chief of the island, with full power in his hands to govern as he pleased. His motion was carried by acclamation, and M. Bonfils and Brusque were required to give their consent. Refusing to do this, they were bound and taken into one of the lower apartments of the cave, and, totally unable to move, they were left to themselves.

(To be continued.)

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER IV.

A meeting with Tunguses.—A great feast.—The travellers proceed.

The long story of Linsk being finished, Alexis remarked that, although it was not the best he had heard in his life, he was still obliged, for he had never heard a Samoide tale before.

“Well,” said the old hunter, a little snappishly, “if you don’t like my stories, you need not listen to ’em. I didn’t make ’em myself, and only tell what other people have told me. And as to these Samoides, what can you expect, when the men are not taller than a keg of brandy, and the women are about the height of a five-gallon jug? Can we expect to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear? I could tell you a story of Tartar robbers and enchanted castles, if you would like that better.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Alexis; “I did not mean to offend you. The Samoide story will do, but I should like to hear a Tartar tale very much.”

“Well,” said Linsk, “I will tell you one;” but just as he was about to begin, they came in sight of some huts belonging to the Tunguses, a very singular race of people, who inhabit the middle portions of Siberia. They resemble the Ostiacks, like them living in houses built of poles set in a circle. They have no towns or villages, but they wander from place to place, living entirely by hunting and fishing, in which they display wonderful skill and perseverance. In summer, they dwell on the banks of the rivers, and in winter retire to the wooded regions, where they pursue the sable, ermine, marten, and black fox. They have no fire-arms, but are adroit in the use of the bow and arrow. In the spring, they carry or send their furs to Yakoutsk, a considerable town on the Olekminsk river, and the great fur-market of Siberia.

In a short time, our adventurers came to the group of huts which they had before descried, and Linsk, who knew the habits of the people, did not hesitate at once to go up to one of them and prepare to enter it through a hole about three feet high, that was left as a door. He was met at the entrance by a man of about fifty years of age, and dressed in a short coat made of a wolf-skin, and a pair of flannel trowsers, that looked as much like a petticoat as anything else. He gazed at the four hunters for a moment with some distrust, but then seemed satisfied, and made a sign of welcome.

The conversation soon brought other persons out of the several huts around. These consisted of men, women, and children—all low in stature, and with skins of the color of a smoked ham. The men were dressed nearly in the same fashion as the person first described. The women were attired in short cotton gowns and flannel petticoats that reached but little below the knee. The children were half naked, or clad in cotton wrappers. Several of them had on cast-off seal-skin jackets reaching down to the middle, and making them look like half boys and half beasts.

They were a queer-looking set of people, but seemed frank and good-natured, and invited the strangers to spend the night, which was now approaching, with them. Linsk, who knew the language pretty well, accepted the offer, and the party was led to one of the largest huts. Alexis noticed two large rein-deer in a little pen attached to the dwelling, and observed several large dogs, who now awoke from their repose and came smelling suspiciously around the new-comers.

On entering the hut, the scene presented was a curious one. The whole interior consisted of one room. This was circular, of a conical form, and about twenty feet across. Benches were set around, upon which the wife and one or two other women were sitting. The fire was built in the centre, and, there being no chimney, the whole hut was filled with smoke; but the inmates did not seem to mind it. The children were crawling upon the floor like pigs.

After staying a while in the hut, it was announced that supper was ready, and the travellers soon found that it was to be a feast. The men of the party had been on a fishing expedition, and, having been absent a week, had scarcely tasted a bit of food during that period, and their families at home had been fasting in the mean time. One of the huts had been assigned to the cooking of the meal, and it was to be eaten in the same place.

When the sable-hunters came to the hut, they found about sixty people there, of all sexes and sizes. Already had the revel begun; for the hunger of the party was beyond control. The feast itself was a sight to see. Four large iron caldrons had been set over the fire, filled with fishes of all sorts, though chiefly cod. They were thrown in together without dressing—heads, tails, entrails, fins, and scales! A huge quantity of deer’s-grease and a little salt had been put in. A brisk fire had then been kindled beneath, and the whole fried or boiled into a mighty chowder. The steam that gushed from the door of the hut, was almost strong enough for a supper. It was so rank as to satisfy Alexis and his two younger companions, who soon went out of doors, and mingled with the people there.

A feast of wolves could not have been more voracious. Knives, forks, and plates were not thought of; each one ran into the hut with a wooden bowl, and, dipping it into the caldron, brought forth the seething mass, and while it yet seemed boiling hot, they devoured it with a rapacity absolutely amazing. The scalding heat seemed not to be the least hindrance; there was no ceremonious blowing and cooling—down it went, one dishful after another, as if it were a strife to see who could devour the most in the shortest space of time!

In two or three instances the children upset their bowls, and picking up the food from the ground, heedless of the dirt attached to it, ate it down; no matter if it was trodden upon, it was all the same. One of the children was seen by Alexis, flat upon his stomach, lapping up the broth, from the earth, that had been spilt. Among this crowd, the dogs came in for their share; but they were often obliged to dispute their claims to the remnants with the greedy children.

Among all this coarseness, the strangers were treated with the utmost hospitality, as, indeed, they had been ever since their departure from Tobolsk. After the meal had been finished, a few of the men treated themselves, apart, to brandy, in which entertainment our adventurers were permitted to join. A scene of drunkenness followed, after which the men staggered to their several houses. Linsk and his companions were comfortably lodged, having drank but sparingly.

In the morning the travellers left their Tungusian friends, and set out on their journey, offering to pay for their entertainment, which was, however, refused. Indeed, this had been generally the case, and they had hardly found any necessity of having money. Proceeding upon their journey, Linsk, according to his wont, began to talk, and these Tungusians were naturally the subject of his discourse.

“They are very numerous,” said he, “occupying nearly half of Siberia, and being confined to the central portions of it. They are as restless as Tartars, always moving from place to place, and alternately feasting and starving. They go without food as long as a wolf, and, like a wolf, they will gorge themselves when they get a chance. They eat food when and where they can get it. This is the way they are brought up. I have seen them eat candles, soap, and raw pork. I was once at a place where a reindeer died of disease; they threw him whole upon a fire, singed him a little, and then eat him, leaving nothing but the bones! A real hungry Tungusian will eat twenty pounds of meat in a day!”

Alexis would have expressed some doubt of all this, had not the scene he had witnessed prepared him to believe it, and had he not found that Linsk, though loyal to servility, and not a little inclined to superstition, was still a man of veracity in all that related to his own observation and experience. He went on with his description, therefore, without interruption.

“Yet, greedy as these people are, they have their good points, as I believe all God’s creatures have. They are honest, frank, and hospitable. If they love feasting, their willingness to share the meal with a stranger is a greater virtue. And they are not so stupid as one might expect, from their swallowing such oceans of lard. I know of no people so cunning in catching fish and game. In the winter season, many establish themselves in the forests along the branches of the Wittim and Olekminsk regions, lying to the south of where we now are. A young hunter from Tobolsk, whom I knew, and who dwelt there one winter, told me that they were the keenest fellows he had ever met with. They would trace a fox by his foot-prints upon the frozen snow, and could tell whether it was grey or black by the shape of his track! They killed their game with blunt arrows, so as not to injure the skin; and so careful were they of the sable, that when they found one on a tree, they would not shoot him, but make fires beneath, and smoke him, until the creature would fall at their feet.

“The fact is, that the Tunguses are such good hunters that the wild beasts have found them out, and have pretty much left their country. The fine sables are now seldom found where they used to be abundant, and those who would hunt them must go farther north, where we are going. These people have no books, and their religion is a strange belief in stupid gods, whom they worship under the guise of little wooden images. They believe in witchcraft and sorcery; and there are a good many cheats among them, who pretend to practise these forbidden arts.”

(To be continued.)

Wisdom of the Creator.

The fact that the Creator is a Being who thinks, who exercises wisdom, and exerts power, is illustrated by the provision he has made for the wants of animals, arising from their peculiar condition. The human teeth afford a striking instance of this. The infant is to live by milk taken from its mother, and it can take its nourishment in without teeth much more conveniently to itself and its nurse, than with them. Accordingly, it has no teeth; nor do they come till about the time that it takes other food that may require teeth. We see the same careful foresight in providing that the horns of calves and lambs do not grow till they have done sucking, as they would be in the way in performing that operation. But in regard to the human teeth, a still further prospective contrivance is made at the very beginning. The jaw of a grown person is much larger than that of an infant, and the first teeth are therefore entirely too small to fill the jaw of an adult. It is accordingly provided that, at the age of eight or ten years, the first set of teeth shall be shed, and larger ones come in their place. And the preparation for them is made at the outset—a row of teeth being actually set in below the first, ready to grow when these are gone!

The providing of milk for young animals is another admirable proof of the designing wisdom of the Creator. Milk is a fluid of a very nutritious quality, and no art of man can make it. As soon as the young are produced, the milk is ready for it, and not before. And how wonderful, how ingenious, is the whole contrivance by which young animals are provided with food, in a manner the most curious, and of a kind the most suitable!

Washington a Teacher to the Young.

There is no name in the annals of any country more revered than that of George Washington. It is a matter of interest to inquire how he became so good and great, and how he obtained such a desirable reputation; how he was able to do so much good to his country and to mankind; how he was qualified to leave behind him so excellent an example; how he acquired that great wisdom which guided him in life, and prepared him for death—which made him, like Moses in ancient days, the leader of a nation through a wilderness of trial, and suffering, and danger, and now that he has been dead more than forty years, renders him still the teacher, not only of the United States, but all the civilized world.

It is a good plan for every one who wishes to be useful, good, and happy, to study the story of Washington, and see how it was that he became so useful, so good, and so happy. It is only by study that we can gain knowledge; and the best way to find out the path of duty and of success, is carefully to read the history of those who have been successful. I propose, therefore, to give you a brief outline of Washington’s life, taking care to present those points in his career which seem to have been the most influential in forming his character and shaping his fortunes.

George Washington was born in Virginia, on the 22d of February, 1732. His father was a wealthy planter; but he died in 1743, when George was eleven years old. He was, therefore, left to the care of his mother, who was a good and wise woman.

Now you must remember that when Washington was a boy, young people had not the advantages that they have now. In Virginia, there were no academies, high-schools, or colleges. He had, therefore, only the privileges of a common-school education, where writing, reading, arithmetic, and a little of geometry, were taught.

Now some boys with these simple helps had never been great; the reason why they were sufficient for Washington I will tell you. In the first place, he had a good mother, who, like almost all good mothers, frequently counselled and advised her son to make the best use of his time at school; to pay attention to his lessons; to learn them well; and thus, not only to store his mind with knowledge, but to get into the habit of studying thoroughly, and of improving his mind. In the second place, Washington had the good sense, the virtue, and the wisdom to mind his mother in these things. These are the two great reasons why a common-school education was sufficient for so great a man, and they are the two chief reasons why he became so great.

Now this shows that the advantages a boy possesses are of less consequence than the way in which he improves them. A boy may be sent to a high-school, and go through college, and have good natural capacity, and yet turn out to be a useless, weak, and ignorant man. Merely going through a high-school, or an academy, or a college, cannot make a good, useful, or great man. In order to be good, useful, great, or even happy, it is necessary in youth to do as Washington did.

Another thing to be noticed here is, that Washington had none of that folly which some boys think smartness, or a mark of genius, or manliness—a disposition to disobey a mother or a schoolmaster. Washington was obedient to both of them. If, therefore, a boy wishes to be successful in life, let him cultivate obedience to parents and teachers.

One of the great advantages that followed from Washington’s making the best of his school privileges was, his adopting good habits. He got into the habit of doing everything thoroughly. He was not willing to learn a lesson by halves, and when he came to recite, to guess and shuffle his way out. No, indeed! He did not leave a lesson till he had mastered it—till he knew all about it—till he had stamped it so firmly in his mind as to make the impression indelible.

The reason why habits are so important, is, that they hang about a person, and actually guide him through life. When a man has got the habit of doing a thing, it is easy to repeat it, and it is hard to act otherwise. Habits may be illustrated by a rail-road. The cars run easily upon the track, and it is difficult for them to get away from it. What work a car would make in attempting to run over the rough ground! Now, the mind is very like the car; it slides along glibly enough upon the rails of habit, but it works hard and makes little progress over a place where it has not been before. Thus, if a boy gets into the habit of lying, he lies, as a locomotive glides upon its track, with great rapidity, smoothness, and ease. And if he has once got into this habit of lying, and then attempts to tell the truth, he feels as if he had got off the track, and is like a car running over the common ground.

The importance of this matter of habit is seen upon a little reflection. We must remember what has been said before, that the things we do once or twice, we are likely to repeat. We are, therefore, always forming habits, good or bad; and children frequently get them settled as a rail-road track, before they are aware of it. Now, these habits may ruin those who adopt them, and turn into evil the best advantages that they can enjoy.

If a boy gets the habit of studying in a half-way, slovenly, slip-shod manner, he is almost certain to be greatly injured thereby. If he goes to college, he there continues the same habit; when he comes out, he still carries it with him; when he enters upon business, it still hangs about him. He does nothing well, or thoroughly; he is careless and slovenly in all he does; there is imperfection and weakness in his career, and finally he turns out an unsuccessful man. If he is a merchant, he usually fails in business; if a lawyer, a physician, or minister, he is generally at the tail-end of his profession, poor, useless, and despised. Such is the mighty influence of our habits; and remember that they are formed in early life. Remember that every day feeds and fosters our habits.

It is interesting to trace the way that Washington’s youthful habits operated upon him. Some of his early schoolbooks are extant, and these show that he was very thorough in writing. He even took the pains to write out, in a fine hand, the forms in which notes of hand, bills of exchange, receipts, bonds, deeds, wills, should be drawn. Thus he cultivated the habit of writing neatly, of being patient in copying papers, and of being accurate in making copies; and at the same time he made himself acquainted with the forms of drawing up business documents. In all this, we see the habit of doing things patiently, accurately, and thoroughly. We see that Washington had so trained himself, that he could sit down and do that which was mere toil, and which some boys would think stupid drudgery.

Another thing that is remarkable at this early period of Washington’s life, is, that in writing he was careful to study neatness and mechanical precision. Several quires of his school-manuscripts remain, in which he worked out questions in arithmetic and mathematics. These manuscripts are very neatly executed; there are several long sums which are nicely done and beautifully arranged. There are, also, extensive columns of figures, and all set down with careful precision.

Another thing visible in these manuscripts, is, that Washington studied accuracy; his sums were all right. What a beautiful illustration of the great man’s life! His youthful manuscripts show that he learned to render his school-boy pages fair; to work out all his sums right. Thus he started in life—and thus he became qualified to make the pages of his history glorious; the footing up of his great account such as the sentiment of justice throughout the world would approve!

Another thing that had great influence in the formation of Washington’s character and in securing success in life, was, that very early he adopted a code or system of rules of behavior. This was found among his papers after his death, in his own hand-writing, and written at the age of thirteen. I will give you a few extracts from this code of manners, or rules of conduct:

EXTRACTS.

“Every action in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those present.

“Be no flatterer, neither play with any one that delights not to be played with.

“Read no letters, books, or papers in company.

“Come not near the books or papers of another so as to read them.

“Look not over another when he is writing a letter.

“Let your countenance be cheerful, but in serious matters be grave.

“Show not yourself glad at another’s misfortune.

“Let your discourse with others on matters of business be short.

“It is good manners to let others speak first.

“Strive not with your superiors in argument, but be modest.

“When a man does all he can, do not blame him though he succeeds not well.

“Take admonitions thankfully.

“Be not hasty to believe flying reports to the injury of another.

“In your dress, be modest, and consult your condition.

“Play not the peacock, looking vainly at yourself.

“It is better to be alone than in bad company.

“Let your conversation be without malice or envy.

“Urge not your friend to discover a secret.

“Break not a jest where none take pleasure in mirth.

“Speak not injurious words either in jest or earnest.

“Gaze not on the blemishes of others.

“When another speaks, be attentive.

“Be not apt to relate news.

“Be not curious to know the affairs of others.

“Speak not evil of the absent.

“When you speak of God, let it ever be with reverence.

“Labor to keep alive in your heart that spark of heavenly fire called conscience.”

Such are some of those rules that Washington wrote out in a fair hand at thirteen. Most of these rules turn on one great principle, which is, that you treat others with respect; that you are tender of the feelings, and rights, and characters of others; that you do to others as you would have others do to you.

But another thing, also, is to be considered, which is, that Washington not only had a set of good rules of behavior, all written out in a fair hand and committed to memory, but he was in the habit of observing them; and he not only observed them when a child, but after he became a man. He got into the habit of obeying every one of these rules, and every one of them became a rail-road track to him, and he therefore followed them; and thus it was that his manners were always so dignified, kind, and noble; thus it was that his character and conduct became so great and good.

Now, I would not have my readers suppose that Washington was always a man; on the contrary, when he was a boy, he loved fun as well as anybody. He liked to run, to leap, to wrestle, and play at games. He had a soldierly turn, even in boyhood, and was fond of heading a troop of boys, and marching them about with a tin kettle for a drum.

Washington, too, was quick-tempered and passionate when a boy; but the beauty of his story in this point is, that by adopting good habits and principles he overcame these tendencies of his nature, and he showed that all quick-tempered boys can do the same, if they please. They can govern their tempers; they can adopt good rules of conduct; they can get into the habit of being calm, patient, and just, and thus grow up to honor and usefulness.

There are many other traits of character belonging to Washington that are interesting and worthy of imitation. He was accurate and just in all his dealings; he was punctual in the performance of promises; he was a man of prayer, and an observer of the Sabbath. And the point here to be noticed by youth, is, that all these qualities which we have been noticing appear to be the fruit of seed sown in his youth. They appear all to have taken root in one great principle—OBEDIENCE—obedience to his mother, obedience to his teachers—obedience to a sense of duty, formed into habit in early life. This is the real source of Washington’s greatness. He was not made greater or better than most others, but he adopted good habits, and under their influence he became great.

Another thing to be observed is, that in adopting good habits, Washington rejected bad ones. He was guilty of no profanity; no rudeness or harshness of speech; he was not addicted to sprees; he was no haunter of bar-rooms or taverns; he had no vulgar love of eccentricity; he affected not that kind of smartness which displays itself in irregularity or excess; he did not think it clever to disobey teachers or parents; he was no lover of scandal, or of profane and rude society.

The teaching, then, of Washington’s example is this: study obedience, patience, industry, thoroughness, accuracy, neatness, respect to the rights and feelings of others, and make these things habitual—rail-tracks in the mind. The path of obedience is the path to glory; the path of disobedience is the path of failure and disappointment in the race of life.

The Poet and the Child.

There is a man in England by the name of Thomas Campbell. He is a poet, and wrote two famous pieces, “The Pleasures of Hope,” and “Gertrude of Wyoming,”—besides many other smaller poems, which are among the most beautiful in our language. A short time since he was passing through one of the parks of London, which are extensive fields ornamented with fine trees, and he there saw a beautiful girl, four years old, led along by a woman. Mr. Campbell seems to be a lover of children, and so he wrote the following lines about this little girl. They are very pleasing lines; and I introduce them here that my fair young readers may see how kindly a famous poet looks on the face of a child, which bespeaks goodness.

LINES ON HIS NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART.

I hold it a religious duty
To love and worship children’s beauty;
They’ve least the taint of earthly clod,—
They’re freshest from the hand of God.
With heavenly looks, they make us sure
The heaven that made them must be pure.
We love them not in earthly fashion,
But with a beatific passion.

I chanced to, yesterday, behold
A maiden child of beauty’s mould;
’Twas near (more sacred was the scene)
The palace of our patriot Queen.
The little charmer to my view
Was sculpture brought to life anew;
Her eyes had a poetic glow—
Her pouting mouth was Cupid’s bow,
And through her frock I could descry
Her neck and shoulders’ symmetry.
’Twas obvious, from her walk and gait,
Her limbs were beautifully straight.
I stopped th’ enchantress, and was told,
Though tall, she was but four years old.
Her guide so grave an aspect wore
I could not ask a question more—
But followed her. The little one
Threw backward ever and anon
Her lovely neck, as if to say,
I know you love me, Mister Grey.
For, by its instinct, childhood’s eye
Is shrewd in physiognomy;
They well distinguish fawning art
From sterling fondness of the heart.

And so she flirted, like a true

Good woman, till we bade adieu!

’Twas then I with regret grew wild—

Oh! beauteous, interesting child!

Why asked I not thy home and name?

My courage failed me—more’s the shame.

But where abides this jewel rare?

Oh! ye that own her, tell me, where?

For sad it makes my heart, and sore,

To think I ne’er may meet her more.

The Ostrich.

Every one who looks at an ostrich can see that, having very long legs, he can run pretty fast if he tries. The ostrich is, in fact, swifter of foot than any other animal. He will outstrip the fleetest dog, or horse, or even the antelope.

Not only is he the fleetest of running animals, but he is the largest of birds; but though he is a bird, he cannot fly. In running, he only lifts his wings a little, flapping them slightly, but deriving no aid from them in his progress. The ostrich, therefore, is a remarkable bird, and seems to have been quite a puzzle to a great many wise heads. Pliny, the old Roman, thought it was rather a beast than a bird, and the Greeks and Asiatics esteemed it so like a quadruped in some of its qualities, that they called it a camel-bird.

When a thing is wonderful, people always strive to make it more wonderful; so they tell very large stories about ostriches eating iron and brass with a right good appetite! Upon hearing some people talk about this creature, you would fancy that a shovel and tongs, and a pair of andirons, would be but a good breakfast for it! Now this is all nonsense. Iron and brass can no more give nutriment to an ostrich than a man; it may be that an ostrich, which, it must be confessed, has a good appetite, sometimes swallows down a spike or a tenpenny-nail to aid his digestion, just as other birds eat gravel; but this is no doubt all that can be said about the matter.

The ostrich is a native of most parts of Africa, and of Arabia in Asia. It is scarce now in all countries, but in the days of ancient Rome it appears that they were abundant, for the brains of six hundred were served up at one famous dinner! It is a bird that likes the company of its own kind very well, and several are often seen together; but it has not a good opinion of mankind. It seeks places remote from the haunts of men, and seems to prefer the desert and the solitude. When pursued, it does not run straight forward, but wheels round in circles, keeping pretty near its enemy, and is thus often killed by being shot, or struck with a kind of spear. The creature is generally inoffensive, and seeks safety by flight; but
when attacked, he resorts to the ungenteel trick of kicking violently, and he often exercises his skill in this way with serious effect.

In some parts of Africa, the ostrich is tamed, and generally behaves like a quiet, well-bred bird; it is said, however, not to like strangers, and to have a spite against ill-dressed people. This is in bad taste, for the ostrich, having fine silky feathers itself, may seem to show foolish vanity and pride by picking flaws in the dress of other people.

There has been a good deal of discussion among learned authors about the manner in which the female ostrich manages her eggs—which, by the way, are large and heavy, one of them weighing as much as a small baby. It is generally agreed, however, that several ostriches lay in one nest, and that one undertakes to hatch them, but often covers them up in the sand and leaves them during the day, knowing that the heat of the sun will carry on the process of hatching as well without her as with her. I need only add that the ostrich is about as tall as the Belgian giant, it being between seven and eight feet high!

What do we mean by Nature?

By Nature, we mean the laws by which God works. And what are these? Have they power to plan, devise, or execute, of themselves? Have the laws of God any energy independent of him? Have they, indeed, any existence independent of him? The seed that is imbedded in the soil, shoots up into a plant. Is not this God’s work? Is there any being concerned in this but God? Certainly not. What, then, has nature to do? Nothing—nothing whatever. The Creator makes the soil, the seed, the moisture, the heat, and he gives them their quickening impulse. The stem, the stalk, the unfolding leaf, the fragrant flower, the blushing fruit, are his. He supplies and guides every particle of earth, air, water, and heat, concerned in the process of vegetation; without him, these would remain dead, inert and motionless. The seed would remain but a seed, and the shapeless elements would pause forever in their state of original chaos.

Nature, then, is not an efficient power; it is not a being; it contrives nothing, it does nothing, it plans nothing, it produces nothing. It is only a term, signifying the ways and means by which God chooses to perform his various works. Nature is but a word, used to designate the laws of the material universe. But what are laws without the lawgiver? Even if enacted, where is their efficiency without the executive power? What would be our book of statutes, if we had no government to sustain and enforce them? Instead of creating plants outright, God produces them by a certain process, in which earth, air, water, and heat are employed. This process is uniform, and we call it nature. So animals are produced by a certain established process, and this, again, we call nature.

Nature, then, and the laws of nature, are nothing more than the beaten path of the Creator; they show his footsteps, but they should never be confounded with God himself. We should never permit his works to become idols which stand between us and him, casting a shadow over his Almighty image. We should never look upon God’s works as God, nor abuse our minds by substituting the thing created for the Creator. This is mere idolatry, and the worshipper of nature as truly bows down before senseless images, as he who kneels to Baal or Moloch. Nature may, indeed, declare the glory of God, and show forth his handy-work; it may serve to raise our minds from earth to heaven; it may be a ladder by which we should climb to the skies. But he who goes not beyond nature, stays forever upon the ladder, and reaches not his proper destination. And yet, are we not in the habit of doing this? In referring the seasons to nature; in speaking of the rain, the frost, and the snow—the spring-time, with its bursting buds and flowers; the summer, with its harvest; the autumn, with its fruits; the winter, with its white winding-sheet for the death-bed of the leaves, as the works of nature—do we not lead our minds from their true Author? Do we not wrap up in the mist of words the idea that all these are the works of a being who designs, contrives, thinks, and acts?

A Vision.

“On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,

Weeping thou sat’st, while all around thee smiled;

So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,

Calm thou may’st smile while all around thee weep.”

The beautiful sentiment in the above stanza, translated from the Persian by Sir William Jones, struck me so much the other day, while I was reading the life of that excellent man, that I laid down the book to meditate upon it. It was a rainy, dull afternoon—the fog hung heavily on the mountains—the smoke rose drowsily from the chimneys—the cat and dog had forgotten their feeds, and were sleeping on the rug at my feet. I caught the sluggish spirit of the day, and leaning my head back in my rocking-chair, the room and its furniture gradually faded from my sight, and the following dream or vision occupied my imagination.

A little girl appeared before me in her freshest childhood, and her mind just opening to the outward world. She held in her hand a pure white blank tablet, which had been given her at her birth, and from which she was never to part, in this world or the world to come.

At first she ran recklessly and gaily forward without heeding the tablet, which, nevertheless, received certain impressions from every circumstance of her life. These impressions were, for the most part, gradually effaced as she proceeded, though a portion of them were deepened, and some became brighter and more precious. Among these last were the marks made by the tender love of brothers and sisters, and the watchings, and gentle rebukes, and prayers of parents. These, at first, were scarcely perceived, and often quite unheeded; but I saw afterwards, when the child had become a woman, and had gone far on in her journey in life, she would gather from them courage to go forward, and strength to resist temptation. As she proceeded on her youthful course, I inferred her diligence from the number and distinctness of the images on her tablet; and their value, from the frequency with which she recurred to them, through her whole progress, as to a well-filled store-house for constant use.

As my eye followed her course, I perceived some figures, scarcely visible, hovering around her. I looked long and intently before they were quite defined to my sight; but, by degrees, they became more and more distinct, till at last I saw every expression—every movement—and even fancied I detected their purposes.

On one side was a female of thoughtful and tranquil aspect, who evidently regulated all her steps in relation to far-distant objects, to which her clear, penetrating glance extended. I at first thought, from her expression of purity, and her simple robe of snowy whiteness, that she must be Innocence; but I looked again, and saw her glossy hair was wreathed with amaranths:

“Immortal amaranth—a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom;”

and which has since ever been, among “the spirits elect,” the emblem of Virtue. While the young maiden (for she who started a child had now become a tall and slender girl) kept her eye fixed on Virtue, and followed her footsteps, her tablet was being inscribed with beautiful and ever-brightening characters; and though her way sometimes lay through entangled paths, and clouds were over her head, and darkness round about her, yet, when it was again light, and I could see her tablet, I perceived that during these dark passages of her course she had ineffaceable images. I wondered that Virtue—since, after all, it was but Virtue in the human form—never faltered, or was bewildered in these difficult passages, and while I wondered, a new keenness was imparted to my vision, and I saw the radiant form of Religion bending from Heaven and communicating her holy energy to Virtue.

But there were other figures in the maiden’s train, and one in particular, whom I knew at once, by the miraculous variety of alluring forms which she assumed, to be Temptation. She was always full of smiles, and promises, and winning ways, and she carried in her hand a magic glass, by which she excluded the distance from the maiden’s eyes, and gave false and beautiful aspects to whatever was present or near; and often did she lure her from the side of Virtue, and plunge her into troubles, from which she could only be extricated by the intervention and struggles of her true friend.

Though sometimes, when the maiden yielded to Temptation, that deceitful spirit led her through the flowery paths, yet she always left her in the hands of Remorse, a withered hag, whose name was written in letters of fire on her breast, and who held an iron pen, with which she engraved black and frightful images on the tablet.

The maiden looked at them with affright and sorrow; and Penitence, a tender and pitiful nymph, tried to wash them out with her tears; but, though they became fainter, it was impossible to efface them; and the maiden, grieving that these records of her wandering with Temptation must forever and forever remain on her tablet, appealed to Virtue for aid; and Virtue pointed her to Religion, who, it seemed, could alone enable her to resist the wiles of Temptation. And now I saw, that, as her communications with Religion became more frequent, and their intercourse more intimate, though often assailed by Temptation, the maiden was always victorious in the contest, and at every step she gave more and more attention to her tablet, and felt a more intense desire that it should be impressed with beautiful and brightening images.

I know not how much farther I might have traced her course, had not my little Helen come bounding in from school—the dog barked, and I was waked. I told my dream to the little girl.

“And what did the tablet mean?” she asked.

“Oh, it was but a dream, Helen.”

“Yes, but all the rest had a meaning, and there ought to be one to the tablet.”

“Well, then, my child, let it mean Memory; and, if you like my dream, let it persuade you to store your memory with beautiful and indelible images.”—Stories for the Young, by Miss Sedgwick.

The Sun and Wind.

A FABLE.

The Sun and Wind once fell into a dispute as to their relative power. The Sun insisted, as he could thaw the iceberg, and melt the snows of winter, and bid the plants spring out of the ground, and send light and heat over the world, that he was the most powerful. “It may be,” said he, “that you can make the loudest uproar; but I can produce the greatest effect. It is not always the noisiest people that achieve the greatest deeds.”

“This may seem very well,” said the Wind, “but it is not just. Don’t I blow the ships across the sea, turn windmills, drive the clouds across the heavens, get up squalls and thundergusts, and topple down steeples and houses, with hurricanes?”

Thus the two disputed, when, at last, a traveller was seen coming along; and they agreed each to give a specimen of what he could do, and let the traveller decide between them. So the Wind began, and it blew lustily. It nearly took away the traveller’s hat and cloak, and very much impeded his progress; but he resisted stoutly. The Wind having tried its best, then came the Sun’s turn. So he shone down with his summer beams, and the traveller found himself so hot that he took off his hat and cloak, and so decided that the Sun had more power than the Wind.

Thus our fable shows that the gentle rays of the Sun were more potent than the tempest; and we generally find in life that mild means are more effective, in the accomplishment of any object, than violence.

The Kamschatka Lily.

In Kamschatka there is a lily called the Sarana, which almost covers the ground with blossoms; the roots of this lily are good to eat when they are baked, and are sometimes made into bread.

There is a little mouse in Kamschatka, which lays these roots by in its own store-house, and when the weather is fine, it brings them out to dry in the sun; sometimes the people of that country look for the store-house of the little mouse, and carry away the roots; but they always take care to leave some behind for the poor mouse that has had the trouble of collecting them.

Habits which concern ourselves.

From our first days we are much absorbed in the affairs of self. It is necessary we should take food, and we do it for ourselves alone. This leads a very little child to put everything he can reach into his mouth. Now, here is a habit; and it becomes so easy for him to carry his hand to his lips, that he does not know, at length, when and how often he does it.

It is, likewise, a habit of a selfish tendency; for the hand goes to the mouth merely to gratify a feeling he himself has. But he soon comes to do many other things; and in all his little actions he thinks of self. James will not give John a part of his apple, because he is in the habit of eating apples, and whatever else he can get, always by himself. This is wrong; and if he do not reform his selfish habit, he will be a complete miser when he arrives at manhood.

Habit not only effects our impressions, but our active propensities.

Hardly any habit is the source of more faults than heedlessness. It is especially so in children. Why is that boy sitting idle in his seat at school? Because he is heedless. He has formed the habit of looking off his book, and around the school-room, whenever the eyes of his teacher are turned from him. He has done it so often, that he is not sensible of being idle, until his teacher calls him to attend to his studies. The want of attention not only makes us poor scholars, but poor in purse, and poor as men.

I will tell you an allegory, to show you the sad consequences of heedlessness.

“There is a hill called Experience. Many people are going up this hill. On the top of it is a temple, called the Temple of Truth. On the side of the hill are fruit-trees, bearing good fruits of all kinds; but if the people are not careful, they make themselves sick by eating it, and must take medicine, or they become more and more sick.

“Two men set out to ascend this hill. The name of one was Observation, and that of the other Inattention. Observation looked at everything near him as he went up the hill; and when he became sick, he thought of the fruit which had made him so, and was careful not to eat too much of it and make himself sick again. Inattention, when sick, thought of nothing but of being well again; and when he got well, he ate again; and when he had hurt himself, he got up again and ran on, without minding what hurt him.

“As Observation was going up the hill, he fell in company with Attention, and they walked on together, and soon became friends. Inattention preferred to walk alone. As he was going on his way, he came to a river by the way-side, and, although he did not know how to swim, he jumped into it without thought, and was near being drowned; when Observation and Attention, arriving at the place, pulled him out, and saved his life. The three persons then went on together.

“They soon came to another river, and Inattention, regardless of the dangers which he had just escaped, and of the advice of his fellow-travellers, would go into it, and was drowned, although they tried to save him. So the friends went on without him; and after many years’ travelling, they arrived at the Temple of Truth, on the top of the hill, and were rewarded for their perseverance and care, while Inattention was punished for his negligence and folly.”

We should form the habit of keeping our good resolutions. If we wish to improve, we must see our errors, and resolve to correct them; without such resolutions, we shall always do the same wrong things which we do now. But one point we must never forget; which is, that the oftener we break our good resolutions, the less likely are we to keep any we may form. Samuel is very apt to be passionate. He will, when he is angry, sometimes speak improperly to his father, or strike his little sister. He knows this is wrong, and every night he is sorry for it, and resolves not to get angry the next day. But he has broken just such a resolution so often, that it is growing more and more difficult for him to govern his temper. The only way he can reform, is to form the habit of making resolutions very deliberately, and always carrying them into full execution.

It is important that we acquire fortitude. We must bear many disappointments and much pain so long as we live. If we began to bear them firmly in childhood, we should all make brave, patient, and submissive men. God does not send us troubles without intending to make us better by the use of them. But without fortitude, affliction only hardens our hearts.

We have seen very young children bear pain without a single complaint. In sickness, some are so calm and patient, that you would not know, except by their countenance, that they were sick. It is essential to form the habit of keeping our little bodily afflictions to ourselves. It is our duty to do it, for we only make others unhappy by continually talking of our own troubles. And we make the suffering appear the greater to ourselves, also, the more we dwell upon and converse about it. So of extreme cold and heat—we should begin in childhood to bear them without tears and complaints. It will give us no relief to think of them, and magnify our sufferings by relating them to others.

Troubles of mind should be borne habitually with fortitude. James has broken one of his skates, but no one would know it from his appearance; he does not cry, or fret, or complain to his companions, or at home. His tears he knows will not mend it; he only determines to be more careful in future, and, as soon as he is able, to purchase a new pair of skates.

We should always consider, too, that our Father in Heaven intends to teach us wisdom and submission to his will, by our smaller, as well as greater troubles.

Anecdotes of Haydn.

The great musician, Haydn, was the son of a wheelwright. His father used to play on the harp, and on holidays, his mother would sing while he played; and whenever the little boy heard this music, he would get two pieces of wood, like a violin and the bow that plays on it, and he would seem to be playing to his mother’s singing; and as long as he lived, Haydn loved to play the airs his mother then sung.

It happened that a relation of his parents, who was a schoolmaster, came to see them, and, thinking the child clever, he offered to bring him up, and his parents accepted the offer. When Haydn was at school, he found a tambourine, and played on it a tune so surprising, that everybody in the house came to listen to it.

He was afterwards taught to sing; and a person who understood good music well, coming to hear him, was so pleased with him, that he emptied a plate of cherries into his pocket.

Such was the beginning of this famous man, who composed many of the beautiful tunes with which we are all familiar.

The Fox and Raven;

A FABLE.

A raven was once sitting upon a tree with a nice bit of cheese in his mouth. A fox near by, being hungry, approached the raven with the design of getting the bit of cheese, if he could. So he began to speak as follows:

“Good morning, Mr. Raven! How fine you look to-day! I never saw your coat so rich and glossy before. Pray give me a bit of that cheese; I am very fond of cheese.”

“Hem!” said the raven, taking care not to open his mouth, and seeming to think that he was not such a ninny as to be flattered out of his cheese by a fox. But reynard is a sort of natural lawyer, who knows the weak points of people, and has a faculty, as well as a disposition, to turn them to account. He thought to himself, “Now the raven has a hoarse, croaking voice; and the way to flatter any one is to praise that in which he is most deficient.” So he began:

“Well, my dear Raven, I told you I wanted the cheese—but, in point of fact, I care nothing about it. I hate cheese, for it spoils the breath; but I really wanted to hear you sing, and the cheese stops up your mouth. I beg of you to sing me a little French or Italian air; you execute those things so deliciously.”

The raven, like many other silly people who have odious voices, fancied that he sang divinely; so he dropped the cheese, and began; whereupon the fox picked up the cheese, and holding his bursting sides, ran away, saying to himself, “O, flattery, flattery; it is the key that unlocks all hearts. You have only to use the right kind, and you can make a fool of anybody. But as to these people with croaking throats, who pretend to sing French and Italian airs, bah! it is too much!”

I don’t see why.

I know a little girl who has a very pleasant home, and the very kindest of parents, and who is yet often discontented and unhappy. She pouts her lips, and throws her arms about, and sulks, and stamps with her feet, and makes a strange noise in her throat, between a growl and a cry. It is not because she has not enough to eat of good, wholesome food; nor because she has no time to play, and playthings in abundance, and brothers to play with her. She is not blind, nor lame, nor deformed in any way, but has health and strength, and everything which any little girl could wish, to make her happy in this world, but a good heart.

What was it, then, that made her fretful? Why, she had a kind mother, who told her what she must do, and what she must not do. I will tell you what I heard one day.

“Caroline, you must not take my scissors, my dear.”

“Why, mother? I have no scissors to cut off my thread,” said Caroline, pettishly.

“Well, my dear, I will give you a pair, but you must not take mine.”

“I am sure I don’t see why; it’s only just to cut my thread.”

Now, these scissors were of the finest kind, and highly polished, and Caroline’s mother knew that it would soil them if she should handle them; and that if she had them once, she would want them again. Caroline’s duty was to obey cheerfully, whether she saw the reason why, or not.

“Caroline, my dear, you must not climb upon the chair to reach your work. You must ask some one to get it for you.”

“I am sure I don’t see why. It is less trouble to get it myself than to ask anybody for it.”

“Very well, my child, you shall do it in your own way, and see.”

That very afternoon, Caroline mounted on a chair to get her work. She reached too far, and over went the chair, and Caroline with it. Her work was scattered over the floor—the needlebook in one direction, and the thimble in another, and the spools in another; and, what was worse than all, her head struck the edge of the door, and a gash was cut in her forehead. She cried sadly, and did not get over the hurt for weeks. Was it less trouble to get it herself?

If she had trusted her mother, she would have saved herself all this pain; but for the sake of knowing the reason why she could not get upon the chair, she cost herself a severe wound, and a great deal of shame and sorrow.

It is a good rule, through life, to do what God requires of us, whether we see why or not. One of the things he requires of us to do, is to obey our parents. (Eph. vi. 1. Col. iii. 20.)

There is a chapter in the Bible, of which you cannot read three verses without crying.—What chapter is it?

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

CHAPTER VIII.

Character of the Indians.—Employed in the mines.—Story of a pickaxe.—Mr. Temple’s conduct considered.—Humanity of the Indians to him.—His reflections.—Dress of the Indian men;—of the women.

In 1825, Edmund Temple, a young Englishman, went out to Potosi as agent for a mining company formed in London. From his “Travels” I shall select such remarks and incidents as tend to illustrate the present character and condition of the native Indians. We shall then be better able to judge what they have gained by their intercourse with Europeans.

“The Peruvian Indians are a strong, healthy race, though not very tall, and generally laborious, for every kind of labor is performed by them. In Potosi, however, the miners, all Indians, have acquired a character for habits of idleness and a propensity to defraud their employers, which it must be admitted is not altogether without foundation, though I think the cause of the evils complained of may be traced to harsh treatment, or to unwarrantable exactions of some sort, aggression being as frequent on one side as delinquency on the other.

“I know from experience, that, by proper management, their faults and the disadvantages arising from them may be guarded against, and in a great degree corrected. A worm, or, if it be thought more applicable, the adder, will turn when trod upon, and will then resent the injury; so has it been with these Indians before now; but, with kind usage, fair remuneration for their services, and an impartial conduct towards them, they are perfectly tractable, and may become good, faithful, and willing servants.

“During my residence at Potosi I have had occasion to employ many Indians, as well miners as those of other trades and occupations; there is no want of hands, as it has been generally supposed, and I cannot say that I have any cause of complaint against them; they performed the work for which they were engaged to the best of their abilities, and at the completion of it I paid them their hire.

“Sunday, after the hour of early mass, is the customary time of paying the miners, and all persons employed in the ingenios; this practice I did not adhere to, having preferred settling all such matters, so far as I had control, on Saturday evening.

“At the appointed hour they assembled in the court before my office, accompanied sometimes by their wives and children, and if I happened to be engaged in any business, (despatching the couriers, for instance, when, in the absence or illness of my companions, I have been employed many hours of the day ‘writing against time’) these people would remain, without evincing the slightest impatience, and never approach to ask to be settled with till called by name as they stood upon the list of the major-domo.

“They always expressed their thanks when they received their wages, upon which subject we never had the most trifling misunderstanding, and only once upon another, namely, upon the subject of a pickaxe that had been stolen out of our ingenio. It was worth fifteen shillings at Potosi, and might have been worth five in England; but the example, not the value, determined me upon giving a color of infinite importance to the case.

“After the depredation had been made known to me, and when the workmen had assembled to receive their week’s wages, two shillings per diem each man, I called them all into my office, merely for the sake of exhibiting myself in the highest possible degree of dignity, (a clerk never looks so dignified as behind his own counter,) and whilst they stood like culprits in humility before me, with their hats off, I sat proudly elevated upon my judgment-seat, with my hat on, and in my hand a pen—a just emblem of my office, it is true, and at the same time calculated to convey terror to the mind of the thief, who knew that, if detected, I should instantly employ it in an application to the alcade for the infliction of fine and imprisonment.

“When I had fixed the attention of the party, I commenced the dread inquisition. Alas! many of their forefathers, for crimes of as little note, or even the bare suspicion of them, had been condemned by a more horrible inquisition, and before judges less disposed to render justice and mercy than their present one, although it will appear that even he was obdurately relentless. I put the question,—

“‘Who stole my pickaxe?’—Dead silence, each looked at each, and all looked at me.

“‘Who stole my pickaxe, I say?’

“‘Quien sabe?’ (who knows?) said a low voice in the crowd.

“‘Who knows?’ said I; ‘why, some of you know; and I, too, must know, before I pay you one rial of your wages.’ I then proceeded to question each individual by name.

“‘Gregorio Medrano, did you steal the pickaxe?’

“‘No, Señor.’

“‘Bernandino Marquete, did you steal the pickaxe?’

“‘No, Señor.’

“‘Casimiro Chambi, did you?’

“‘No, Señor.’

“And so on through the whole list with the same profitless result.

“The Indians, like the lower class of Irish, preserve inviolable secrecy respecting their own concerns; an informer is looked upon as a wretch unworthy to live among honest men, or if permitted to live is loathed as a demon. Assured, therefore, that I should never succeed in detecting the exact thief, although we all well knew he was one of the party present, I proceeded to judgment upon all of them.

“‘Know, then, hermanos mios, (dear brothers,) that my sentence is this; that the major-domo do now, immediately, and on the spot, put into his hat as many grains of mais as there are of you here present; that those grains shall be all white save one, which shall be black; and he who draws that black grain shall pay for a new pickaxe.’

“Here consternation became general and evident, but, from the natural darkness of the Indian complexion, it was impossible to discover the delinquent from any change produced on his countenance by the inward workings of his mind.

“‘Now, señor major-domo, shake your hat well—shake it! I say, that no suspicion of partiality may be entertained. Let each man in succession put his hand in and take one grain of mais, then withdraw it, taking care to keep his hand shut, and not to open it until ordered so to do.’

“This being done, they all stood before me with their right arms stretched out at full length, and the hand firmly closed.

“‘Now for the detection of the thief! Open! Que es eso? (what is all this?) Major-domo! what is the reason of this?’ said I, for to my astonishment every hand was empty.

“‘I really don’t know, sir; they must have drawn the grains and swallowed them, for not a single one remains in my hat!’ said the major-domo, turning his hat-mouth downwards to prove that nothing was there.

“Amazement was at its height; it was evidently a case of bruxeria, (witchcraft.) Inaquinte Sambrano observed that it was the miraculous interference of Saint Dimas,[1] to prove that there was no thief among them. But, notwithstanding my surprise and confusion, I determined that the saint should not keep my pickaxe without paying for it.

“I desired the major-domo to give me his hat; upon examining it the witchcraft was explained. In obeying my orders ‘to shake the hat well,’ every grain of maize had absconded through a rent in the crown, and the floor being covered with thick straw matting, they fell upon it unheard.

“We therefore proceeded with more caution to a second drawing, when the black bean appeared, on the show of hands, in that of Basil Calamayo, from whose wages I directed the major-domo to purchase the best pickaxe that could be had in Potosi. From that hour I never heard of any pilfering.”

I do not record this procedure of Mr. Edmund Temple as a pattern of justice. Mr. Temple, in taking the worth of the pickaxe in the manner he did, from Basil Calamayo, without doubt punished an innocent person, and excited the superstitious fears of the ignorant Indians; both, very wrong actions. Still he pities the poor natives, and when his own interest does not interfere, speaks very kindly of their character. And well he might when he had such instances as the following to record.

“When I have arrived weary and faint at a Peruvian hut, with what pure feelings of gratitude have I made my acknowledgments to the family, who, from sheer benevolence, have ceded to me the only little store they possessed. Often have I alighted from my horse at an unseasonable hour and asked for milk, offering dollars.

“The answer invariably was, ‘No hai! no hai, Señor!’ They would not take the trouble of getting it for money.

“But when I said, ‘I am very unwell, my brother; do me the favor and God will repay you,’ my feeble voice, pale cheek, and sunken eye, bearing testimony to what I said, the sire of the family, or the matron, twisting her ball of thread from the silken wool of the vicuña, would mutter something in Quichua, (the language of the country,) when instantly an earthen ware pipkin would be seized by one of the younger members, who would glide away in pursuit of the flock, and returning quite breathless from the haste he used, would present me with the milk, without a question as to the payment.

“And this is savage hospitality! could I expect more among the most polished people of the earth? Should I always have obtained as much?”

In another place Mr. Temple observes, “I felt no apprehension of losing a single article of my baggage; it had been entrusted to the Indians, and in their charge required neither guards, nor swords, nor pistols, to protect it, or to insure its safe delivery.

“On the whole, I believe I am not singular in the opinion that the worst qualities of the Peruvian Indians have been imported, and that their virtues are their own. They possess a peaceable, unoffending spirit, free from even an accusation of those great moral crimes which disgrace civilized nations.

“The dress of the men, excepting the hat, which is precisely the shape of Don Quixote’s helmet without the niche in it, reminded me of that of the peasantry of Connaught. They wear coarse brown frieze cloth breeches, with the waistband very low, and always open at the knees, the buttons being for ornament, not for use. Shirts are seldom worn; the legs are bare, with the exception of pieces of hide under the soles of the feet, tied sandal-fashion round the instep and toes.

“The dress of the female Indians consists of a petticoat, worn much shorter by the unmarried than by those that are married, and a scarf of sundry colors round the shoulders, which is pinned on one side of the chest with a topa, a large silver pin; but sometimes they use a spoon, the handle of which being pointed serves as a pin.

“Cholas, those descended from Spanish and Indian parents, are very fond of dress. I have seen them with topas of gold, set with pearls and precious stones of considerable value.”

[1] The patron saint of robbers.

Charles and his Mother.

A DIALOGUE.

Charles. Mother, may I play with the baby a little while before I go to school?

Mother. She is asleep now, my son; but you may go softly and look at her.

C. She is just going to wake up, mother! she is smiling and moving her little hands.

M. No, she is only dreaming; don’t hold the curtain back so far, the sun shines on her face.

C. I wonder what she is dreaming about; she looks very sober now; what a pity she can’t tell us when she wakes! Mother, I shall be glad when Susan grows a little bigger, and can run about, and talk, and play with me; I don’t think a little baby is good for much.

M. And what if she should never grow up, Charles?

C. What! be always a little baby?

M. No, my son; what if she should die?

C. Die! O, that can’t be; she has only just begun to live.

M. Who made her live?

C. God, you told me.

M. And cannot God make her die when he pleases?

C. I suppose he can; but he never does, does he? Does he ever kill such little babies as Susan?

M. They very often die, Charles.

C. I never heard of that before; I hope Susan will not die. How old is she, mother?

M. Eight months.

C. O, mother, mother, that is too young to die; I am sure she won’t. Here am I, seven years old, and I am not dead yet.

M. And I am twenty-seven, my dear boy; but for all that, you and Susan may both die before I do, if it should please God.

C. What makes the tears come in your eyes, mother? we shan’t die, I know. See how Susan keeps stirring about! see how red her cheeks are!

M. She is not well; she is feverish, Charles. Do you know there are two little white teeth trying to get through her gums, and they give her a great deal of pain? I shall send for the doctor to-day. The clock is striking nine, Charles, and you must go to school.

C. O dear! and where is my little satchel? and where is my spelling-book, I wonder?

M. You had better look in the breakfast-room; and, Charles, be sure you shut the window; it is very damp this morning.

C. Yes, mother. I wonder what I did with my cap.

M. Don’t bang the door, Charles—and don’t forget to shut the window. I must take the baby down this morning.

TUESDAY MORNING.
Charles meets the doctor coming out of his mother’s chamber.

C. Are you the doctor, sir?

D. Yes, my little man.

C. Is the baby almost well again?

D. O no! no!

C. Why, they told me you were coming to cure her, and you came three times yesterday; for I saw your old horse out of the school-room window.

D. But she is very sick, little boy; somebody left a window open yesterday when it was almost raining, and the nursery maid carried her into a damp room while they were sweeping the nursery.

C. O, doctor, what shall I do? what shall I do?

D. Don’t cry, my little fellow; what is the matter, now?

C. It was I, it was I, that left the window open! mother told me to shut it, and I was hunting for my cap and forgot all about it.

D. Well, that was wrong; but hush up; if your mother hears you sobbing so bitterly she will feel much worse. It was a pity you forgot the window.

C. O, my poor little sister! will you cure her? you can cure her sir, can’t you sir?

D. I will try, but God must help us.

C. And won’t he help you? do you think he will make Susan die?

D. I cannot tell, indeed; but you must ask him to make her well.

C. How can I ask him?

D. In your prayers; do you not say your prayers every night?

C. Yes, the Lord’s prayer, and two other prayers; but there is nothing in them about Susan’s being sick.

D. And can’t you make a little prayer on purpose?

C. I don’t know; I never tried.

D. Then go up into your chamber, my dear child, and kneel down where you always say your prayers every night, and pray to God just as if you could see him in the room with you. You may depend upon it. He is there.

C. Shall I ask him to help you cure Susan?

D. Ask him to cure her if it is best she should get well.

C. Why, it is best certainly. And will it be wrong to tell him how sorry I am that I forgot the window, and ask him to forgive me?

D. No, it will be quite right.

C. Then I will go this minute. You must come again before dinner—won’t you?

D. Yes, I must indeed.

WEDNESDAY MORNING.
Charles comes softly into his mother’s chamber, half dressed.

C. Mother, are you there? it is so dark I cannot see you.

M. I am here, sitting by the bed, my son.

C. The fire is out, and the candle is just going out; may I open the shutter a little way, so that I can see the baby, mother? I won’t wake her.

M. She is not asleep, my dear boy. But what made you wake at day-break?

C. I kept thinking of Susan when I was asleep, mother. What makes her so still? is the pain better?

M. It is all gone, Charles; she will never feel it again; open the shutters wide and come here.

C. O, mother, mother! (burying his face in her lap,) I do not wish to look at her.

M. What is the matter, Charles? tell me.

C. She is dead—she is dead! the tears keep rolling down your cheeks—and she is lying just like my little canary bird—and I do believe she is dead!

M. Yes! my baby is dead, Charles! and—

C. Don’t cry, don’t cry! dear mother; you did not cry when I came in—I will leave off crying if you will, mother.

M. Look at her little pale face, Charles;—why are you unwilling to look at her?

C. I do not know. Will you take her off the bed? are you afraid to hold her in your arms?

M. O, no; I have held her a great while to-night, Charles, and she died in my lap.

C. And were you all alone?

M. No, there were two or three people with me then, and they were very kind; but I sent them all away at last.

C. Why, mother?

M. Because sometimes I wanted to cry, and sometimes to pray, and I liked better to be alone. I was praying when you came in, Charles.

C. Mother, I prayed yesterday about Susan, but God did not mind it. What makes you pray now that she is dead?

M. I was praying that I might remember how happy little Susan’s soul is, and that I might not be so wicked as to complain because God had taken her away again; and that I might be a better woman now, and think more of heaven.

C. You need not pray for that, mother; you are a very good woman, the best woman in the world.

M. Nobody can be good without praying, my son; and I had a great many things to beg of God. I was asking him to make the little boy who is spared to me, a good child.

C. Ah, mother, that is because I forgot the window!

M. No, my child, I was not thinking of that then; but if you should pray to God to help you to cure your faults, you will find it becomes much easier for you.

C. Then why did he not cure Susan’s sickness when I begged him so hard?

M. Are you sure it would have been better for Susan to live?

C. I don’t know; she would have cried sometimes, I suppose.

M. But she never will cry now, Charles; her soul is with God in heaven, and her body cannot feel pain now.

C. But it would have been better for us if she had lived to grow up, mother. What makes you cry again?

Enter Aunt Catherine.

C. I am glad you have come, aunt; I have made mother cry again, and I cannot help crying too. I do think it would have been better for us if Susan had not died.

A. Your mother thought so at first, Charles; but now she knows it would have been wrong to have wished little Susan here just for her own pleasure, when the little creature is happier in heaven. Besides, God would not have taken her if it had been for your mother’s real good to let her stay.

C. I cannot understand that, do you mother?

M. I do! I do! but I cannot talk about it now.

C. So sudden! three days ago she was well!

A. Come, my dear child, come and let me finish dressing you, and your mother will talk to you about Susan very often; kiss the dear baby’s cheek, Charles,—your mother is holding her up to you.

C. O, if she could only be made alive again!

A. Hush—do not sob so loud! come with me, Charles, and I will tell you how we think God has already made her alive in heaven.

John Doree.

We must not always judge of a thing by first sight. Here is a picture of a fish called John Doree; and a fierce looking fellow he is; but in point of fact, he seems to be a quiet sort of fish, behaving as well as others of his race. It is difficult to get at the characters of creatures down in the deep where John lives; but as he is gaily marked with gold spots, we may believe that he passes for a kind of fop among his fellows. His name, John Doree, means the same as Gilded John. Out of the water and cooked, this fish is much esteemed for his flavor; and in England he is a favorite upon the table.

☞ The publishers express their hearty thanks to the writers of the following, and hope the example here set may be followed by many other black-eyed and blue-eyed friends of Robert Merry.

Carmel, N. Y., June 23, 1841.

Gentlemen:—We have seen several interesting notices of your little Magazine in the Saturday Courier, and in other papers, which give it such good recommendation, that we have determined to send for it. We have no doubt that if you would send a subscription paper to this village, many subscribers could be obtained for the Museum. We have enclosed money enough to take the Museum for eight months, and if it proves equal to our expectations we will take it much longer. It is difficult to enclose $1.50 in a letter, but if we can obtain some subscribers for you, this difficulty can be remedied. You may be curious enough to know why the term we is used. We will explain. A short time since, during the winter, it was proposed in the family to which we belong, by one of the members, to do something to help pass away the long evenings more agreeably. One proposed one thing, another proposed another, but finally all determined to subscribe for some other paper, although we already took four; none of which, however, except the Ladies’ Garland, seemed to suit the younger portion of the family. Instead of going immediately to our father for the “money,” we thought the better way would be to obtain it by our own industry. So we went to work. Each was to put in at least a penny a week, and more if we thought proper. This method incited the little ones to industry. In a short time we had money sufficient to pay for any Magazine. We sounded around some time to find one which would blend instruction with delight. We sought in vain among the mammoth sheets; for such trash as they contained we thought unworthy to be let loose among the youthful portion of any family. After a while, looking over the Saturday Courier, we came across a notice of Merry’s Museum, and, from the hearty recommendations given, we thought we had found the very thing for which we had before sought in vain. And now we, the members of this family, send the cash necessary to take this paper for the time before named; and please direct it to

E. L., Carmel, N. Y.

Bees.—When a swarm of bees settle in a hive, the first thing they do is to build cells which serve for cradles; and then they lay by something which is called bee-bread. This is gathered from the flowers like honey; and the use of this bee-bread is to feed the young bees. It is said that bees know the persons who are kind to them.

I have heard of a lady who attended a great deal to her bees, and they seemed to be pleased to hear her voice. Sometimes, after a storm, she would gather them up and wipe them, and lay them in her warm hand till they recovered; and they would never sting her, but would buzz about her as if they were pleased and grateful.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

MUSIC WRITTEN FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEO. J. WEBB.

1.
Up in the morning early;
Glad spring is here once more;
And nature wears a smiling face:
Cold winter’s reign is o’er.
2.
Up in the morning early,
And seek the gay, green bowers;
Before the sun drinks up the dew,
That glitters on the flowers.
3.
Up in the morning early;
The birds are on the wing;
The air is full of music sweet;
How merrily they sing.
4.
Up in the morning early;
There’s balm in every breeze;
It comes from every vine-clad bower,
From blossoms of the trees.
5.
Up in the morning early;
O, haste to leave your bed;
Before above the eastern wave
The sun shall peep his head.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.—No. 5.

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER VIII.

Scarcely had these events transpired when Rogere issued an order for all the men of the island to come forthwith before him, and acknowledge their allegiance to him; that is, to own him as chief of the island, and promise obedience to his government. About half of them came, but nearly a dozen men of brave hearts resolved to die rather than submit. They were roused to resistance by the women, among whom Emily was first and foremost. This young lady was small of stature, of a light and graceful form, and bearing a general aspect rather of gentleness than spirit; and her general character conformed to this. But now she was greatly changed; her dark blue eye was lighted with unwonted fire, her brow was arched, her lip compressed, and all who looked upon her were struck with the calm, yet determined and resolute bearing of the once tender and timid girl.

The remainder of the day was spent in the village in making such preparations for defence as the case admitted; but when evening came it was seen that it would be impossible to hope to make effectual resistance. It was with expectations of attack, and the gloomiest forbodings, therefore, that the villagers, of whom by far the largest part were women and children, saw the night approach. In spite of these apprehensions Emily made preparations to go forth alone. Her design was at first resisted by the leaders, but she whispered something to one or two of them, and they permitted her to depart.

She took her course toward the rocky cliff along the sea-shore which has been before described. This was in the rear of the hill upon which Rogere’s party was posted; the cliff was, indeed, but the base of the hill, and at a very short distance from the cave where Emily knew that her father and lover were confined; but she knew, also, that they were guarded by Rogere and his men.

The direct course from the tents to the cave was by an open lawn, terminating in a steep ascent up a grassy hill-side. On either hand was a thick mass of shrubbery and trees, enclosing the space in front of the cave, forming it into a sort of natural court. Standing in the middle of this, you could look over the whole island, which lay outspread before you. The place was, therefore, a sort of castle, giving its possessor a complete command of the island.

In the rear of this court, the hill terminated in a rocky precipice of considerable elevation, at the foot of which the surf chafed, foamed and wrestled in ceaseless thunders. It was here that on one occasion we have described Emily as meeting with a stranger, and it was to this point she now bent her steps. Avoiding, however, the open lawn that led to the cave, she struck off in a different direction, and involved herself in a labyrinth of trees, through which she glided like a spirit of the air. The night was calm, and the moon was shining fair, and therefore she felt the necessity of the utmost caution in order to escape the observation of Rogere’s party. This necessity was increasing, by her knowledge that, as she approached the cliff, she must pass near them, and could only hope to avoid detection by keeping in the shelter of the trees that skirted the hill, or of the rocks that beetled along the shore. With a foot, however, as fearless and light as that of the plover, she threaded her way along the dizzy edges of the cliffs, keeping an attentive eye to the two enemies between which she was now making her passage—the wave that thundered below, and the ruthless men that watched above. At last she reached a projecting angle of the rock, behind which she passed, and was soon lost in the deep shadows beyond.

Leaving her to her fate, we must now return to the unhappy and anxious party at the tents. The women and children had been gathered within the dwellings, and the mothers had sat down to watch by their offspring. It is one of the beautiful things in life that children lose their fears and their cares, and sink into sweet repose, when they know that their mothers are at the bedside. There is not, perhaps, in the compass of human experience so blessed a feeling as that of the child going to sleep in a situation of peril, under the guardianship of its mother. It is a feeling of bliss which can only be compared to that of the Christian, who, knowing the uncertainty of life, lays himself down upon a peaceful pillow at night, trusting in his God.

Such were the scenes within the tent. Without, there were about a dozen men, either sitting or standing, and armed with such weapons as they had been able to provide. No fire-arms of any kind had been brought from the ship, owing to the forecast of Brusque, who dreaded their introduction into the island. Neither party, therefore, had in their possession a musket or a pistol. Rogere had a cutlass, and most of his men were provided with daggers. The party in the tent were similarly armed; they relied, however, chiefly upon clubs, if an assault should be made, which various circumstances led them to expect in the course of the night.

About two hours after Emily had departed, a bustle was heard in the direction of the cave, and soon a dark mass was seen descending the hill. This gradually approached the tents, and at last it was seen to consist of Rogere’s entire force, saving only one man, who had been left to guard the tent and watch over the prisoners, Brusque and M. Bonfils. They were not only armed, for the most part, with daggers, but with heavy clubs, thus presenting a very formidable array.

Rogere was at the head of his force, and marching near to the tents, which were defended by a rude and slender barricade of boxes, planks, timber and trees, summoned the party within to surrender. After a short pause, the leader, who was the captain of the vessel, mentioned in the early part of our story, replied as follows:—

“M. Rogere, we are here to defend women and children; and you know the duty of men in such a case. You may succeed, for you have five-and-twenty men, and we have but twelve; but we shall each man sell his life as dearly as he can. I say to you, and to the men with you, that we are here to lay down our lives if it be necessary. I warn you, therefore, that you provoke a struggle of life and death; and though you may prevail, some of you, at least, can hardly fail to fall. And, I ask you, is the object you have in view such as men can consent to lay down their lives for? Is it such as men are willing to kill their fellow-beings in order to obtain?”

To this Rogere replied, “You are fools—madmen; surrender to me, acknowledge my government, and you shall all be free; I will secure to you your rights and possessions.”

“It is in vain,” said the captain, “for the wolf to preach freedom and security to the lamb. Sir, we know you better; we know that you are a ruthless man, bent upon the gratification of your passions. If you prevail to-night, this island is thenceforth but a scene of cruelty and oppression. These poor women will become the slaves of one who is cruel himself, and who will teach his subjects to become little better than brutes, and these children will be without protection. We have no chance but to do our duty, and, if heaven so decree, to die.”

“This is sheer madness,” said Rogere; “I am not the brute you take me for. Grant me one request, and I will leave you in safety, at least for to-night.”

“And what is that request?” said the captain.

“That you deliver the young lady, Emily Bonfils, up to me,” was the reply.

“She is not here,” said the leader, “and were she here, she should not be given up. You must pass through twelve stout hearts before you can touch one hair of that young lady’s head.”

“We will see,” said Rogere; and ordering his men to advance, they rushed upon the barricadoes at several points. The captain’s party met them, and a desperate struggle ensued. There was a fierce clashing of clubs, with shouts, and cries, and groans. In the midst of the confusion, Rogere, backed by two of his party, sprung over the bulwark, and being familiarly acquainted with the arrangement of the tents, entered that in which Emily’s parents dwelt. It was now only occupied by her aged mother, who sat upon the ground, with a lamp at her side. Her countenance bore the marks of anxiety, but not of terror. When Rogere entered, she arose, knowing him well, and with dignity and calmness she said, “Why, M. Rogere, is this intrusion into a woman’s apartment, and at this hour?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Rogere, respectfully; “I was seeking your daughter—where is she?”

“She is not here,” said the mother.

“Tell me where she is, then!” said Rogere, his passion rising into rage.

“I cannot,” was the calm reply.

“Tell me where she is,” said Rogere, in tones of thunder, “or by heaven your gray hairs shall not save you!”

“As you please,” said the lady.

“Nay, madam,” said Rogere, his fury rebuked by the calmness of the lady, “it is vain to resist my power; and why attempt it? Why not yield your daughter to my care and protection? I am now master of this island; I am its ruler and its sovereign. I will make Emily my companion; nay, I will be her slave. Tell me where she is; give her up to me, and I will treat her tenderly.”

“M. Rogere, do you think me so foolish as to be beguiled by words which are belied by actions? You came here with force, and, threatening to take the life of the mother, talk of tenderness to the child! Telling me that my gray hairs shall not save me, you promise to be kind to my daughter, if I will give her up to you! Shall the brooding dove believe the hawk when he asks for her young ones, even though he swears to protect them? Shall she believe him and give them up? Nay, sir, you came here to use force, and you will have your way. Yet I fear you not! Ruthless as you are, you dare not lay your hand upon an aged and unprotected woman. The blood of a French heart will gush out, every drop of it will leave his breast, before it will nerve a man’s arm to such a dastardly deed!”

“Listen to reason,” said Rogere.

“Listen, yourself!” said the lady; “leave this place; withdraw your men, restore us all to liberty and peace—then come and ask my daughter; and if she, in the free exercise of a woman’s choice, will give you her hand, I will not oppose it.”

“This cannot be; I know her heart is set upon that dreamer, Brusque.”

“And you, then, are to play the tyrant; force her to forego her wishes; compel her to give up the man she loves, and become the plaything of the man she must abhor! And you call this treating her tenderly! O, God, is there a being on this earth that can be guilty of such tyranny? Yes! man, lordly man, is such a creature when the restraints of government and law are withdrawn.”

“This passes all patience,” said Rogere, fiercely. “I say, old woman, as you value your life, tell me where your daughter is, or I will strike you to the earth this instant.”

“Here! here I am!” was heard from the opposite side of the tent, and Emily, entering at the instant, stood before Rogere. But she was not alone; a youth of a commanding figure, with pistols in his belt and a sword in his hand, was at her side. Placing himself before Rogere, he said briefly, “What means this?”

Rogers was evidently astonished; he gazed at the stranger for a moment, and satisfying himself that he had never seen him before, replied, “Who are you? By what right do you meet and question me here?”

“By the best right in the world! I am the brother of this fair girl, I am the son of this aged and insulted lady!”

“There is some mistake,” said Rogere.

“There is no mistake,” said François; for it was indeed he, François Bonfils, who has figured in the earlier part of our story; “leave this place instantly.”

“I go,” said Rogere, “but follow me.”

François followed him out. The battle was raging around, and its issue was still doubtful. Brusque was at the head of the tent party, and among them could be seen the aged form of M. Bonfils. Rogere took in these facts at a glance. His mind seemed for a moment to be bewildered, and his resolution to falter; but in an instant he rallied, and turning upon François struck at him with his dagger. This was returned by a pistol shot, and the ball passing through Rogere’s heart, he fell senseless upon the ground.

The two companions of Rogere now fled, and François, rushing to the point where his father and Brusque were engaged in desperate conflict, and nearly overpowered, fired his other pistol into the midst of the assailants. One of them fell, and François, rushing in among them, dealing blows thickly around, soon turned the fortune of the fight. Rogere’s two assistants now came up, and saying to the men that their leader was dead, communicated such a panic to his party that they drew back, and after a little hesitation retreated, leaving the tent party in undisputed possession of the field.

Chinese Method of Eating.—The Chinese convey their food to the mouth with wooden rods called chop-sticks—in the management of which they are very expert.

London.

London, the largest city in the world, and the capital of Great Britain, contains nearly as many people as the six New England States. It is about thirty miles in circuit. The river Thames runs through it; and across this river there are seven or eight bridges. That called London Bridge is pictured at the head of this article.

There are a multitude of interesting things in this vast city. There are the Zoological Gardens, in which may be seen quadrupeds, birds, reptiles, and fishes, all living somewhat according to their natural habits. Among these creatures, there are two giraffes, elephants, a rhinoceros, antelopes, tigers, lions, leopards, panthers, monkeys, &c., &c.

In London there are several beautiful parks, which are fine grassy fields with groups of shrubbery and trees, and paths winding about, and in them you see thousands of people taking the air in fine weather.

In London there are splendid edifices, called palaces, in which the royal family resides.

The museums of London are numerous and on a scale of great magnificence. It would take a large volume to describe the curiosities of this mighty city. There are many people living in it, who have never been out of it, and who seem to think that having seen London, they have seen enough.

AURELIA AND THE SPIDER.

The muslin torn, from tears of grief
In vain Aurelia sought relief;
In sighs and tears she passed the day,
The tattered robe neglected lay.

When, busy at his spinning trade,

A spider thus addressed the maid:

“Turn, little girl, behold in me

A stimulus to industry.

This morning, e’er you left your room,
The chambermaid’s relentless broom
In one sad moment had destroyed,
To build which, thousands were employ’d.

By constant work a day or more,
My little mansion may restore;
And, if each tear that you have shed
Had been a needleful of thread,

And every sigh of sad despair,
Had been a stitch with proper care,
Closed would have been the luckless rent,
Nor thus the day have been mispent.”

Exotic Fruits and Flowers in England.

The damask rose was first introduced into England by the learned Linacre, on his return from Italy, about 1500. Thomas, Lord Cromwell, in the reign of Henry VIII., enriched the fruit-gardens there with three different kinds of plums, introduced from foreign lands. The first orange tree appears to have been taken into England by one of the Carew family; for a century afterwards they flourished at the family seat in Surrey. The cherry orchards of Kent were first planted by a gardener of Henry VIII., and the currant bush was introduced when the commerce with Zante was first opened, in the same reign.

Sir Walter Raleigh introduced the potato and the tobacco-plant from America, where they were first found. Sir Anthony Ashly first reared cabbages in England, and in his monument a cabbage is carved at his feet. The figs planted by Cardinal Pole, at Lambeth, in the reign of Henry VIII., are said to be still remaining there. Spilman, who set up the first paper-mill in England, in 1590, is said to have brought over from the continent, in his portmanteau, the two first lime-trees, which he planted at Dartford, and which are still growing there. The first mulberry trees planted in England are yet standing.

Benevolence of the Deity.

Let us consider the faculties of man, and see how many and how exquisite the pleasures are which we derive from them. What enjoyment do parents find in the love and care they bestow upon their children! How sweet and blissful is the affection which children return to parents! How pleasant is the love of brothers and sisters—of relations and friends!

And then, let us reflect upon the beauty that is spread over the face of nature. Why are flowers so beautiful, and so infinitely varied, if not to bestow pleasure upon man? Why, if God is not benevolent, has he made hills and valleys, and rolling waves, and rushing waters, so beautiful? Why has he made the forms and motions of birds so charming, if not to give pleasure? If the Creator did not intend to delight us, why did he spread sublimity over the mountains, and teach man to feel it? Why did he robe the heavens in azure, and make a myriad race of beings to feel their mingled majesty and beauty? Why did he clothe all vegetable nature in green, and make human beings with eyes to relish it above all other hues? Why did he teach the birds to sing, the waters to murmur forth melody, the trees to bend in beauty and grace to the pressure of the breeze? Why, if God is not a beneficent Being, did he make this world so pleasant—endow it with light, and color, and music, and perfumes, and place beings here adapted to the appreciation and enjoyment of these things?

The Heart.—Every time the heart beats, the blood is sent through the arteries as water gushes through a syringe, and at the same time an equal amount is received from the veins. Thus two hundred and fifty pounds of blood pass through the body every hour.

In the whale, the tube through which the blood is emptied into the arteries is a foot in diameter, and at every stroke of the heart the blood rushes with a velocity like that through the sluice of a mill!

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

CHAPTER IX.

Almagro attempts to conquer Chili.—His misfortunes.—Cruelty to the natives.—Battle with the Promancians.—Almagro retires to Peru.—His death.

The conquest of Peru by Francis Pizarro, has been already recorded. Among the officers who assisted in the conquest, was Diego Almagro—a chosen friend and fit companion for the ruthless Pizarro. But the friendships of the wicked are easily set aside whenever self-interest operates. Pizarro wanted all the gold of Peru; and he persuaded Almagro to attempt the conquest of Chili.

The Spaniards had heard that Chili was a country rich in gold and silver; and Almagro, flattered with having such a field of wealth entirely to himself, was induced to undertake the conquest.

Filled with these sanguine expectations of great booty, he began his march for Chili near the end of the year 1535. He had an army composed of five hundred and seventy Spaniards and fifteen thousand Peruvians.

Two roads lead from Peru to Chili; one is by the sea-coast, and destitute of water or provisions; the other, for the distance of one hundred and twenty miles, passes over the Andes. This last Almagro took, for no other reason but because it was shortest, and he was impatient to reach his golden harvest.

But he paid dearly for his folly; his army, having been exposed to infinite fatigue and many conflicts with the adjoining savages, reached the Cordilleras just at the commencement of winter, destitute of food, and almost of clothing. In this season the snow falls almost continually, and completely covers the few paths that are passable in summer.

The soldiers, encouraged by their general, who had no idea of the dangers of the passage, arrived at the tops of the mountains, but could go no farther. One hundred and fifty Spaniards, and ten thousand Peruvians, there died by cold and hunger.

The whole army would have perished, had not Almagro resolutely pushed forward with a few horsemen and reached the plains of Copiapo, and then sent back provisions to the exhausted and dying soldiers. Those of the more robust constitutions were, by this means, saved.

The inhabitants of Copiapo, which is the first province in Chili, received these worn and hungry strangers with all the rites of friendly hospitality. The Peruvians had been long held in respect by the Chilians of that province; and the Spaniards, as incorporated with the soldiers of Peru, were welcomed by the Ulmen or governor of Copiapo.

He was probably a vain man, and wished to impress the Spaniards with a high idea of his wealth and power: we cannot otherwise account for the infatuation of his conduct. Had he been a wise man, he would have known that avarice is never satisfied—that to feed is only to increase it.

Be that as it may, he had, it seems, learned the prevailing passion of the Spaniards for gold, and he collected from his people a sum equal to 500,000 ducats, and presented them to Almagro. One would think such a rich present deserved to be gratefully remembered.

But those who worship mammon allow no feelings of friendship or gratitude to interfere with their selfish propensities. Under the pretext that the Ulmen had usurped the government which belonged to his nephew, Almagro arrested the chief of Copiapo, and kept him a prisoner.

About the same time two Spanish soldiers, having separated from the rest of the army, proceeded to Guasco, where they were at first well received, but were afterwards put to death by the inhabitants, in consequence, no doubt, of some acts of violence, which soldiers, freed from the control of their officers, are very apt to commit.

This was the first European blood spilt in Chili,—a country afterwards so copiously sprinkled with it.

Had Almagro wished to preserve peace, and impartially examined the whole transaction, he would, undoubtedly, have found the Chilians justified by the laws of nations and of nature, in the act they had committed. True, it was rash, and it afforded him a pretext, which was all he wanted, to begin his cruel oppressions.

Almagro seized the Ulmen of the district in which his soldiers were put to death, his brother and twenty of the principal inhabitants, and without even accusing them of being concerned in the murder, indeed without assigning any reason at all for his conduct, he ordered them to be burnt. At the same time he also consigned the Ulmen of Copiapo to the flames.

Who will say that the savage crime, even allowing the two soldiers were murdered without provocation, was to be compared in iniquity to that retaliation in which the civilized Christian indulged? But the savage never made gold his god.

The cruelty of the Spanish general, and the intentions he now manifested of enslaving the Chilians, instead of terrifying, at once roused that brave people to resistance.

It is a melancholy task to record the murders and cruelties of war, but we cannot blame a people for resisting the progress of an invading army, especially when they come, as the Spaniards did, to plunder the country, and make the inhabitants slaves.

Almagro, however, was so elated with his success, and felt so secure of conquering all Chili as easily as he had obtained the command of Copiapo, that he would not hearken at all to his Peruvian allies, who represented to him that the Chilians in the other provinces were numerous and warlike. He advanced into the province of the Promancians.

At the first sight of the Spaniards, their horses, and the thundering arms of Europe, these valiant people were almost petrified with astonishment. But they soon recovered from their surprise, and prepared to defend themselves. They met the Spaniards on the shore of the Rio Claro. Almagro despised their force; he knew that the red men had never been a match for Spanish valor, and so he placed his Peruvian auxiliaries in front, intending, with his Spaniards, to appear merely as spectators of the fight.

The Chilians soon routed these allies, or rather slaves of the Spaniards, and then, nothing daunted by the horses, guns and swords of the white men, they rushed on with a courage which the superior discipline of the Spaniards could not resist. The battle was furious, and continued till night separated the combatants.

The Promancians had lost many warriors, but they had also destroyed many of their foes; and they encamped in sight of the enemy, determined to renew the fight on the following morning. The Spaniards, however, though they had kept the field, had no inclination to dispute another such day. They had been accustomed to subdue immense provinces with little or no resistance; but now they had met with a bold and independent nation, who did not believe them to be invincible or immortal.

Almagro, finding that his soldiers refused to fight again, abandoned the enterprize, and immediately began his march for Peru. He returned by the sea-coast; his dread of the perils of the mountain road being fresh in his mind. On his return to Peru he attempted to secure that government for himself, and for this purpose fought a battle with Pizarro, by whom he was taken, tried and beheaded as a disturber of the public peace.

Thus perished the first invader of Chili. The thirst of riches was the moving spring of his expedition. He was disappointed; he then sought to dispossess his friend Pizarro of the share he had obtained in the New World, and by him was put to death; thus showing that there can be no sincere friendships among the wicked.

THE RHINOCEROS.

The Rhinoceros.

I know not how it may be with others, but I could never see a rhinoceros without laughing. There was one in Boston a few years ago, and he looked to me like an enormous pig with a very muddy coat on. His shape, his aspect, his ways, were all swinish, and his skin seemed entirely too large for him; it was therefore gathered up in folds across his back and sides. He eat hay, though he seemed to prefer sweet apples, corn and potatoes. He was a curiosity indeed.

I believe the rhinoceros to be the only creature that has a horn upon his nose; and I do not see why that is not a good place for one, if the creature wants a horn. This animal finds his convenient for tearing away the trees in his passage through the woods, and perhaps in digging up roots for food; and in his battles with the elephant, he often gives his enemy a terrible scratch with it under the ribs. So his horn answers at one time as a pickaxe, and at another it is like a warrior’s spear: thus it serves the purposes of peace and war; it brings sustenance, and it affords defence. Who then shall find fault with nature for giving the rhinoceros a horn upon the nose?

If one horn upon the nose is a good thing, two must be better; so there are some of these creatures that have two. The African species, which is very powerful and numerous in some parts, has two horns; the Asiatic species, found in India, has but one. This latter kind is seldom more than six or seven feet long, but those of Africa are sometimes twelve feet. They are, therefore, excepting the elephant, the largest of quadrupeds.

In India the hunting of the rhinoceros is famous sport. The people go out mounted upon elephants, and usually find five or six of these animals in a drove. Their hides are so thick that it is difficult to kill them. One will often receive twenty bullets before he falls. The rhinoceros attacks an elephant fearlessly, and endeavors to get his horn under him so as to rip him open. But the elephant, finding what he would be at, turns his tail to the assailant, who gives him a hunch behind, and tumbles his huge enemy upon his knees. Then the men upon the elephant fire their guns and pepper the thick hide of the rhinoceros with their bullets.

Thus goes the fight, and after many adventures, and much danger, and plenty of accidents and hair breadth ’scapes, and a vast waste of gunpowder and lead, the game usually runs away, or perhaps it is left as a trophy of the sportsman’s skill and prowess upon the field.

The rhinoceros feeds entirely upon vegetables, always living near water, and taking a frequent wallow in the mud, or a bath in the wave. He is fearful of man, and though dull of sight, has an acute scent and a sharp ear, which enable him usually to keep out of reach of the being he dreads so much. It is only when hunted and closely pursued, that he turns to fight, and then he is fierce and formidable. In confinement he becomes quiet and stupid, though he sometimes gets into a fury, and then he rends his cage in pieces with ease. It is almost impossible to confine him when his rage is excited.

Briers and Berries.

’Twas on a gloomy, smoky day,
(If rightly I the date remember,
For certainly I cannot say,)
About the middle of September,
When I, astride my pacing grey,
Was plodding on my weary way,
To spend the night and preach the word
To people who had never heard
The gospel; or, to say the least,
Had never viewed it as a feast
Of fat things full of marrow.

In sadness as I rode along
And crossed the silver Unadilla,
The robin sung his plaintive song,
And faintly drooped the fading lily:
The smoky sky, no longer blue,
Assumed a dim and dusky grey;
And Autumn, o’er my feelings threw
The coloring of its own decay,
And filled my heart with sorrow.

I, in my mind, was pondering o’er
The miseries that beset the preacher:
The persecutions which he bore—
(The scoff and scorn of every creature—)
His heated brain—his frame worn down,
Emaciated and dyspeptic—
The hardened bigot’s iron frown—
The jeers and satire of the skeptic—
One mocking revelation’s page—
The other ridiculing reason—
And then the storms we must engage,
And all th’ inclemencies of season.

In this desponding, gloomy mood,
I rode perhaps a mile or two—
When lo! beside the way there stood
A little girl, with eyes of blue,
Light hair, and cheeks as red as cherries;
And through the briers, with much ado,
She wrought her way to pick the berries.

Quoth I, “My little girl, it seems
To me, you buy your berries dear;
For down your hand the red blood streams,
And down your cheek there rolls a tear.”
“O, yes,” said she, “but then, you know,
There will be briers where berries grow.”

These words came home with keen rebuke
To me, who mourned life’s little jostles,
And called to mind the things that Luke
Has written of the first apostles,
Who faced the foe without a fear,
And counted even life not dear.

And since, from that good hour to this,
Come pleasant or come stormy weather,
I still reflect that human bliss
And human wo are mixed together:
Come smiling friend or frowning foe—
‘There will be briers where berries grow.’
Browne.

The Crows’ Court of Law.

There is a kind of crow which is seen in the south of England in flocks about the middle of autumn; it is called the hooded crow. These crows go away towards the north in spring; they are very tame, and will go into the yards of houses to pick up food.

They are not very like the common crows, for their backs are ash-colored, and their heads, throat, wings and tail, are black, and they have two cries; one of them being like the voice of the common crow, and the other something like the crowing of a cock.

It is said that in some places where these birds are found, one or two hundred of them will now and then meet together, as if upon some fixed plan, and at these times a few of them sit with drooping heads, and others look very grave, as if they were judges, and others are very bustling and noisy.

In about an hour the meeting breaks up, when one or two are generally found dead, and it has been supposed that this meeting is a sort of trial of some crows who have behaved ill, and who are punished in this severe way for their bad behavior.

The Story of the Supposed Miser.

A great many miles to the east is a country called France, in the southern part of which is a large city called Marseilles. In this place there once lived a man by the name of Guizot. He was always busy, and seemed very anxious to get money, either by his industry, or in some other way.

He was poorly clad, and his food was of the simplest and cheapest kind. He lived alone, and denied himself all the luxuries and many of the comforts of life.

He was honest and faithful, never taking that which was not his own, and always performing his promises; yet the people of Marseilles thought he was a miser, and they held him in great contempt. As he passed along the streets, the rich men looked on him with scorn, and the poor hissed and hooted at him. Even the boys would cry out, “There goes old Skinflint; there goes old Greedy Gizzard.”

But the old man bore all this insult with gentleness and patience. Day by day, he went to his labor, and day by day, as he passed through the crowd, he was saluted with taunts, and sneers, and reproaches.

Thus, time passed on, and poor Guizot was now more than eighty years of age. But he still continued the same persevering industry, still lived in the same saving, simple manner as before.

Though he was now bent almost double, and though his hair was thin and white as snow; though his knees tottered as he went along the streets; still the rude jokes and hisses of the throng pursued him wherever he went.

But, at length, the old man died, and it was ascertained that he had heaped together, in gold and silver, a sum equal to two hundred thousand dollars. On looking over his papers, his will was found, in which were the following words:

“I was once poor, and I observed that the poor people of Marseilles suffered very much for the want of pure, fresh water. I have devoted my life to the saving of a sum of money sufficient to build an aqueduct to supply the city of Marseilles with pure water, so that the poor may have a full supply.”

The Mouth.

The mouth was made to eat and speak with. It is therefore a pretty convenient and useful thing, and we could not well do without it.

But the mouth, like almost everything else, needs to be taken care of. Sometimes the mouth will pout, and make a child look very disagreeable.

Sometimes the mouth will eat very fast, and get too much in at a time. Don’t let your mouth do any such things as these!

I forgot to tell you another very curious thing about the mouth, and that is, that it laughs! I believe dogs, and cats, and pigs, and hens, and geese, never laugh; but children laugh, and old people too, sometimes.

It is well enough to laugh, at proper times. I love to see children laugh in their play. I love to see them laugh when I tell a funny story.

But I never like to see any one laugh at the misfortune of another. Tell me, little reader, did your mouth ever laugh at another child because he was poor? or because he was poorly dressed? or because he fell down and hurt himself? or because he happened to know less than you do?

If your mouth has ever done any of these naughty things, I pray you, little reader, teach your mouth better manners.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 3.

One of my schoolmates, named Dick Dashall, was a wild rattle-headed fellow, always sure to get into mischief, but slow enough to get out of the quagmire. His parents and brothers were poor farming people, who had hard work to make both ends meet, and could ill afford even the very trifling cost attending Dick’s education. Dick had been intended for the hard-working profession of a farmer, but that honest calling did not at all jump with his restless humor. He never could see the fun and philosophy of rising with the dawn, and “yoking up” to follow the plough through the field, or the iron harrow over the furrows. He did not like the tedious work of planting corn and potatoes, and still less the more laborious employ of “covering up” or “hilling up,” or getting in the crops; nor did he relish any of the various details of hay-making and harvesting. He had no objection, however, to the merry husking frolic, for then, in the general sport and confusion, he managed to avoid work himself, while he listened with both his big ears to the diverting tales that were often on such occasions related by those present. He disliked as much the tedious employment of riding the old cart-horse in the plough, as he delighted in scampering away on his bare back all over the country side, when he could contrive to get possession of the poor beast. And when he did accomplish that desired object, never was the dull animal so worked by his owners; for away the madcap would ride, without saddle, bridle, spur or stirrup, guiding him only with an old rope, and urging him on with a big bludgeon of a stick, with which he failed not well to belabor the ribs of his steed, till they fairly bled and ached again. At length, one of his runaway frolics terminated fatally to the poor brute, whom he attempted to swim across a rapid and deep river near the village, in which essay the horse was drowned, and Dick only escaped by skilful swimming, which was almost the only valuable accomplishment that he possessed.

Dick seemed to be filled with the very evil spirit of all mischief. The book and task were perfectly odious to him, and if left to follow his own inclination, he never would have learned either to read or write; indeed, as it was, his best attempts with the pen looked more like pot-hooks and fish-hooks than good civilized letters. No mortal could have deciphered them. And then his copybook was one blotch of ink from beginning to end. His arithmetic and grammar books, though showing, by their numerous thumb-marks and “dog’s-ears,” that they had been pretty thoroughly handled by his seldom-washed fingers, were about as intelligible to him as so many volumes of Greek or Arabic; the deep lore contained in their pages was much too profound for his understanding, and never did any ideas from them penetrate the thickness and dulness of his brain; or, if they ever by any chance found an entrance there, they must have laid in a torpid state, for no one could ever discover that such scraps of knowledge existed in his head, through the outlet of the tongue and voice.

But though Dick could not inscribe legible characters with his pen, yet he had a sort of natural talent for drawing rude sketches with pencil, pen, or even a bit of charcoal; and most ridiculous and striking caricatures would he produce with them. The droll expression and awkward figure of the old pedagogue himself furnished him with a fertile subject for his wit, and various and laughable were the burlesque representations he gave of him. Every scrap of paper that he could lay hands on, every piece of broken slate, and even the very walls of the school-house and the board fences in the neighborhood, were covered with all sorts of strange figures, hit off, too, with no little talent and humor. This love for sketching and caricaturing seemed to be the peculiar bent of his genius, and it proved to him and his mates a source of great amusement.

When the term of his instruction had well-nigh expired, and it became necessary for him to decide to what species of employment he should devote his talents and attention, it happened that an itinerant portrait-painter strolled into the village, and, taking the best room of the inn, announced, through a staring painted placard at the window, that he was ready to paint, for a small consideration, the portraits of the good people of the place, in a most artist-like and expeditious manner. Nor was he long without his patrons. First the squire, and then the parson and his lady, and the doctor with his lady, and a half-score of children, and then many of the most substantial farmers and tradesmen of the vicinity, were seen to enter at the inn-door, and in a few days return to their several homes, each one bearing in his hands a large highly-colored piece of canvass, in which one might perhaps detect some remote likeness to the bearer or some of his family. Finally, the worthy innkeeper himself, with his rosy-faced dame, and some half-dozen overgrown daughters, figured in full-length beauty, in one mingled group, upon the artist’s canvass; and presently a span-new sign-board of “the white horse” was seen creaking and swinging in all the freshness of new paint from the tall sign-post at the tavern door. This flaming specimen of the fine arts proved a great object of admiration and remark with all the grown gossips and little children of the village, till at length, the “nine days” having elapsed, the wonder ceased.

Dick very soon made the acquaintance, and gained the good will of the artist, first by running on all his errands, in his communication with his patrons, and afterwards by his unfeigned expressions of admiration at the inspection of the “artist’s gallery,” which comprised a few dauby copies of the old masters, and a number of unpaid and unclaimed portraits from the artist’s own easel. Before the worthy artist took leave of the village, Dick had so far ingratiated himself into his favor, that he agreed to take him with him, and impart to him all the knowledge of his art that he was able to give, receiving in return due assistance from Dick, as a sort of artist-of-all-work, which phrase might be understood to comprise any and all kinds of menial occupation. But Dick was deeply smitten with the love of painting, and eagerly caught at this golden opportunity of ridding himself from the irksome drudgery of book and task, and learn to be a painter of faces himself, while at the same time he should have some opportunity of seeing in his rambles not a little of the men and manners of the world.

Poor little Dick! when he set forth “to fresh fields and pastures new,” with an adventurous desire to try his fortunes in the world, he little anticipated the troubles and perplexities that would beset his way. The honest artist to whom he had attached himself was neither a Raphael nor a Vandyke, and the share of patronage he met with in the humble places where he set up his easel, was very limited in degree, and unprofitable to the pocket. In some villages which they visited in their rounds, they found that rival artists had reaped such scanty harvests as the poverty of the villages afforded; and in other places they found, to their sorrow, that the flinty inhabitants were no upholders of art, and felt no ambition to hand down the “counterfeit presentment” of their features to posterity. So, as there was only starvation to be had, there was nothing to be done but to pack up their slender wardrobe, with the paints and pencils, and migrate to a more enlightened region. The poor artist was, however, both kind and liberal, so far as his means went, to his little charge, and when he received his hard-earned dollar, as the recompense of many a patient hour of toil, he freely shared it with him; and so long as the treasure lasted, they did not lack for the best of good fare, at village tavern or rural farmhouse. Oftentimes it chanced that their treasury was entirely exhausted, and neither paper or specie payments were forthcoming to defray the needful expenses of the way. At such times, the cost of coach-ride, or even wagon conveyance, being beyond their reach, their only resource was, to convey their bodies from place to place upon those natural supports which Nature has kindly supplied us with, but which often complain of an undue proportion of fatigue after a long day’s progress in a hot summer’s day. But poor Dick ever made the best of it, and shouldering his little bundle, stumped on stoutly at the side of his master, often beguiling the toil and length of the travel with a merry heart, and a cheerful singing voice. The natural beauties of the scenes through which they passed were not lost upon them, nor did the wild rose at the road-side blush unseen of them, or the sweet lily of the valley waste its fragrant breath in vain. They each had the artist’s eye and soul to enjoy the loveliness of the bending and painted skies, the waving woods, the verdant grass, and the flowing stream.

“Even the air they breathed, the light they saw,

Became religion; for the ethereal spirit

That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,

And mellows everything to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there—for all was love.

The morning stars, that sweetly sang together,

The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky,
Day-spring and eventide, and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice
Of eloquent worship.”

Every pretty flower that bloomed in the hedge, or at the wood-borders, Dick would diligently gather, and carefully preserve in a little book, which he carried with him for that purpose. Many a colored butterfly with its wings of powdered gold, and many a nameless insect, streaked or spotted with all the rich hues of the rainbow, would he hunt down and add to his collection. His great delight at the close of the ramble consisted in copying, with his paints, the rich colors of these beautiful objects; and soon he had formed quite a portable museum of pretty prints, flowers and insects; and in this recreation he received no little aid from his kind-hearted teacher. He soon became a proficient in the art of mingling colors, and by a zealous application to the details of art, in a short time was able to sketch a scene or strike off a likeness with considerable faithfulness and ability. So great was his love of the art, that he really derived much pleasure from his rambles, long and difficult as they often were. In the course of a few months’ practice, he had learned all that his teacher had to communicate; and it was often asserted by their rustic patrons that the little painter was in no respect inferior to his principal with the brush. Indeed, so conscious were they themselves of this fact, that an equal partnership was formed between them, and whatever sums fell into their exchequer, were shared equally between them.

But, alas! there is an end to all human enjoyment, and a severance of all earthly ties. The poor artist, what with the fatigues of journeying, often at inclement seasons, and with the wearing labors of his long and tedious tasks, had gradually undermined a constitution naturally infirm; and his poor little protegè, as he gazed sorrowfully upon his wan face and wasted form, saw plainly that the one was getting paler, and the other thinner and thinner, every day; and soon was impressed with the certainty that they must soon part from each other, and that that parting would be at the grave’s foot. And so indeed it turned out, when a year or two had elapsed from the commencement of their connection. The elder artist, after struggling on with all his resolution, and unwilling to yield to the insidious advances of disease, was at length completely exhausted and subdued. He sank down on the way at the door of a little village public house, where he was obliged to take to his bed, and receive the aids and doses of the doctors, in the feeble hope of a restoration to health. But in vain; his poor frame, already so much reduced, grew feebler and feebler day by day, and his sunken cheek grew still more hollow, and the little light that sickness had lent to his eye trembled and flickered, and then expired altogether; and finally the poor fellow, after taking an affectionate and mournful farewell of Dick, and bequeathing to him all the little possessions that he called his own, resigned himself patiently to his fate, and without pain or struggle “passed away.” Dick, after following his remains to the humble church-yard, and pouring out his soul in the truest sorrow over his dust, departed sad and solitary on his way. He assumed his poor master’s easel and other implements, and followed “the painter’s quiet trade” on his own account. He met with but indifferent success, however; he painted the rough faces of country squires, and the hard-favored features of their spouses, without number, but the recompense he received therefor scarcely served to find him in “meat and manger.” After struggling with adversity for many a weary year, and encountering every species of trial and disappointment with the firmness of a martyr, he at length, in very despair, was obliged to relinquish his beloved profession, and settle down quietly in a flourishing town, where the products of his brush could be turned to better account. He was forced to abandon entirely the higher walks of art, and stoop to a humbler, but more profitable branch of trade; devoting himself, in short, to the daubing of chairs, tables, and vehicles of every description, and embellishing them with as many of the “scientific touches” of his former calling as the time and pay would justify. In this way he contrived to eke out a humble but respectable subsistence, and after gaining the good will of his employer by his faithful and honest exertions, he scraped together sufficient money to enable him to set up an establishment of his own, where a flaming board proclaimed that Richard Dashall executed sign, house and chaise painting, in all its varieties, “in the most neat and expeditious manner possible;” assisted by two or three active young apprentices in all his handicrafts. In due course of time he joined to his fortunes a pretty little lady of a wife, and conjointly they reared up and educated a numerous progeny. So ends the history of poor Dick Dashall; and it is that of many an honest and industrious young fellow, who is cast forth like a weed upon the ocean of life, to sink or to swim as the chance may be.

The Fata Morgana.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

CHAPTER XIII.

Messina.—Trade of the place.—The Fata Morgana.—Embark for Naples.—The Sicilian pilot.—The Faro of Messina.—Scylla and Charybdis.—Exaggerations of the ancient writers.—Fatal adventure of a Neapolitan diver.

We found Messina quite a lively, bustling place, with a harbor full of all sorts of Mediterranean craft. Several American vessels lay at the quay, loading with oranges and lemons for Boston. These fruits constitute the chief trade of the place, and give employment to a great part of the population of the city and neighborhood. Every orange and lemon is carefully wrapped in a paper before being packed. The paper absorbs the moisture which exudes from the fruit, and prevents the rotting. Labor, however, is so cheap in this country that all this preparation adds but little to the cost of the cargoes. Another article exported is barilla, a sort of alkali, or potash, made by burning sea-weed. The barilla is used by our manufacturers for bleaching cotton cloth.

The city is very handsomely built, and has several fine squares, ornamented with statues and fountains. It has suffered severely from earthquakes at different times, and was once nearly destroyed; but its admirable situation for commerce has caused it to be rebuilt after every catastrophe. It stands just within the narrow strait which divides Sicily from the Italian coast, and has a very safe harbor, formed by a strip of land running out into the sea, in the shape of an elbow, which appears almost the work of art. In the interior, the city is enclosed by steep, rocky hills, which rise immediately from the walls, and shut out all prospect of the country; but the view toward the sea is very grand. The strait is six or eight miles wide in this part, though in the clear and transparent atmosphere of these regions, it does not appear to be more than three or four. The mountains of Calabria rise up majestically from the blue sea, dark, craggy, and frowning, with now and then a fleecy white cloud melting away on their summits. Feluccas, with latine sails, are gliding up and down the straits; and the white walls of Reggio rise from the water’s edge on the opposite side.

This is the spot on which that remarkable phenomena, called the Fata Morgana, has been observed. On the Italian side of the strait the inhabitants are sometimes astonished to behold in the air the images of castles, towns, palaces, houses, ships, &c. Being unable to account for these appearances, they ascribe them to magic; and these airy phantoms are supposed to be the work of a fairy named Morgana. The true cause is a certain rarefaction of the air, which brings into view objects far below the horizon; and the phenomena is not difficult to explain by the principles of optics. This appearance is not uncommon, near the shore, in all parts of the world. Lighthouses, towers, ships, &c., appear stretched up to three or four times their actual height. The sailors call this looming up. None of these apparitions, however, are so remarkable as the Fata Morgana.

On the 7th of March I went on board an Italian brig bound to Naples. It was a dead calm by the time we got out of the harbor, so we drifted back again and dropped anchor. Next morning the calm continued, and on looking across the water, we saw little specks of white cloud, hanging motionless on the sides of the mountains,—a sure sign that no wind was stirring there. The sea was as smooth as glass, and I expected a long delay; but presently a light breeze came down the strait. Though this was ahead, we determined to take advantage of it. We therefore got out the boats and warped out of the harbor, when we set our sails and beat up the straits to the north. Italian sailors are not very expert in the nicer arts of seamanship, and we made very little headway by our tacking. About the middle of the afternoon we dropped anchor, close to the Sicilian shore. There was a little village, with a pretty church at the water’s edge. The coast exhibited low sand-hills, with patches of green soil. After lying at anchor two or three hours, the wind hauled round, and we set sail again. About sunset we reached the mouth of the strait, where the extreme end of Sicily approaches close to the Italian shore. This is called the Faro of Messina. Here we set the pilot ashore, after an immense bawling and vociferation, occasioned by a dispute as to the amount of his fee. The Italians can seldom bargain to the amount of a shilling, without making a clamor and din as if it were a matter of life and death. The pilot wanted about twenty cents more than the captain was willing to pay. They plunged at once into a noisy dispute;—argued, contradicted, bawled, sputtered, grinned, stamped their feet, and flourished their arms like a couple of bedlamites. The sailors took part in the squabble; every ragged rogue put in his oar, and had something to say, till the hurly-burly became outrageous. The pilot was a queer looking fellow, with a red cap, tattered unmentionables, japanned with tar, a beard like a shoebrush, and a bluff, burly face, all bronzed by the sun, and weather-beaten—in short, the very picture of an old Triton; and so I called him from the moment he first met my eyes. I never laughed more heartily than at the sight of this squabble; but at length they agreed to split the difference, and old Triton paddled ashore, tolerably well satisfied.

The sun was going down as we passed out the strait. We had but a small breeze before, but almost in an instant we were assailed by violent gusts of wind that obliged us to take in our canvass. The captain pointed toward the rocky shore, and said to me, “There is Scylla.” I looked in the direction, and saw a huge, craggy rock not far from the shore, against which the waves were dashing. Here were Scylla and Charybdis, so famous in classical history, and so terrible to the mariners of old times. Homer, in his Odyssey, thus describes them:

“Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,

And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms:

When the tide rushes in her rumbling caves,

The rough rock roars, tumultuous boil the waves;

They toss, they foam, a dire confusion raise,

Like waters bubbling o’er a fiery blaze.”

The ancients, who were timid and unskilful in their navigation, give us exaggerated accounts of the dangers of the sea. Scylla they imagined to be a horrid monster, who sat on the seashore, and devoured the crews of such vessels as came within her reach. Charybdis was a fearful whirlpool, which swallowed up both ships and men. Very little of this description is true. Scylla is no monster, but only a steep, craggy rock, which is dangerous enough should a vessel run against it, but it is so easily seen that none but a very unskilful navigator need be afraid of it. Charybdis is no whirlpool, but only a spot where the winds and currents, drawing through the narrow strait between Italy and Sicily, cause a rough, chopping sea, with sudden and violent gusts. These, indeed, were great dangers to the small craft used by the ancients, but American sailors would laugh at them.

Some writers are of opinion that there was in reality a dangerous whirlpool in the strait, and that it has been destroyed by one of those violent earthquakes that have so often shaken the earth and sea in this quarter. It is my opinion, however, from a view of the coast on both sides, that no such alteration has taken place, and that the spot was no more dangerous in ancient times than it is at present. The marvellous part of the description is owing to the fictions and exaggerations of the ancient poets. But, at any rate, the water is very deep in the strait, and, like many other places in different parts of the world, it has the popular reputation of being bottomless. There was a man at Messina, famous for his exploits in swimming and diving, like our “Sam Patch.” He used to dive to immense depths in the water, and could walk on the bottom of the sea, if we are to believe his own story, for nobody ever went down with him to ascertain the truth. The king of Naples tempted him to dive into the gulf of Charybdis, by throwing a golden cup into the sea. He plunged in after it, but was not seen again till some days afterwards, when his body was found on the shore, thirty or forty miles distant.

CHAPTER XIV.

A calm among the Lipari islands.—Manners of the crew.—Stromboli.—A natural lighthouse.—A gale of wind.—Fright of the crew and danger of the vessel.—Loss of the topmasts, and narrow escape from shipwreck.—Arrival at Lipari.

Next morning, as I went on deck, I found the wind had died away, and left us becalmed among the Lipari islands. We were close to the island of Stromboli, which looked like the top of a mountain rising out of the water, with the smoke constantly pouring out at the top. All these islands are volcanic, and send forth flame and smoke occasionally, but Stromboli is constantly burning. Notwithstanding this, there are several thousand inhabitants upon it, who live chiefly by fishing. They pass a strange life, constantly pent up between fire and water. All day we lay becalmed, and I amused myself with looking at these curious islands through a spy-glass, and watching the odd behavior of the crew. They were picturesque-looking mortals, as all the Mediterranean sailors are: exceedingly ragged, noisy, and good-humored. When they were not telling stories, or cutting capers, they were sure to be eating. Indeed, there was very little time during the voyage that their jaws were not in motion. The principal food was bread and vegetables. There was a pile of greens on the deck nearly as big as a haycock: it was a species of fennel, which the Italians eat raw. The sailors munched it by handfuls as they went about their work. There was no meat in all the ship’s stores, but now and then a mess of fish was served up to the crew. They drank freely of red wine, but I never saw any one of them intoxicated.

The calm continued through the day and the following night. After dark, the summit of Stromboli began to grow red, and all night long it shot up streams of fire, giving a light that might be seen a great way off. This island is a natural lighthouse, loftier and more efficient than any work ever constructed by man. Volcanoes, with all their danger, are not without their uses.

A little after sunrise, a light breeze sprung up from the north, and by ten o’clock it blew pretty fresh. This was a head wind again, but we preferred it to a calm, as we were enabled to make some progress northward, by tacking. In a few hours, the clouds rose thick in the northwest, and the wind increased to a gale, with a violent chopping sea. We took in sail as fast as possible, but nothing could surpass the confusion and fright of the sailors. They ran fore and aft, as if out of their wits, and instead of pulling the ropes, did little else but cross themselves, fall on their knees, and pray to the Virgin Mary. I began to feel alarmed, though I had seen worse weather than this—and there was really no danger to the vessel with proper care—yet, with a crew half frightened to death, any accident might be the destruction of us all. The captain bawled to the sailors, who paid no attention to him, but bawled to one another, and cried, “Santissima Vergine! San Gennaro! Santa Rosolio!” and the names of forty other saints, male and female. My apprehensions became serious when I saw matters growing worse, instead of better. The crew did nothing which they should have done, and the vessel pitched, rolled, and floundered about, at the mercy of the winds and waves. The gale came on in harder gusts than ever; the sea dashed over the bows; and amid the roaring of the storm and the cries of the frightened wretches around me, I began to think it was all over with us. There was, however, one savage-looking fellow among the crew, whose looks gave me some hope: he was a real caitiff in appearance, and was evidently born to be hanged; therefore I concluded he could never be drowned.

Meantime, the masts were bending like twigs under the gale; the rigging was slack and crazy—worse than ever was seen on the clumsiest wood-thumper in Penobscot Bay. I saw it was impossible the spars could hold on much longer, unless the wind went down. Presently the foretopmast snapped short, just above the cap, and went over the side with an awful crash! The main-topmast followed almost immediately, and left us little better than a mere hulk. It is impossible to describe the scene of confusion and terror that followed. The miserable crew lost all courage and self-possession. They threw themselves upon their knees, and called upon the saints to save them. Had they behaved with the least coolness and discretion in the beginning of the gale, they might have guarded against this disaster. For my part, I almost gave myself over for lost; and as to my gallows-looking friend, I am quite certain that he lost for a time all hopes of dying by a rope. In fact, there was not a man in the whole crew but would have given his whole ragged wardrobe for the chance of a dry death. The vessel was now entirely unmanageable, and fell off with her broadside to the wind. A heavy sea came rolling on, and how we escaped being thrown on our beam-ends, I hardly know; but the vessel continued to roll and labor, with the sea dashing over the deck, to such a degree that I expected every moment would be our last. By good fortune at length she fell off still further, and brought her stern to the wind. The crew recovered from their fright sufficiently to attempt doing something to save their lives. With great exertions they got the wrecked spars clear, and set a little sail on the lower masts. By this help we began to scud before the wind. Having once more the vessel under some control, we gathered courage; but the gale was as furious as ever, and the sea increased in violence. We continued to scud for an hour and a half, when the cry of “terra! terra!” raised by the whole crew, announced the discovery of land, ahead. Such had been the hurly-burly, confusion, and terror on board, from the beginning of the gale, that not a man of the crew could guess where we were, or what land was in sight. Some thought it was Stromboli, and others imagined it to be the coast of Sicily. I now began to have more fear of the land than of the water, and wished for sea-room. Had there been any shoals in this quarter, we should infallibly have been shipwrecked; but fortunately there were none, as all the coasts have bold shores.

The land was high and mountainous, and we presently made it out to be the island of Lipari, about thirty miles from Stromboli. We steered as close to the island as we dared, and ran under the lee, where the height of the land broke the force of the gale. In this shelter we cast anchor, and found ourselves tolerably safe, with the probability that the gale would blow over in a few hours. I thanked Heaven for our escape; but formed a resolution never to trust myself at sea with Italian sailors again, as long as I had any other means of pursuing my rambles. In the midst of all these dangers, I would have given more for a couple of Yankee cabin boys than for the whole twenty lubbers of our valiant crew.

(To be continued.)

THE PILOT.

The curling waves with awful roar
A little boat assailed,
And pallid fear’s distracting power
O’er all on board prevailed,—

Save one, the captain’s darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm,
And, fearless, with composure smiled
At danger’s threatening form.

“And fear’st thou not?” a seaman cried,

“While terrors overwhelm?”

“Why should I fear?” the child replied,

“My father’s at the helm.”

Thus when our earthly hopes are reft,
Our earthly comforts gone,
We still have one sure anchor left—
God helps, and He alone.

He to our cries will lend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief,
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.

Turn, turn to Him, ’mid sorrows wild,
When terrors overwhelm,
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father’s at the helm.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER XIII.

Sick-room incidents and reflections.

In my last chapter I concluded the story which Raymond told me, and which I entitled the “School of Misfortune.” At the time, I supposed he only related it for my amusement, but I have since believed that he had a farther design; which was, to show me that wealth, used to puff up the heart with pride, is a source of positive evil; and that poverty, sickness, misfortune, humiliation—provided they make the heart tender toward mankind, and open new springs of sympathy in the soul—are like kind and gentle schoolmasters, teaching us the true art of happiness. I believe now, that Raymond intended to impress this great lesson on my heart, as well because it is useful to all, as because he probably foresaw approaching events, in relation to my own circumstances, which might make it specially needful to me.

There is nothing which more shows the advantages of civilization, than the care and kindness bestowed upon the sick, among Christian nations. With savages, the sick person is usually left to himself, where, like a wild beast, he must await, in solitude, the result of his disease. There is little sympathy offered to him—there is no kind hand to wipe the cold sweat from his brow; no watchful friend at his bedside to supply every want, and alleviate, as far as may be, every pain. Sickness with the savage is solitary and desolate; with Christians, though it has its pains, it has its alleviations. I suffered much during the period of my confinement, as well from my broken limb as the fever that raged in my veins. After this was past, I also suffered from excessive languor.

But still, in the midst of all this, and though my mind was pained with shame and mortification, for the folly which had brought these evils upon me, I had a sense of peace and happiness shining through it all. This was wholly derived from the kindness of my friends. When Raymond sat by my bed, his benignant eye resting upon me, I felt an indescribable degree of delightful emotion, composed, I believe, partly of gratitude, and partly of a confidence that all that could be done, would be done, in my behalf. Often, as I awoke from my sleep, and saw him patiently watching by me, the tears would gush to my eyes; but they were not tears of unhappiness. I think he perceived my emotion, and I believe he understood my feelings. One thing is certain—that sick-bed was the best schoolmaster of my life; it brought me Raymond’s wise counsel; it brought me wholesome shame for my folly; it taught me my dependence on others. It also taught me one other lesson—and that is, never to distrust the kindness and virtue of my fellow-men. It seemed to open a window into the human heart, letting light and sunshine in, where people are too apt to see nothing but selfishness and darkness.

This latter lesson was enforced by many circumstances. Not only was my bosom touched by the kindness of Raymond, but also by that of my uncle. Twice each day did he come to see me, and he always treated me with more tenderness than seemed to belong to his nature. He was a hale man himself, and it was his boast that he had never had a sick day in his life. Indeed, he had little sympathy for sickness, and usually expressed himself in terms of contempt toward everybody that chanced to be less robust than himself. When I was at the height of my fever, he insisted that all I wanted, in order to make me well again, was some roast beef and raw brandy! Still, he did not interfere with the course prescribed by the physician, and took pains to see that every thing was done for me that was deemed useful or necessary.

My companions of the village often sent to inquire after me, and Bill Keeler frequently stole in just to look at me, and say, “God bless you, Bob!” All these things went to my heart; but nothing affected me more than an event which I must notice with some detail.

The schoolmaster of the village was one of those men who seek to accomplish every object by some indirect means. He was what is called a cunning man, and was, withal, exceedingly fond of power, in the exercise of which he was capricious, tyrannical and unjust. At first he treated me with the greatest attention, and in fact picked me out as one of his favorites, upon whom he lavished his smiles and his praises. He had great faith in flattery, and believed that any person, young or old, might be caught by it; and while it seemed to be his object to propitiate me, he laid it on pretty thick. I was well enough pleased with this for a time, though I had a sort of distrust of the man who could condescend to such means, and enter into such schemes of policy; and even though I yielded to his views, in many things, I had still no respect for, or confidence in, him.

There was in the school a boy by the name of William Bury, son of a poor Irishman, that lived in the village. He was remarkably small of his age, but exceedingly active, and withal lively and intelligent. At the same time he was shrewd and witty, and, perceiving the weak points of the schoolmaster’s character, occasionally made them the target of his wit. As the master rendered each boy in the school a spy upon his fellows, he knew everything that was said and done; and poor Bill Bury was often punished for the freedom with which he indulged his tongue.

In process of time, Will and myself became the antipodes of the school: I was the favorite, and he the reprobate. Whatever he did was wrong: whatever I did was right. Under such circumstances, it was natural that we should be rivals, and it was, no doubt, a part of the plan of the politic schoolmaster, to keep us thus divided, that he might rule the more effectually.

During this state of things, several of the school boys were one day skating upon a river that ran along the western border of the town—Will and myself being of the number. It had been filled with heavy rains, and was now of considerable width and depth. In the deepest part there was a breathing-hole in the ice, which, of course, we all sought to avoid. As I was swiftly skating toward this place, with the intention of turning aside as I approached it, one of my skates struck a small stick, which brought me down, and—carried forward by the impetus of my course—I was instantly plunged into the opening of the ice. I sunk beneath the surface of the water for a moment, but then rose, and caught hold of the ice, which, however, broke in my hands as I grasped it.

It was but a few seconds before I was completely chilled; but, by this time, the boys around had raised a shout of terror, and several of them had gathered at a little distance, and were soon either silent with dismay, or raising idle screams for help. Among the number I noticed Bill Bury, and though I had been accustomed to speak lightly of him, I confess that at that fearful moment my only hope rested in him. Looking at me intently for a moment, and then casting a searching glance around, he sped away like an arrow. in the space of a minute, he returned, bringing a rail which he had plucked from a neighboring fence. Calling aloud for all around to give place, he laid the rail down upon the ice, and dexterously slid it across the opening, pushing it so close as to bring it within my reach. I was, however, so benumbed, that, in attempting to take hold of it, I lost my grasp of the ice, and sunk senseless beneath the wave.

Will hesitated not an instant, but plunged into the water, and, as I rose, he caught me in his arms. Grasping me tight by the right arm, while he held on to the rail by the left, he supported himself and me; at the same time he commanded the boys to get two more rails. These were brought and laid across the opening, and thus support was furnished for two of them to come and lift us out.

In this way my life was saved: I owed it to the courage, skill, and devotedness of Will Bury—my rival, and, as I had esteemed him, my enemy. I was not so base as to overlook his generous conduct, or to permit the relation in which we stood to abate my praises of his noble action. But the schoolmaster, being one of those people who have always a selfish object in everything they say and do, fearing that his entire system of tactics would be broken up if Will and I should become friends, took a different course. He indeed praised Will for an act that no one, it would seem, could fail to admire; but, at the same time, he sought every occasion, from that day, to ruin him in my estimation. At the same time he tried, in many cunning and sly ways, to poison Will’s mind with jealousy of me.

It was not long, therefore, before we were again in antagonist positions, and at last an open breach took place between us. In process of time, Will went to learn a trade of a carpenter, at the distance of a mile or two, and then I seldom saw him. Whenever we met we did not speak to each other. This was the state of things, when the accident happened which laid me on a bed of sickness. While I was recovering, I often thought of Will Bury, and my heart reproached me keenly for permitting my better feelings to be turned against him. In short, I yearned to see him, and it was while I was one day thinking about him, that I saw him come softly to the door and ask Raymond how I was. I instantly called him to my bedside, and I never felt a warmer emotion than when he came, and I threw my arms around his neck. He, too, was much affected, and tears—the first I ever saw the gay-hearted fellow shed—fell upon my cheek. From that day we were friends; and I thus learned to put a just value upon a generous heart—though it may belong to a poor boy.

(To be continued.)

A Little Child’s Joy.

What joy it is, from day to day,
To skip and sing, and dance and play—
To breathe the air, to feel the sun,
And o’er the spangled meadows run.

What joy to move my limbs about,
To hoop and halloo, call and shout,
Among the woods, and feel as free
As any bird upon a tree.

What joy, when hungry, ’tis to eat,
What pleasure in our daily meat;
How sweet, when sleep the eyelids close,
To sink in calm and soft repose.

What joy, as morn begins to break,
Refreshed and vigorous to wake—
To feel, amid the dews and flowers,
New life bestowed on all my powers.

But who bestows this constant joy

On every little girl or boy?

’Tis God, our Father, bright and wise,

Whose goodness every joy supplies.

Then let me love and praise the Lord,
And strive to know his holy Word;
To do no wrong, and think no ill,
And evermore perform his will.

The Mammoth.

In several of the United States persons have frequently found the bones of a huge animal, called the Mammoth, or Mastodon. One skeleton, nearly complete, has been found, and set up in Peale’s Museum, in Philadelphia.

There is no such creature to be found now, on the earth, as a Mastodon—nor has there been, since the memory of man. It seems that it must have resembled an Elephant, but was twice as large.

In Siberia, a few years ago, a fisherman discovered the body of a Mastodon, imbedded in the ice: the skin was nearly entire, and it was covered with woolly hair. After about two years, this body thawed out, and fell to the ground from the elevated place in which it was first discovered. The flesh, as well as skin, gradually disappeared, but the bones were secured, and being taken to St. Petersburgh, in Russia, were set up in a museum, where they are still to be seen.

The remains of many other animals, now extinct, are found in different countries, as well as traces of vegetables, such as are not met with now on the face of the earth. This is a very interesting subject, and I propose hereafter to say more about it.

Geordie and the Sick Dog.

AN ENGLISH STORY.

It was Saturday afternoon, and had been longed for all the week by little Geordie, as he was called, for he was a very little fellow. Geordie had built himself a boat, and had promised to give it a fine sail in a pond, not a great way from the house in which he lived, called the fen ditch.

So away he went, before he had quite eaten his dinner, with his boat in one hand, and the remains of a slice of bread and butter in the other; for his mother was a poor woman, and Geordie did not get meat every day, and never on a Saturday.

But his cheeks were rosy, and his eye was bright, and his ringlets laughed in the wind as he ran along, looking at his boat with eyes of delight all the way, and every now and then taking a huge mouthful, and then stopping for breath, for fear the dry crumbs should be blown down his chest.

There was a beautiful breeze, as he called it,—for he called everything beautiful that pleased him. He had a beautiful piece of bread and butter; and a beautiful knife; and a beautiful pair of shoes,—only his toes peeped through them.

He had a kind, cheerful, and tender heart, and so everything appeared beautiful to him, and few things had the power to make him discontented or peevish; but, just as Geordie got over the Warren hills, which led to the place of his destination, he saw Harry Dyke, the groom at the great house of Lady Clover, coming over the swale, as it was called, with several of the boys of the village dancing about him, apparently in great delight.

When he came nearer, he found that Harry was carrying, wrapped up in a piece of an old sack, a little dog, which Geordie recognised as being one which he had before seen, with its two fore paws leaning over the ledge of the sash-pane in Lady Clover’s carriage, when she drove through the village.

One of the boys had got a couple of brick-bats, and a long piece of cord, and seemed very officious. He called out to Harry, “Harry, let me throw him in, will you?—there’s a good fellow. But wo’n’t you give him a knock on the head,—just one knock to dozzle him?”

“Why, they are going to drown that little pet-dog, that us children used to say, lived a great deal better than we did; and, when I have been very hungry, I have often wished I was Lady Clover’s lap-dog, for I heard say that she sometimes gave it rump-steak for its dinner, with oyster-sauce.” So thought little Geordie to himself; he did not, however, say anything.

“O! here is little Geordie,” said one of the boys. “Geordie, Geordie, come and have some sport!—we are going to drown a dog in the ditch.”

“What are you going to drown it for?” said Geordie.

“O! to have some fun, I suppose. No, it is not that; it is because my lady can’t bear the nasty thing—it has got the mange, or some disorder. There;—do not touch it. Don’t you smell it?”

The poor little dog looked at Geordie, and struggled to get out of the sacking, and gave a whine, as if it would be glad to get away from its enemies.

“Lay down, you beast,” said Harry, and gave it a severe blow on the head; “lay down; I’ll soon settle your business.”

By this time they had come to the fen brook, and the dog was placed on the ground, and taken from the sack-cloth in which it was wrapped. It was a deplorable looking creature, and its hair was off in several places; it yelped wofully as it looked around, while the boys began to prepare the noose and the brick-bats.

“O! do not drown him,” said Geordie; “pray, do not drown him. What are you going to drown him for?”

“Why, because he is sick, and ill, and dirty. He is no good to any one,” said Harry. “My lady used to be very fond of him; but now, he looks such an object, she says he is to be destroyed.”

“Give him to me,” said Geordie; “I’ll have him, and keep him till he gets well—he shall have half my dinner every day. Here, little dog, have this piece of bread and butter.”

“Go away, and leave the dog alone,” said the boy who had the cord; “you are not going to spoil our sport. Get out of the way with you.” And so he drew near, and fastened the cord to the dog’s neck.

“O! do give him to me! Pray don’t drown him,” said Geordie; “pray do not. O! do give him to me; I will make him well—indeed I will. Do let me have him?—there’s a good Harry Dyke,” and the tears came into Geordie’s eyes.

“Go along, Mr. Dog Doctor,” said Harry; “go along, Mr. Cry Baby.”

“Here, Harry, I’ll give you my boat for the little dog—it is a beautiful boat; here, put it into the water instead of the dog—do, do, do;” and so Geordie thrust the boat into Harry’s hand, and, without waiting to settle the bargain, laid hold of the dog.

“Leave go of him,” said the boy with the cord and the brick-bats, “leave go, I tell you; if you do not, it shall be the worse for you. Leave go, or”——

“Ay, you may rap my knuckles,” said Geordie, “I do not mind that.—Harry Dyke, Harry Dyke, am I not to have the dog, and you have the boat?” said he, struggling.

“O! I do not care about it,” said Harry; “take him, if you will have him; the boat will do for my brother Tom, and I wish you joy of the bargain.”

The other boys hearing this, were much disconcerted; and would, no doubt, have molested Geordie still further, but the little fellow no sooner heard Harry’s tacit consent, than he immediately set off at full speed, with the dog under his arm, in the direction of home.

When he reached his home he was quite out of breath, and his mother was fearful something had happened to him. “Why, Geordie, Geordie, what is the matter with you; and what have you got under your arm?”

Geordie laid down the dog, and the sight of the poor creature, whose looks told the state of disease in which it was, made the good woman quite afraid to have it in the house; and, without hearing anything of the circumstances connected with the poor animal, or giving Geordie time to explain, she declared it should not set foot in the house, and drove Geordie and his purchase out of it together; telling the latter to take it from whence it came, and that the house was not to be converted into a hospital for sick dogs.

Geordie was more disconsolate than ever; he went into the fields, with the dog under his arm: now be laid it down, and patted it; then he talked to it, and, in his childish manner, tried to comfort it. The poor creature looked up to Geordie, and wagged its tail, and seemed quite glad to find somebody could feel for it.

“Ay, that is the way of these ladyfolks,” thought Geordie to himself; “they like their pets, and fondle them enough while they look pretty and frisk about, and play about; but, when they get sick, and ill, or old, then they hang and drown them. I wonder what makes them do it.”

What to do with the dog Geordie knew not. At last, however, he bethought himself that he would take him up into a little loft, over a small stable which his father had, and there make him a bed with some nice hay, and try and make him better.

So he mounted the ladder, and got into the loft. He soon made the poor thing a bed, and then he thought he would get him something to eat; but Geordie had no money. He had, however, a good many marbles, for Geordie was a capital hand at ring-taw; and so he took his marble-bag, and went into the green, where several boys were playing, and very soon sold his marbles. They produced four-pence, for there were more than fifty, at sixteen a penny.

He then bought some dog’s-meat at the butcher’s, and a halfpenny worth of milk, and a halfpenny worth of sulphur, to mix with the milk; for somebody once said, in his hearing, that sulphur and milk were good physic for dogs.

He then washed the animal, and fed him; and what with washing, and physicing, and comforting, in a few days the poor dog regained his strength; in a few days more he regained his coat; and it was not many days more before he was as well as ever.

Geordie then ventured to bring him in to his father and mother; who, seeing the animal quite changed in appearance, and a lively, handsome, little dog, and not very old, were quite pleased with him; and no less pleased with their son’s conduct, when it was all explained to them.

Some weeks after this, Lady Clover came through the village, in her carriage, as usual, and was astonished to behold her little dog sitting, with his fore paws out of Geordie’s mother’s parlor window, just as he used to sit out in her ladyship’s carriage.

Lady Clover alighted, and went towards the house. The dog immediately began to bark, nor would the soft tones of the lady’s voice by any means pacify him. In a few minutes she learned the whole of her former pet’s history, and wished to have him again. “She would give Geordie a crown for him,” she said; but Geordie would not sell his dog.

“No, I thank you, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow,” said the little dog. “He might be sick again, my lady, and then he would be drowned, my lady.” “Bow-wow, wow—bow-wow, wow.”

“Keep the plaguesome creature quiet,” said her ladyship, “and hear me.”—“Bow-wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow,” said the little dog.

Her ladyship could not obtain a hearing, and left the cottage in high displeasure. “I would not sell him for his weight in gold,” said Geordie,—“not to Lady Clover.”

It was some years after this that Geordie grew almost a man, and Chloe, for that was the dog’s name, grew old; Geordie’s father had prospered in life; and, from being a poor cottager, had become a respectable farmer.

One night he returned from market with a considerable sum of money, arising from the sale of his crops, the principal part of which he had to pay away to his landlord in a few days.

Some evil-disposed fellows had obtained a knowledge of this money being in the house, and determined to break into and rob it—perhaps also to murder those who might oppose them.

It was a very dark night, and all were sound asleep, when Black Bill, and two companions, approached on tip-toe, to make an entrance in the back premises.

By means of a centre-bit they had soon cut a panel out of the wash-house door; they then entered the kitchen without making the least noise. Black Bill had a large carving-knife in one hand, and a dark lantern in the other, and, supposing the money to be in the bed-room, was mounting the stairs, to take it at any hazard.

The stairs creaked with the weight of the robber, and in a moment Chloe aroused the whole house with her barking—her shrill voice was heard in every room. In a moment Geordie was up, and his father’s blunderbuss at his shoulder.

“Speak, or I will fire!” said he. No answer,—but a scampering through the passage. Geordie followed—he heard the robbers making their escape; he fired—the robber fell.

Lights were procured. It was found that the fellow was only slightly wounded in the leg, which prevented his running away. In the morning it was discovered who the robber was—it was the very boy, now grown a man, who had the cord and the brick-bats!

Chloe did not live long after this, but died of sheer old age; not, however, you see, till she had amply repaid the kindness which had been bestowed upon her by Geordie.—Learn from this, my little readers, a lesson of humanity!

The Sable-Hunter.

CHAPTER V.

A dissertation upon going on foot.—A fearful adventure with wolves.

Having taken leave of their Tungusian friends, the travellers proceeded on their journey, hoping, before many days, to reach Yakootsk—a large town on the Lena, and the great fur market of eastern Siberia. Here they intended to stay a few days, and then proceed down the Lena, in pursuit of game. Alexis expected also to find a letter there, from his sister, which was to be sent by the mail, and which would, of course, travel faster than the pedestrian party.

Incited, therefore, by several motives, the adventurers pressed cheerily forward upon their journey. But it was now October, and the ground was covered with snow. Every day, indeed, more or less snow fell, and the hunters found their progress much impeded by it. But in travelling, as in almost everything else, practice makes perfect. A man who is well trained to walking, can travel farther in a month than a horse; and as the power of going from place to place, without being dependent on horses, railroads, or even money, is a great thing, I advise all young persons—particularly young men—to learn to perform journeys on foot. The best way to travel over a country, is to go as a pedestrian. You can then stop and see the people along the road, and thus get acquainted with their manners and customs; their ways of living, acting and thinking.

Some of the pleasantest passages in my own life, occurred when I was journeying on foot; and they are perhaps more delightful in my recollection, that I had then a good, sound pair of legs—and now, alas! one of them is replaced by a “timber toe!” If I had time, I could relate many little incidents, to show that a traveller on foot is ever welcomed to the hut, the log-cabin, or the farm-house, along the road; and that his stories, his news, or even his company, are esteemed good pay for his lodging and his fare.

But I must proceed with my story of the sable-hunter—or I shall never get through with it. When I began, I expected to despatch it in two or three chapters; but the journey, as well as old Linsk’s tongue, is much longer than I expected.

For some time after the party started, Alexis found his feet sore and his limbs weary, at night—and more than once, he felt homesick and discouraged. But he was a youth of much energy of character, and he felt the importance of making a great effort in behalf of his father and sister, upon whose happiness the whole power of his soul was now concentrated. Beside these motives to effort, Linsk took pains to enliven the spirits of his party, by putting a cheerful face upon things, and by telling his tales, of which he seemed as full as a hive is of bees. And there was this difference between Linsk’s tongue and the little honey-makers—that while they grow torpid as the cold weather comes on, his organ of speech seemed to wag all the faster for it. A flurry of snow was usually a prelude to a story, and a real storm seldom failed to bring out something interesting. Alexis remarked that the tale was always lively in proportion as the day was dark, or the journey tedious; and Linsk seemed, indeed, as ready to attack blue-devils with a joke, as he was to send a bullet after a bear. I note these things with some particularity, because I conceive that cheerfulness is a great virtue, and that it is of infinite importance in those passages of life which seem to demand of us patient endurance and protracted effort. Cheerfulness is the best of all stimulants, and I advise my young friends to lay in a good stock of it. It produces two excellent effects—it makes a person agreeable to himself and to others!

As I have said, the weather was now stormy, and the country through which the hunters were passing, was to the last degree dreary and desolate. It was generally level, or slightly undulating, and nearly destitute of vegetation. Occasionally they came to extensive forests, consisting of low pines and cedars, and sometimes there was a deep ravine, where the fir trees grew to a considerable height, and so matted together as hardly to admit the light between them.

One gloomy afternoon, as the party were winding their way through a forest, which covered a range of broken hills and ridges, the younger portion had gone before, leaving Linsk a little in the rear. Turning an angle in the road, they lost sight of him, and went on for several minutes, forgetting that he was not with them. By and by, they heard a sharp whistle, and then a rifle-shot, and then a call, that made the sullen woods echo, as if filled with twenty voices. They instantly looked around, and seeing that Linsk was not with them, turned back, and ran with all their might, knowing that something must have happened, to cause so loud and urgent a summons.

Turning the angle in the road, and pushing on for about a dozen rods, they came upon a scene which amazed and alarmed them. There stood old Linsk, battling for life, in the midst of a pack of wolves. One of the beasts lay dead at his feet; but another had hold of his leg, and a huge fellow, nearly as tall as the old hunter himself, was laying his paws upon him, and threatening to seize him by the throat.

The coolness of Linsk was admirable. He waited his opportunity, and then stretching himself to the full height, he brought down his powerful arm, and striking his dagger in the side of the wolf, laid him prostrate in an instant. He then bestowed a kick upon the rude fellow that had hold of his leg, and hitting him by the side of the head, made him roll over and over in the snow. Linsk fell upon him, but the creature, being only stunned, got up, and was about to run away, when the old hunter, now more furious than the wolves themselves, seized him by the tail, and whirling him round and round, sought to dash out his brains upon the frozen earth. The animal seemed amazed and frightened, and set up such a hideous howl, that all the rest of the pack took to flight; and even the beast upon which Linsk had fastened, slipped through his fingers and fled for life. Happening to take the direction of the young men, now coming up and near at hand, he came pretty near Alexis, who levelled his rifle and shot him through the head.

“Well done!” cried Linsk, clapping his hands; “well done, Alexis!—you’re a true hunter, after all! Whew! I am all out of breath. Bravo, boys! It’s the first bit of fun I have had since we set out! St. Nicholas! that fellow has stuck his forks into my calf, as if I was a piece of pork—the beast! and I suppose he expected to make a supper of me. I guess he’d found me the toughest bit of meat he ever undertook to carve. The knave!—to think of attacking an old fellow, all alone, while his companions had deserted him. The fool! to expect that an old hunter wouldn’t give, as well as take. However, he’s got his last supper; a bullet in the stomach is hard of digestion, and so he’s finished. Poor fellow—I can’t help liking a wolf, after all!”

While Linsk was uttering this last observation, Alexis came up, and although he was curious to know why his old friend could have an affection for an animal that had just threatened his life, and actually thrust his fangs into his flesh, he did not attempt now to inquire into the subject. The hunter was, indeed, in too great a state of excitement for any deliberate conversation. He went on, with one exclamation after another, describing, by snatches, the attack of the wolves, and his own feats in the fray.

After spending some time on the spot, and taking a view of the several animals that had been slain, they proceeded on their way. Linsk was greatly excited by the adventure, and, having talked about it for some time, began to tell of other scenes of the kind, in which, at various times, he had been engaged. Some of these tales were worth repeating, and if I can remember them long enough, they shall appear in the next chapter.

(To be continued.)

The Tongue.

Every child has in his mouth a thing to talk with, called the tongue. This is made to tell the truth with. When the tongue tells a lie, it does that which is very wrong.

The tongue is made to say kind and pleasant things to our friends. When it says a saucy thing to anybody, it is a naughty tongue.

When the tongue says a disobedient word to a father or mother, it is a wicked tongue. When it says an unkind word to a brother or sister, it is a very bad tongue indeed.

When the tongue swears, it does that which God has expressly forbidden.

When the tongue speaks dirty words, it is a vile tongue. What little boy or girl would like to carry about such a tongue in his mouth?

Now, my young reader, let me ask you a few questions. What sort of a tongue have you? Does it always speak the truth? Does that tongue of yours ever say saucy words?

Does your tongue ever say any disobedient words to your parents? Does it ever say any unkind words to a brother or a sister? Does it ever swear? Does it ever utter any bad words?

O, my little friend, if your tongue ever does anything wrong, what shall be done? Can you tell me how to correct an evil tongue? I can tell you. Let every child take good care of his tongue, and see that it never behaves ill.

What is Selfishness?

There was once a dog and a cat sitting by a kitchen door, when the cook came out and threw several pieces of meat to them.

They both sprung to get it, but the dog was the strongest, and so he drove the cat away, and ate all the meat himself. This was selfishness; by which I mean, that the dog cared only for himself. The cat wanted the meat as much as he did; but he was the strongest, and so he took it all.

But was this wrong? No,—because the dog knew no better. The dog has no idea of God, or of that beautiful golden rule of conduct, which requires us to do to others as we would have them do to us.

Dr. Watts says,—

“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For ’tis their nature too.”

But children have a different nature, and a different rule of conduct. Instead of biting and fighting, they are required to be kind and gentle to one another, and to all mankind.

Instead of being selfish, like the dog, they are commanded to be just and charitable, by which I mean, that they should always give to others what is their due, and also give to others, if they can, what they stand in need of.

If a child snatches from another what is not his, he is selfish, and very wicked. If a child tries in any way to get what belongs to another, he is selfish, and is as bad as a thief or a robber. Selfishness is caring only for one’s self. It is a very bad thing, and every child should avoid it. A selfish person is never good, or happy, or beloved.

How miserable should we all be, if every person was to care only for himself! Suppose children and grown-up people, were all to be as selfish as cats and dogs. What constant fighting there would be among them!

How dreadful would it be to see brothers and sisters snarling at each other, and pulling each other’s hair, and quarrelling about their food and their playthings! We ought to be thankful that God has given us a higher nature than that of beasts, and enabled us to see and feel the duty of being kind and affectionate to one another.

And as we can see and feel this duty, we ought to be very careful always to observe it.

A Thought.—There are one thousand million people in the world. Each individual has a heart, and that heart beats about seventy times a minute. By means of this beating of the heart, the blood is sent over the body, and life is sustained. How great must that Being be, who can keep one thousand millions of hearts beating seventy times every minute—thus sending the blood through the veins and arteries of one thousand millions of people!

WINTER.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY G. J. WEBB.

’Tis winter; ’tis winter; the morning is gray:

A cold looking sky is above us to-day;

And see, where the hilltops are naked and brown,

The pretty white snowflakes come quietly down.

They come in their beauty, like spirits of light,

And wrap the chilled earth with a mantle of white:

Beneath it the daisies are sheltered and warm,

And safe from the blasts of the pitiless storm.

And soon, when the sunbeams of summer shall come,

They’ll start up anew from their snow-covered home:

They’ll spread their green leaves over valley and plain,

And catch the bright dews in their blossoms again.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.—No. 6.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

CHAPTER X.

Second attempt against Chili.—Valdivia reaches Mapocho.—Founds the city of St. Jago.—Temper of the natives.—Terrible battle.—Sends to Peru for help.—Officers taken.—Their treacherous escape.—Valdivia Perseveres.—Final success and arrangements.

The next who attempted the conquest of Chili, was Pedro de Valdivia, a Spanish adventurer, and, like all the others, eager to distinguish himself, and to gain a fortune. However, he was not so cruel and avaricious as many of the adventurers. He determined to establish a permanent settlement in Chili. He began his march in the year 1540, with 200 Spaniards, and a numerous body of Peruvian auxiliaries; he had also some monks, several women, and a great number of European quadrupeds, with everything requisite for a colony.

He pursued the same route as Almagro, but, as it was in the summer, he passed the Andes without trouble, and entered Copiapo. But he found a cool reception, though it was warm weather. The people had learned the fate of Peru, and were determined not to allow their country to be plundered by the Spaniards, if they could help it.

They, of course, began to attack Valdivia, on all sides; but still the Spaniards made good their way, and reached the province of Mapocho, now called St. Jago. This lies about 600 miles distant from the confines of Peru. It was a beautiful country, pleasant and fertile, and had such a large population, that its name was interpreted to signify “the land of many people.” It lies upon the mountains of the Andes, and is 140 miles in circumference. The mountains in the north part abounded with gold, and in the east were rich mines of silver.

Valdivia admired the country, and determined to possess it. He accordingly began his settlement, by founding a city, which he named St. Jago, in honor of that apostle. At that time, Christians really believed that God was well pleased with having his followers conquer the heathen; and the most cruel and wicked of the Spanish adventurers always made a parade of their religion, or rather, their superstitions.

Valdivia went on, for a time, very successfully with building his city; but the natives were forming plans to destroy him. These he suspected, and seized and confined a number of their chiefs. Still, he was not at ease, and, wishing to watch their movements, he took sixty horse, and went out to scour the country. The Mapochians in the vicinity, who were watching for such an opportunity, immediately fell upon the colony with terrible fury, burned the half-built houses, and assailed the citadel, where the inhabitants had take a refuge, on all sides.

The battle began at day-break, and was continued till night; fresh troops of Indians constantly pouring in to fill the places of those shot down by the Spaniards. The commander of the fort sent, during the night, a messenger to Valdivia, who immediately returned. The Indians were thus attacked on both sides; the musketry and horse made a terrible slaughter among them; they had no arms but bows and slings, yet they fought most furiously, till nearly all their army was destroyed.

Valdivia thus relieved the siege, and rebuilt the city; but, for six years, the natives were constant in their attacks; they cut off the Spaniards at every opportunity, destroyed the crops, and, finally, rendered all the fertile plains around St. Jago uncultivated and desert; and then retired to the mountains.

The Spanish soldiers had become heartily tired of this fighting life. A few battles did very well, but to spend year after year in warfare was not at all comfortable. So they finally determined to kill their general, and then return to Peru. Valdivia discovered the conspiracy, and finally succeeded in quelling it.

About the same time, he obtained possession of a rich gold mine, in the valley of Quillota; and, by distributing the gold freely among his men, he found that they soon grew contented. But he discovered that he needed more soldiers, as the natives were far from being subdued; and he had constantly to keep a detachment of troops to guard the miners.

At length, Valdivia resolved to send, by land, two of his captains, Monroy and Miranda, with six companions, whose spurs, bits, and stirrups he directed to be made of gold, hoping thus to entice the Spaniards in Peru to come to his assistance.

These messengers were escorted by thirty horsemen, who were to accompany them to the borders of Chili. They reached Copiapo: here they were attacked by one hundred archers, commanded by Corteo, an officer of the Ulmen. The Spaniards were all slain, except the two captains, who, dreadfully wounded, were taken prisoners, and brought before the Ulmen.

That prince resolved to put them to death; but, at the solicitation of his wife, the Ulmena, he finally consented to spare them. She unbound them with her own hands, dressed their wounds, and treated them like brothers. When they were fully recovered, she desired them to teach her son the art of riding, as several of the horses had been taken alive in the defeat.

The two Spaniards readily consented to her request, hoping that they should find means to escape. This was natural; nor would it, perhaps, have been wrong, had they not committed a most horribly ungrateful crime to effect it. They were not strictly guarded, and frequently rode out with the young prince. One day, as this youth, the son of their benefactress, was riding between them, escorted by his archers, and preceded by his lance-bearer, Monroy suddenly attacked him with a poiniard he had concealed, and gave him several mortal wounds; while Miranda wrested the lance from the officer; and, in the confusion caused to the escort by seeing their young prince bleeding on the ground, these two treacherous Spaniards easily escaped.

But this breach of faith was ultimately of great disadvantage to the Spaniards. That one unprovoked murder probably caused the death of hundreds; because the natives never, after the occurrence, seemed to have put any faith in the professions of the white men.

The succeeding year or two were spent by Valdivia in fighting, and founding cities. The natives were gradually losing strength and hope; many were slain in the wars, and some yielded to what seemed inevitable, and became the allies of the Spaniards.

Still, there was much for these invaders to endure. At one time, the Copiapians, to revenge the murder of their prince by Monroy, killed forty Spaniards; and, not satisfied with that vengeance, they persuaded the Coquimbanes to massacre all the inhabitants of a colony which had been founded in their territory, and to raze the city of Serena, which Valdivia had caused to be built, to its foundations.

In 1549, the city was rebuilt in a more advantageous situation: but every advantage had to be purchased at the point of the sword, and paid for by human blood.

After a contest of nine years, and almost incredible hardships, the Spanish power seemed established in that part of Chili which had, formerly, been under the dominion—or, rather, superintendence—of the Peruvian empire. Valdivia then proceeded to distribute the conquered lands among his officers, as had been done in the West Indies and Peru. Then he was ready to undertake the conquest of the remaining provinces of Chili.

He accordingly began his march, with a pretty large army of Spaniards and Indians, and proceeded 240 miles, to the bay of Penco, where, on the 5th of October, 1550, he founded a third city, called Conception.

He had now arrived in the vicinity of the Araucanians; and, before we proceed with the story of the war, I will give you some account of the character and manners of this brave, free, and, in many respects, wonderful people.

CHAPTER XI.

Chili continued.—Customs, manners, arts, character, religion, language, &c., of that nation of Chili called Araucanians.

The word auca signifies free; and the Araucanians pride themselves on their liberty and independence. They possess great strength of constitution, and enjoy their health and faculties till they are very old. They rarely begin to be gray before they are sixty or seventy, and are not bald or wrinkled till eighty.

Their complexion is of a reddish brown, but much clearer than that of any other Indians. One tribe, the Boroanes, which live on the mountains, have as fair complexions, red and white, as Europeans; but, in general, the Araucanians are well distinguished as “red men.” They have round faces, small, animated eyes, a rather flat nose, a handsome mouth, even and white teeth, and small feet and hands.

The men pluck out their beards, but the hair on their heads they permit to grow to a great length. It is coarse, and black, and they wind it in tresses around their heads, and on no account allow it to be cut. The women are delicately formed, and many of them, especially among the Boroanes, are very handsome.

Their moral qualities are superior to those of any other of the native nations of America. They are courteous, hospitable, faithful to their engagements, grateful for services rendered them, and, generally, generous and humane towards the vanquished. They are exceedingly brave and patriotic, and enthusiastic lovers of liberty.

These noble qualities are obscured by the vices inseparable from the half-savage state of life they lead, unrefined by literature, and unenlightened by the Christian religion. They are often guilty of drunkenness; they practise polygamy, and they are very proud of themselves, and entertain a haughty contempt for all other nations.

The men dress in the following manner: they wear a shirt, vest, and a pair of short, close breeches; and a cloak, called a poncho. It is an oblong piece of cloth, about three yards long and two wide, with an opening in the middle for the head—and is a very commodious and useful garment.

Their clothes are made of wool, which they manufacture into cloth; and all the dress, except the poncho, is colored a greenish blue. This is the favorite color of the nation; but the poncho may be either white, red, or blue, with stripes a span broad, on which are wrought the figures of flowers and animals, in all manner of colors, and the border is ornamented with a handsome fringe.

The Araucanians wear on their heads a bandage of embroidered wool, in the form of the ancient diadem. They raise this, as a mark of courtesy, when saluting any one; when going to war, they ornament it with beautiful plumes. They also wear, around the body, a long woollen girdle, handsomely wrought. Persons of rank wear woollen boots, of various colors, and leather sandals; but the common people always go barefooted.

The dress of the women is very modest and simple. It consists of a tunic, a girdle, and a short cloak: the tunic descends to the feet; it has no sleeves, and is fastened on the shoulders by silver brooches. The color of the dress is always blue, and the fashion is never varied. But women seldom “forget their ornaments;” and these Araucanian ladies decorate their hair, which, divided into tresses, is allowed to float gracefully over their shoulders, with a profusion of false emeralds, and they wear necklaces of glass, and rings of silver on every finger, if they can obtain them.

They build their houses of a quadrangular form; the walls are made of wood, plastered with clay, and sometimes of brick; and the roof is covered with rushes. The size of the dwelling corresponds with the number of women a man can maintain, as each wife has her own fire-place. The interior of these houses is very simple, as they have no more furniture than is absolutely necessary. They live in scattered villages, each family on lands inherited from its ancestors—the right of private property being sacredly established. They will not live in walled cities, because they think the walls are a mark of slavery.

They manufacture their cloth from the wool of the Chilihueque, or Araucanian camel. They make use of the spindle and distaff, and have two kinds of looms; the first is somewhat like our common loom. The women perform all the domestic manufacture, and are likewise expert at sewing. They had needles and looms when first discovered by the Spaniards; in short, all the arts I shall describe, existed among them then, in as great perfection as they do at the present day.

From the excellent clay of their country the men manufactured pots, plates, cups, and large jars to hold their fermented liquors. They baked their pottery in ovens, made in the declivity of hills; and they had the art of varnishing their ware. They also extracted gold, silver, copper, tin, and lead from the earth, purified it, and made a variety of curious and useful articles.

They had discovered the art of making salt upon the sea-shore; and, from the juice of plants and from mineral earths, they procured dyes of all colors for their clothes, and also knew how to fix the color, by means of a certain luminous stone. They used the bark of the tree guallai, as a substitute for soap, and obtained oil from the seeds of the madi.

They also manufactured baskets, mats, fishing-nets, ropes, and all their implements of labor and weapons of war. Their agricultural labors were considerable. They cultivated Indian corn, pulse of various kinds, potatoes, pumpkins, pepper, and large strawberries. They made use of spades, and a light plough, in tilling their grounds. They had domesticated the Chilihueque, an animal shaped like a camel, but having long hair, or rather, wool, which served for all purposes of making cloth. They had also hogs and domestic fowls in plenty.

Their government is like that of Venice—an aristocratic republic. They have three orders of nobility, the dignities of each hereditary in the male line; but these nobles, though they administer the laws, have no power to make laws, but are obliged to govern according to the customs and traditions of the people. The highest rank is the Toquis; next, Apo-Ulmenes; third, Ulmenes. But these chiefs have no power of exacting contributions, or taxes, from the people; nor can they call upon them for their service, except in time of war.

The offences which are deemed deserving capital punishment, are, treachery, murder, adultery, the robbery of any valuable article, and witchcraft. Husbands and fathers are not subjected to any punishment for killing their wives and children, as they are declared to be the natural masters of their lives. In this particular, the odious wickedness of barbarous life is most strikingly displayed. No influence, save that of the Christian religion, can protect women and children from oppression; and yet there are women in Christian countries, who appear indifferent to, or wholly insensible of, the precious privileges which the Gospel of Peace has bestowed on them!

The ulmenes are judges in all cases between the people; in questions of national importance, the whole body of nobles meet together in grand council.

Whenever the grand council determines to go to war, they elect a commander-in-chief; and he is chosen for his fitness, without regard to rank. Sometimes they elect one from the common class, if there is no one among the nobles more distinguished for bravery.

The new general assumes the title of toqui, and a stone hatchet; and all nobles and people take an oath of obedience to his orders. He is, in fact, dictator; but yet his power is not quite supreme, for he cannot put any one to death without the consent of his officers.

Every Araucanian is born a soldier and a patriot—all are ready to fight for their country; so that there is no difficulty in raising an army, which usually consists of five or six thousand men. The toqui appoints his lieutenants; these appoint subordinates; and so on, till the army is organized.

The army is at present composed of infantry and horse. They formerly had only foot-soldiers; but, perceiving the great advantage which the Spaniards derived from their cavalry, the shrewd Araucanians set themselves to providing horses, and, in 1568—only seventeen years after their first opposing the Spanish arms—they were able to furnish several squadrons; and, in 1585, they had their cavalry regularly organized.

The infantry is divided into regiments and companies; each regiment has 1000 men, and contains ten companies. The cavalry is divided in a like manner. They have all their particular standards, but each bears a star, the national device. The soldiers are not clothed in uniform, but all wear, beneath their usual dress, cuirasses of leather, hardened by a peculiar mode of dressing; and their shields and helmets are made of the same material.

The cavalry is armed with swords and lances; the infantry with pikes and clubs, pointed with iron. They formerly used bows and slings; but, when fighting with the Spaniards, they found these would not do; so, to avoid the effect of the musketry, they adopted pikes and clubs, and immediately closed in and fought hand to hand with the enemy.

They used fire-arms with great skill, whenever they took powder and muskets from the Spaniards; but, as soon as the powder was expended, they returned to their own way of fighting. They were, however, very anxious to learn the secret of making powder, and, it is reported, tried one very extraordinary experiment.

There happened to be a few negroes with the Spanish troops; these, the Araucanians thought, were the powder magazines; or, at least, that the Spaniards used them in making powder. So, happening to take a poor black man prisoner, the Araucanians first covered him with stripes from head to foot, and then burned him to a coal, in order, by reducing it to powder, to obtain the so much wished for secret. But the cruel experiment failed!

The troops of this warlike nation are very vigilant, and always choose excellent positions. They are, moreover, acquainted with the art of constructing military works, and of protecting themselves with deep ditches, which they guard with branches of thorn.

When action becomes necessary, they separate the cavalry into two wings, and place the infantry in the centre; the files being arranged in such a manner that a pikeman and one who carries a club always fight side by side. They are brave, indeed utterly fearless, in battle.

Though they know full well that the first ranks will be exposed to almost certain destruction, they eagerly contend with each other for these posts of honor. As soon as the first line is cut down, or swept away by the cannon, the second occupies its place, and then the third, pressing on, until they succeed in breaking the front ranks of the enemy. In the midst of their fury, they preserve the strictest order, and perform all the evolutions directed by their officers. The most terrible of these are their club-bearers, who, Hercules-like, destroy or beat down all before them.

The prisoners they take are usually made slaves, until they are exchanged or ransomed. They seldom put a prisoner to death.

The religious system of the Araucanians differs, in some respects, from that of other Indian nations. They acknowledge a Supreme Being, the author of all things, whom they call Pillan—a word derived from pulli, the soul, and signifies the supreme essence. This Supreme Being is the great Toqui of the invisible world, and has a number of subordinate spirits, to whom is entrusted the administration of affairs of less import. There is a god of war, a benevolent deity, and the guembu, a malignant being, the author of all evil. If a horse tires, the guembu has rode him; if the earth trembles, this evil spirit has given it a shock; and he suffocates all who die,—so think the Araucanians.

Then the people believe in genii, who have charge of all created things, and who, united with the benevolent meulor, are constantly at war with the power of the wicked guembu. These genii are of both sexes—the females are lares, or familiar spirits, and always watch over mankind. Every Araucanian thinks he has one in his service. They sometimes invoke these deities, and implore their aid on urgent occasions; but they have no temples of worship, nor idols of any description; nor do they offer any sacrifices, except in case of some great calamity, or on concluding a peace. At such times they sacrifice animals and burn tobacco.

They believe in the immortality of the soul. This consolatory truth is deeply rooted, and seems innate with them. They think the soul, when separated from the body, goes to a country west, beyond the sea: one part of this land is pleasant, and filled with everything delightful—it is the abode of the good; the other part—desolate and wretched—is the habitation of the wicked.

Missionaries are much respected, and well-treated among them, and have full liberty of preaching their tenets; but yet, very few of the natives have ever been converted to Christianity. Still, they would seem to be the most likely of any of the Indian nations, to become, by suitable instruction, rational and real Christians. Their mode of worship, or manner of thinking respecting religious subjects, is more pure and spiritual than that of any other heathen people; and if books, in their own beautiful language, could be furnished them, and schools could be established among them, and good men and women, teachers of righteousness, in example as well as precept, would devote themselves to the work of instruction, it seems as though this interesting nation might be soon raised to the high rank of a civilized and Protestant Christian republic.

The Araucanians divide time as we do, into years, seasons, months, days, and hours; but in a different method. They commence their solar year on the 22d of December, calling this solstice Thaumathipantu, the head and tail of the year; and they denominate June, Udanthipantu, the divider of the year, from its dividing it into two parts.

They divide the year into twelve months, of thirty days each, and add five intercalary days to make out the solar year. The months are named from the most remarkable things produced at the time: thus—January is called Avuncujer, the month of fruit; February, Cogi-cujer, the month of harvest—and so on. The natural day is divided into twelve parts, six being allotted to the day, and six to the night; so that the Araucanian hour is as long as two of ours.

In astronomy, they have made wonderful progress, considering that they have had no written signs, to perpetuate their observations. They have divided the stars into constellations, and named these from the number of remarkable stars that compose them. Thus, the Pleiades are called Cajupal, the constellation of six; and the Antartic Cross, Meleritho, the constellation of four; because the first has six stars that are very apparent, and the last four.

They are well acquainted with the planets, and believe that these globes are so many earths, inhabited in the same manner as ours; for this reason they call the sky Guenu-mapu—the country of heaven; and the moon, Cuyen-mapu—the country of the moon. They believe comets to be exhalations or vapors from the earth, inflamed in the upper regions of the air; and never exhibit any fear at the sight of these, or of eclipses of the sun or moon. It is plain that they consider these as natural phenomena, but whether they know the course of eclipses or not, cannot be gathered from the imperfect knowledge we have of their language.

The Araucanians hold oratory in high estimation. The eldest son cannot succeed to the right of his birth, if he is deficient in this talent. So parents accustom their young sons, from childhood, to speak in public, and carry them to the national assemblies, where the best orators of the country display their eloquence.

They are as careful as ever were the Greeks, to speak their language correctly, and to preserve its purity. They are so particular about introducing foreign words, that when a foreigner settles among them, they oblige him to relinquish his name, and take another in the Chilian language.

The speeches of their orators are in the Asiatic style, highly figurative, allegorical, and elevated. They abound with parables and apologues; and yet they are seldom deficient in all the essential parts required by the rules of rhetoric; they have a suitable exordium, a clear narrative, a well-founded argument, and a pathetic peroration.

Their poets are called gempin, signifying lords of speech. What a beautiful and expressive name! Unrestrained enthusiasm is the prime characteristic of their poetry. The principal subject of the songs is the exploits of their heroes, somewhat in the manner of Ossian. Their verses are composed mostly in stanzas of eight or eleven syllables—a measure that appears most agreeable to the human ear. They are blank, but occasionally a rhyme is introduced, according to the taste of the poet.

The Araucanians have three kinds of physicians: the ampines, who employ only simples. These doctors are skilful in their knowledge of herbs, and understand pretty well the curing of most common diseases. Then there are the vileus, a class of doctors who believe that all contagious disorders proceed from insects: these are the regular physicians, and despise the poor herb-doctor as much as our own regular-bred M. D.’s do the quacks. The third class—machis—maintain that all serious disorders proceed from witchcraft, and pretend to cure by supernatural means; for which reason they are employed in desperate cases, when the exertions of the other doctors have failed. Sometimes the three kinds of physicians are called to hold a regular consultation—but they seldom agree.

Besides these professors of medicine, there are surgeons—gutorne—who remedy dislocations, and cure wounds and ulcers. And there is also a class who dissect bodies, in order to learn from the entrails if they are infected with poison; and in this way they obtain a tolerably correct notion of the human anatomy.

Before the arrival of the Spaniards, the Araucanians made use of bleeding, blistering, clysters, emetics, cathartics, and sudorifics—all which remedies have their peculiar names in their language. They let blood with the sharp point of a flint, fixed in a small stick; and they still prefer this instrument to a lancet. Almost all their medicines are obtained from vegetables.

The internal commerce—that is, the traffic among themselves—is entirely carried on by barter, and regulated by a kind of conventional tariff, according to which all commercial articles are appraised under the name of cullen, or payment, as was the custom in the time of Homer. Thus, a horse or bridle forms one payment; an ox, two—and so on.

Their external commerce is carried on, also, in the same way of barter; the Araucanians receive wine and European merchandise in exchange for ponchos, or Indian cloaks, horned cattle, horses, ostrich feathers, curiously wrought baskets, and other trifles.

The Spaniard who engages in this trade, applies directly to the heads of families. If they tell him he may trade, he proceeds to their houses, and distributes, indiscriminately, his merchandise to all those who may present themselves. When he has completed his sale, he gives notice of his departure, and all the purchasers hasten to deliver to him, in the first village he arrives at, the articles agreed upon as payment; and never has there been known an instance of the least failure of punctuality. Would that those who bear the name of Christians, would always observe as good faith in their contracts as these Indians!

The pride of this people has been before noted. They are as proud of their valor and liberty as ever were the Romans. They believe themselves the only people in the world that deserve the name of men! This high opinion of themselves makes them hold every other nation in great contempt. They call the Spaniards by names which signify vile soldiers and assassins. The other Europeans they call moruche, or strangers. But to each other they are all benevolence; and their language seems formed to express their kindness. They have six or seven very expressive words in their language for the term friend. For their relations of the most distant degree, they have terms which express particular regard and good will. In consequence of this mutual affection, they are always ready to assist each other. Not a beggar or an indigent person is to be found throughout all the Araucanian territory; even the most infirm and incapable of assisting themselves, are decently clothed. What a lesson should this furnish to Christian nations!

Nor is the benevolence of the Araucanian confined to his own countrymen: he is hospitable towards all strangers, of whatever nation; and a traveller may live in any part of the country, without the least expense.

They are very eloquent in expressing their good will, and sometimes rather tiresome in their compliments. They are naturally fond of honorable distinction, and they will not endure to be treated with the least contempt or neglect. If a Spaniard begins to speak to one of them with his hat on, the Indian immediately says—“Entugo tarmi curtesia”—take off your hat!

By attention and courtesy, anything may be obtained from them; and the favors they receive are always remembered; but ill-treatment exasperates them to such a degree, that nothing but revenge can appease them.

The Araucanians allow polygamy; a man may marry as many wives as he can purchase and maintain. This is the worst feature in their social policy, and seems almost the only obstacle which retards their civilization, or prevents them from becoming Christians. But even in these marriages, they show a higher sense of the natural laws of man, than the profligate Caribs did. The Araucanians, in their marriages, scrupulously avoid the more immediate degrees of relationship.

Their marriage ceremonies have very little formality, and consist in nothing more than carrying off the bride by pretended violence; and the bridegroom is obliged to give a variety of presents to the parents of the bride, and provide a grand entertainment for all the relations.

The first wife is always respected as the real and legitimate one; the others are called iardimo, or secondary wives. The first wife has also the authority of the mistress of the house; but the other wives are not always obedient, and the husband who has a number of these help-meets, has a deal of trouble to maintain harmony among them, though they generally treat him with great respect.

Celibacy is considered as ignominious. Old bachelors and old maids are called by names that signify old, idle, good for nothing.

Besides the usual female occupations of taking care of the house and children, spinning, weaving, and so on—that females in all countries perform—the women are not obliged to do much of the labor of living. But they pay the greatest attention to the cleanliness of their houses, sweeping them and the courts several times in the course of the day. Whenever they make use of any utensil, they immediately wash it.

The same attention to cleanliness is paid to their persons; they comb their hair twice a day, and once a week wash it with the soap made from the bark of the quillai; which keeps the hair very clean. There is seldom to be seen on their clothes the least spot of dirt.

The men are likewise equally fond of being neat and clean. In warm weather they bathe themselves several times a day, and it is rare, even in winter, that they do not bathe at least once a day.

Children are very kindly treated, and rarely, if ever, punished—the Araucanians holding it as an established truth, that chastisement only renders men base and cowardly.

The usual diet of this people is very simple. They are fond of Indian corn, and potatoes: of the last they have cultivated more than thirty different kinds, from time immemorial. Although they have both large and small animals, and birds in plenty, yet they eat but little flesh, and that is simply boiled or roasted. They rarely eat pork, though they know how to prepare black puddings and sausages; nor do they make much use of fish. They prefer bread and vegetables, especially potatoes, roasted, with a little salt.

Their usual drinks consist of various kinds of beer, and of cider, made from Indian corn, apples, and other fruits. They are extremely fond of wine, which they purchase from the Spaniards; but they have never taken any pains to cultivate the vine, which might be easily raised in the country.

The master of the house eats at the same table with his wives and children. The plates are earthen; the spoons and cups are made of horn and wood. The ulmenes, or nobles, have, in general, wrought plate for the service of their tables; but they only make use of it when they entertain some stranger of rank—then they make all the show possible, as they like to be considered rich. In summer, they are fond of dining in the shade of trees, which for this purpose are always planted round the house. Besides dinner, supper, and breakfast, they have, every day, their luncheon, which consists of a little flour of parched corn, steeped in hot water in the morning, and in cold in the evening.

Such is their common mode of living; but, on the occasions of funerals, marriages, or any other important event, they make great entertainments. Sometimes, three hundred persons are present, and the feasting continues two or three days. These are called cahuin, or circles, because the company seat themselves in a circle around a large branch of cinnamon wood.

They have also a custom, somewhat similar to our New England raisings, huskings, and quiltings. When there is any work which requires the combined aid of several persons—such as threshing their grain, building a house, &c.—the Araucanians, or all who wish to partake of the feast, assemble, and work until the labor is completed. But they generally come in sufficient numbers to finish the job in a few hours, and then devote the remainder of the day to amusement.

Music, dancing and play, form their customary diversions. Their musical instruments are very rude, their voices rather harsh, and the manner of singing not very agreeable to a stranger. But their dances, of which they have several, are lively and pleasing. The men and women sometimes dance together, but oftener apart.

Their games are very numerous, and, for the most part, very ingenious; they are divided into sedentary and gymnastic. It is a curious fact, and worthy of note, that they have the game of chess, which they call comican, and which has been known to them from time immemorial. They have also a game, quechu, which is almost similar to our backgammon.

The youth exercise themselves frequently in wrestling and running, and playing ball, which they like exceedingly. But the penco is a favorite game, because it has some resemblance to the siege of a fortress—and they delight in war.

The penco is thus played. Twelve or more persons join hands, and form a circle, in the centre of which stands a little boy. Their adversaries, who are equal in number, and sometimes superior, endeavor by force or stratagem to break the circle, and obtain the boy, in which the victory consists. But this is no easy matter. The defenders make almost incredible efforts to keep themselves closely united, and the besiegers are often compelled, by weariness, to relinquish the attempt; and then the defenders shout for their victory.

The aboriginal inhabitants of Chili, from the ocean to the Andes, from Peru to Magellan, all speak the same language. It is a regular, harmonious, and rich language, and so elegant, expressive, and copious, that Europeans who have studied it, think the Chilians must, in former times, have possessed a much greater degree of civilization than at present; because mere savages could never have formed a dialect so perfect.

It differs from every other American language, not less in its words than in its construction. It is so copious, that a complete dictionary of it would require more than one large volume; and in sweetness and variety it greatly excels the other Indian dialects.

The Araucanians are very particular to teach their children to speak with propriety and elegance; and it is probably this care which has preserved the language so pure. They will not converse in Spanish, though they easily learn that language, or, indeed, any other; but they scrupulously adhere to their own tongue,—and it is through this medium that, if ever they embrace Christianity, they must be taught. It seems, from many circumstances, as though this people were peculiarly prepared to become Protestant Christians, whenever they can be instructed in the arts of reading and writing, and furnished with the Word of God.

Such are the character and manners of the Araucanians of the present day: most of the customs we have described are original, though a few of them have been derived from the Spaniards.

A Long Nap.

Did you ever see a bear? A bear is a creature as large as a small cow.—Some bears are black, some white, and some brown.

Bears live far away in the woods and mountains. They do not get together, as people do, and build houses: not they!

Every bear looks out for some hole in a tree, or cave in a rock, and there he makes his bed. If he can get enough to eat, he cares for nobody else.

When winter comes, bears of some kinds grow sleepy, and, crawling into a hole, or lying down beneath the shelter of thick trees, they shut their eyes and go to sleep. Like the little striped squirrel, and wood-chucks, and toads and lizards, they thus sleep till spring.

Lord Bacon.

The word bacon is usually applied to a piece of smoked pork, and sometimes means nothing more than ham. But, in the present case, it is applied to one of the greatest and most useful men that ever lived,—and this may show that the same word may signify very different things.

Now, this Lord Bacon—whose Christian name was Francis—as I have said, was a great and useful man; but what did he do? He was no warrior, and never fought a battle; he was no king, and never wore a crown; he was no giant, and never performed any great feat of bodily strength: but he did more for the good of mankind than any giant, king, or warrior. He taught the world how to think, how to reason, how to find out truth!

He was born in London, in the year 1561. He was bred a lawyer, and held office under Elizabeth, then queen of England. But, after a time, he offended the queen, and his hopes of high preferment were disappointed. After queen Elizabeth died, and James I. came to the throne, he was made a judge, and held several important stations, and at last was honored with the title of Viscount St. Albans—which meant that he was one of the nobles of the land; or, in other words, that he was to be called a lord.

But the offices and honors he enjoyed, were not the foundation of Bacon’s claims to the respect and gratitude of mankind. You must remember that he lived almost three hundred years ago; and then the people, even those who were learned, held many absurd opinions, and, what was the worst of all, they had false and foolish modes of reasoning. Thus it often happened, that even the learning and philosophy of those days rather led to error than to truth.

Now, Bacon applied himself to the teaching of better modes of thinking and reasoning. Instead of bewildering the mind with theories and fancies, he taught the world to study into facts; to gather stores of knowledge; and to make this knowledge the starting-point—the foundation of their philosophy. He taught this great and simple truth, and the result of it has been, that mankind, since his time, have discarded many absurd errors, and gone on making new and wonderful discoveries. Many of the great inventions, and much of the science and knowledge now current among mankind, are the result of Bacon’s wise and useful lessons.

This great man died in 1626; and though he did so much for the world, he can hardly be said to have led a happy life. He was once imprisoned in the Tower of London—a dreary old castle—fined 200,000 dollars, turned out of parliament, and declared unworthy of serving his country! Perhaps he did something wrong, though the general opinion is, that he suffered this on account of unjust accusations. He was liberated from the tower, and the fine was remitted by the king; but from this period, he lived in privacy, devoting himself to the writing of books. They are now held in great estimation, for their stores of wisdom.

Habits which concern Others.

Not only for our own sakes, but on account of all with whom we associate, it is our duty to take great care of our habits. The general principle which should lead us to do this is, that we cannot live for ourselves alone. We must think of others; we must speak and act with them in our minds. And we are bound to form such habits as shall tend to their good—to make us useful in the world. We must, in a word, deny ourselves. If, while we are children, we take pleasure in giving a part of what we enjoy, be it only a bunch of flowers, or an apple, to one of our school-mates, we shall thus prepare ourselves to make others good and happy, when we come to manhood. But a selfish habit will be very hard to change hereafter.

We should form the habit of associating with good persons. A lad may have many pleasant things about him; he may be witty, or bold, or smart; but, if he is coarse in his manners—if he is vulgar, profane, or addicted to falsehood, we should shun his company. We are apt to become like those with whom we freely associate; and although we do not mean to imitate their faults, and do not think there is any danger of it, yet we may soon fall into the same bad habits. To be safe, therefore, we should never trust ourselves unnecessarily with any but good people.

You may think it will be easy to break away from the company and acquaintance of a boy, when you find him to be very bad; but it will not be so. Many have been ruined for life by the friendships they have formed with vicious children, while at school with them. They continued to associate with them, and caught their vices in youth, and even up to manhood. If we wish to do good in the world, we must be good; and we cannot be good, if we are very intimate with bad persons.

It is our duty habitually to speak well of others. We are accustomed to do the opposite of this—to say all the bad things of others which we think the truth will allow. This is wrong. A little boy once said to his mother—“When will these ladies be gone, so that we can talk about them?” And what was to be said about those ladies? Probably the family were in the habit of speaking of the faults of their visiters. If there was anything that could be ridiculed in their dress or their remarks, then was the time to discuss it.

Now, we all know the power of habit; and if we could only learn to think what good things we could say of others, and keep all that was bad to ourselves, what an immense improvement there would be among school-children, and in the whole world! It is our duty to love all men; let us, therefore, try to speak well of every one, and we shall soon love them. If we talk much against them, we cannot love them.

We should practise punctuality, for the sake of others, as well as ourselves. He who is punctual, will accomplish far more in a day, than he who is not so. Washington was remarkable for this virtue. He once rode into Boston without any escort, because the soldiers were not punctual to meet him on the line, at the time they promised. His mother taught him, when a boy, to have certain hours for every employment, and to do everything at the appointed time. This habit helped, in his after life, to make him a good man. He was able to do what, without it, he never could have done.

We injure others by a neglect of punctuality. A girl says to herself—“It is a little too cold, or a little too warm, to go to school to-day;” or—“I feel a slight headache;” and so she remains at home. Now, she thus not only loses all she might that day have learned, but gives her teacher trouble. He must note her absence; and when the time comes for a recitation the next day, she is behind her class, and gives him and them farther trouble. We ought never to say—“It is only once—I will not do so again;” and think thus to excuse ourselves; for, from the force of habit, the oftener we are tardy, or otherwise fail in our duty, the more frequently shall we be likely to do so, and the more injury shall we do others, of course, by this fault. So that, on every account, we should be punctual.

Among the habits essential to a good character, is moral independence. We hear much said about being independent in regard to property. Some persons think that condition all-important. But it is only so, if it can be proved indispensable to a higher and nobler independence—that of character. Let us inherit a patrimony, or earn a fortune by industry and economy, or by the power of superior talents; we shall still be miserably dependent on others, if we do not form our own opinions, as respects our duty, and practise what we feel to be right, and not merely what others tell us is right.

We should first understand in what true independence consists. It is not eccentricity, or oddity, or affectation; nor is it an unreasonable pride and confidence in ourselves. We sometimes see boys, at school, who put on airs, and pretend to be very independent in all they say and do. There is no virtue in this. Ann is called very smart, because she is not afraid to speak her mind, as she terms it, about everybody and everything. She does it, when she knows it will give others pain. This is not true independence.

Sarah is always saying queer, strange, and, what some call, independent things. But she does this merely for display. She is very dependent, for she lives on the opinion of others. She is always imagining what people will say of her. Another girl is trying to be eccentric. If she can find out what her companions expect her to think, or do, or say, she will strive to think, act, or speak, in exactly the opposite way.

True independence is a habit of forming our own opinions on all subjects, without regard to those of our neighbors. It leads us, under all circumstances, to think, speak, and act according to what we believe to be our duty. We should never wait for others to act, through fear of doing differently from them. It is our duty to be considerate of the feelings of others, and to be prudent and accommodating where their happiness is concerned. But if we feel any course to be right, we should always pursue it, let us suffer as we may from the unjust censure of others.—English Magazine.

The Black Skimmer of the Seas.

This bird, which is sometimes called sheerwater, is a lover of the ocean, and spends nearly his whole life in skimming along its surface, or in sitting upon its shores.

A person, on looking at the creature’s bill, might think it a very clumsy contrivance; for the lower mandible, or jaw, is a great deal longer than the upper one. People used to think that there was some mistake of nature, in giving this bird what seemed to them so inconvenient a tool for getting a living with. But this was only one of those instances in which ignorance led to presumption, and presumption to folly. A better knowledge of the sheerwater’s ways of life has served to show, that in this case, as in all others, the Author of nature has shown wonderful skill in adapting means to ends; in supplying His creatures with the best possible contrivances for the trade or profession they are to follow.

Now, the black skimmer is made for a fisherman; he is made to feast upon shrimps, and small fishes of various kinds, that live near the surface of the water. Accordingly, he is provided with a bill, the lower part of which is the longest, and which he can dip in the water while he is skimming close over its face. In order to prevent this from impeding his progress, it is shaped like the blade of a knife, and thus it cuts the water with ease. As he speeds along, his bill scoops up the little fishes, and by the impetus of his flight, they are carried along in his bill, and swallowed as he goes.

No better proof of the success of the ingenious contrivance furnished by nature to the sheerwater can be needed, than that he is a lucky fisherman, and seems to enjoy an almost perpetual banquet. His wings are made of vast length, on purpose to assist him in sustaining his continued flight; and thus he seems to sail as if the wind were made on purpose for him; and he feasts as if the wide ocean were his larder.

This singular and interesting bird comes to us along the northern shores of the Atlantic, in May, and retires to the south in autumn, where he spends the winter. His favorite haunts are low sand-bars, raised above the reach of the tides. He builds his nest on dry flats, near the ocean. His body is nineteen inches long, and his wings, when expanded, are forty-four inches from tip to tip. Thus the sheerwater, instead of being shabbily treated, is a striking instance of the adaptation of nature’s work, to the purposes of its great Author.

The Squirrel.

The more we examine the works of nature, the more we shall be made to feel that there is infinite variety in them—that almost every part of the universe is filled with inhabitants appropriate to it; and that each individual thing is fitted to the place it occupies. Among plants, for instance, there are nearly a hundred thousand kinds already recorded in the books of the botanists; among animated beings, there are, perhaps, even a greater number of species. And what a countless number of each individual kind, whether in the vegetable or animal world! Every part of the earth is occupied. The earth, the air, the sea—each and all are inhabited by myriads of living things. And how wonderfully are they all adapted to their several designs! How well is the fish fitted to his element; how admirably is the bird adapted to the life he is to lead!

Among quadrupeds, the lively little fellow, whose name we have placed at the head of this article, is a pleasing illustration of the success with which nature accomplishes her designs. The squirrel is made to enliven the forest, to live among woods, to gather his food and make his nest, and spend a great part of his life amid the branches of the trees. And how perfectly is he at home in his domain! He springs from limb to limb—from tree to tree; he ascends or descends the trunks at pleasure, and seems to be as safe, in his airy evolutions, as the ox, or the horse, upon the solid ground—or the bird in the air, or the fishes in the river.

How perfect an instance of adaptation is this! How nice must be a piece of machinery, that could be made to operate with such celerity, in such a variety of ways, and with such certain success! And how pleasing, as an object of mere beauty, is the squirrel! How graceful his form—how cheerful his aspect—how seemingly happy his existence!

Gothic Architecture.

The modes of building in different countries, and in different ages of the world, have resulted in several distinct styles of architecture.

Among the ancient Egyptians, it would seem, from the low and massy forms of their edifices, that they were fashioned in imitation of caves—the first habitations of savage man. The temples, of which many ruins remain along the borders of the Nile, seem almost like structures hewn out of the rock; so heavy are the columns, and so low the arches.

Among the Greeks, the style of architecture seemed to be suggested by the wooden cabin, supported upon the trunks of trees. Thus the lighter and loftier columns supporting their edifices, seem to be a leading feature of their buildings.

In China, the houses appear to be fashioned after the tent, as if the idea had been borrowed from the pastoral age, when the inhabitants subsisted upon flocks, and dwelt in tents.

The Gothic architecture appears to be an imitation of the grove; the roof being supported by pillars, branching upward. The engraving will give some idea of this style of building. It flourished from the year 1000 to 1500, A. D., and was particularly used in the construction of churches, monasteries, and other religious buildings, during that period. In France and Germany there are still to be seen many churches in this style; and though they have an ancient and gloomy appearance, they are very beautiful, and the sombre light within, seems well fitted to a place of worship. In England, also, there are many Gothic edifices of the olden time, among which Westminster Abbey, in London, is a fine specimen. In Boston, Trinity Church is somewhat in the Gothic taste; and at Hartford there is a fine specimen, in the Episcopal Church. There are also several other edifices in this country, of recent structure, which are imitations, in part, of ancient Gothic buildings; but a pure example of this style is hardly to be found, except in Europe, and among the edifices of past centuries.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

CHAPTER XIV.

Recovery from sickness.—Change of character.—Story of a quack.

In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape, the walk—each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and, having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.

But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits—nor, indeed, from that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions. My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no small degree abated my self-appreciation. I was humbled, if not before the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.

I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or, rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change should have come over me: he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He insisted upon it that I was “in the dumps” about something; and, half in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.

In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift, than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, “in a bad way,” he was casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person, notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town, chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and, if I may use the expression, he was a regular quack.

I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large, stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small, fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deep-set beneath a shaggy eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object, seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor’s dress was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes—the fashion of the time—and top-boots, the upper portion being not a little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown. His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the “but’nut doctor.”

Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said “good day” to the loungers around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sliding his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid of tobacco out of his mouth—which he held in his hand, to be restored to its place after the liquor was discussed—he applied himself to the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, a lickerish smile came over his face, and turning round to the company, he said, in an insinuating tone—“Does any on ye know of any body that’s sick in these parts?”

There was a momentary pause—and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag of the village, replied: “Nobody, I guess, unless it’s Deacon Kellig’s cow.”

“Well,” said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which followed—“well, I can cure a cow; it’s not as if I was one of your college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to a brute. But, the scriptur’ says, a marciful man is marciful to a beast—and I prefer follerin’ scriptur’ to follerin’ the fashion. If Providence has given me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any of God’s critters that stand in need on ’t.”

“Well,” said Matthew, “do you cure a cow with the same physic that you cure a man?”

“Why not?” said Farnum; “it’s better to be cured by chance, than killed by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it’s a beast, or a man. Nater’s the great physician, and I foller that.”

“What is nater?” said Olmstead.

“Nater? Ah, that’s the question! Nater’s——nater!”—

“Indeed?—but can’t you tell us what it is?”

“I guess I could, if I tried: it’s the most mysteriousest thing in the univarsal world. I’ve looked into ’t, and I know. Now, when a cow has lost the cud, so that it won’t work up or down, I go to a place where there’s some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark up; and I cut some on ’t down; and I cut some on ’t round and round. I then make a wad on ’t, and put it down the cow’s throat. That part of the bark that’s cut up, brings the cud up; that part that’s cut down, carries it down; and that part that’s cut round and round, makes it work round and round: and so, you see, there’s a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it sets everything agoin’, and all comes right, and the critter’s cured as clean as mud. That’s what I call nater!”

This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight of knowledge.

“Why,” says Farnum, “there ’tis agin, squire; it’s nater—it’s clear nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into things from my childhood. Now, here’s my but’nut physic—it’s true, an Indian give me the fust notion on’t; but I brought it to perfection, from my own study into nater. Now, all them doctors’ stuffs that you git at the pottekary’s, is nothin’ but pizen; thur’s no nater in’t. My physic is all yarbs—every mite on’t. I can cure a man, woman, or child, jest as sure as a cat’ll lick butter! There’s no mistake.”

“Well, how did you find it out, doctor?” said my uncle, seeming anxious to give him an opportunity to unfold his wisdom.

“Can you tell why a duck takes to water?” said Farnum, with a look of conscious importance. “It’s because it’s in him. ’Twas jest so with me. I had a nateral instinct that telled me that there was something very mysterious in the number seven. I expect I got some on’t from the scriptur’, for there’s a great deal there about it. Well, one dark, rainy night, as I was goin’ along thro’ some woods, thinkin’ about somethin’ or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind was blowin’ desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it’s all exactly like human nater. Well, now, if you’ll believe me, jest as that are thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times more, and so kept goin’ on, till he’d hooted jest forty-nine times. Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. I went home, but I didn’t sleep any. The next day I couldn’t eat anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I was thinkin’ of the bridge, and the wind whistlin’, and the river, and the dark rollin’ water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times seven times.

“Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin’ all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and tell’d him I was sick. He ax’d me what was the matter, and I related the story of the owl. ‘You are the man I have been seeking for,’ said he. ‘The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at midnight.’

“True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge—agin the owl was there, and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret. ‘Man,’ said he, ‘is subject to seven times seven diseases; and there are seven times seven plants made for their cure. Go, seek, and you shall find!’ Saying this, the dark figure leaped over the bridge, and disappeared in the waters. I stood and heerd a gurgling and choking sound, and saw somethin’ strugglin’ in the stream; but the Indian disappeared, and I have never seen him sence. I went from the place, and I soon found the forty-nine yarbs, and of these I make my pills. Each pill has seven times seven ingredients in it; though but’nut’s the chief, and that’s why it’s called but’nut physic. You may give it in any disease, and the cure for ’tis there. I’ve tried it in nine hundred and thirty-seven cases, and it haint failed but six times, and that, I reckon, was for want of faith. Here’s some of the pills; there’s forty-nine in a box, and the price is a dollar.”

Such was the doctor’s marvellous tale, and every word of it was no doubt a fiction.

It may seem strange that such an impostor as this should succeed; but, for some reason or other, mankind love to be cheated by quacks. This is the only reason I can assign for the fact, that Dr. Farnum sold six boxes of his pills before he left the tavern, and one of them to my uncle. The next day he insisted upon my taking seven of them, and, at his urgent request, I complied. The result was, that I was taken violently ill, and was again confined to my room for a fortnight. At length I recovered, and my uncle insisted that if I had not taken the pills, I should have had a much worse turn; and, therefore, it was regarded as a remarkable proof of the efficacy of Farnum’s pills. Some two or three years after, I saw my own name in the doctor’s advertisement, among a list of persons who had been cured in a wonderful manner, by the physic of the butter-nut doctor.

I have thought it worth while to note these incidents, because they amused me much at the time, and proved a lesson to me through life—which I commend to all my readers—and that is, never to place the slightest confidence in a quack.

The Apple; a German Fable.

There lived a rich man at the court of King Herod. He was lord chamberlain, and clothed himself in purple and costly linen, and lived every day in magnificence and joy. Then there came to him, from a distant country, a friend of his youth, whom he had not seen for many years.

And to honor him, the chamberlain made a great feast, and invited all his friends. There stood on the table a great variety of excellent viands, in gold and silver dishes, and costly vessels with ointment, together with wine of every kind.

And the rich man sat at the head of the table, and was hospitable to all; and his friend who had come from a distant country, was at his right hand. And they ate and drank, and were satisfied.

Then the stranger addressed the chamberlain of the king: Such splendor and magnificence as your house contains, is not to be found in my country, far and wide! And he spoke highly of his magnificence, and pronounced him the happiest of men.

But the rich man, the king’s chamberlain, selected an apple from a golden dish. The apple was large and beautiful, and its colour was red, approaching purple. And he took the apple and said, This apple has rested on gold, and its form is very beautiful! And he reached it to the stranger and friend of his youth.

And the friend cut the apple, and behold! in its middle was a worm! Then the stranger cast his eyes on the chamberlain. But the lord chamberlain looked upon the ground and sighed.

The Pretender and his Sister.

“The Pretender! What a curious title!—and pray who can he be, Mr. Merry? And who is the girl at his side, that you call his sister?”

I will answer these questions, my gentle reader,—and let me tell you now, that there is nothing I like better than to answer the inquiries of my young friends, when I am able.

Well, as to this Pretender—he was a personage that figured in the history of England, some hundred years ago. His name was Charles Edward. He was a grandson of Charles II., a king of England, who was driven from the throne about the year 1690; and, thinking that his father, James III., ought to be king of England, he determined to make an effort to set him upon the throne. He was born 1720, and when he was twenty-two years old, he entered upon this great project.

Being at Rome, he induced the Pope to espouse his cause; he then went to Paris, and king Louis XV., having promised to assist him, fitted out a fleet, with 15,000 men; but they were defeated by the English, as they were on the point of sailing. After this, the French king would do no more for Prince Charles Edward, and the daring young man set out, in 1745, in a little vessel of eighteen guns, and arms for 1500 men.

He landed on the northwest coast of Scotland, and the people there seemed delighted to see him. He was a descendant of the former kings of Scotland, of the Stuart line, and it was natural enough for them to have a feeling of favor for one who thus claimed kindred with them. Accordingly, the Scottish nobles flocked to the standard of Edward, bringing with them hundreds of their brave soldiers.

He was soon at the head of a large and powerful army. With this he marched forward, defeated the English troops that advanced to meet him, and, in three months after his arrival, he took Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland.—France now sent him aid, and, with a force of 7000 men, he marched southward into England, and took the town of Carlisle. At Preston Pans, he defeated an English army of 4000 strong; and such was his success, that the English government, under King William, of Orange, trembled for their safety.

They therefore made great efforts, and in April, 1746, they sent a large army against him, under the Duke of Cumberland. At Culloden, the two armies met, and a terrible battle followed; Prince Edward was defeated, and his army entirely dispersed. He was scarce able to save his life by flight; and, indeed, he wandered about, from place to place, among the wilds of Scotland, being every day in danger of being seized and given up to the English government, who offered $150,000 to anybody who would bring him to them. It seems strange that so large a bribe could be resisted; but, such was the love that the Scottish people bore him, and such their fidelity, that no one was found to betray him, though many people were entrusted with the secret of his being among them. Even the poor mountaineers refused to give him up, though offered a sum of money that would have made them very rich.

At last, a faithful Scottish nobleman, by the name of O’Neil, took him in charge, and after wandering along the sea-shore in a skiff, flying from island to island, and experiencing the greatest sufferings and dangers, he was put on board a French frigate, that had been sent for his rescue. He was now taken to France, and soon after, giving up all hopes of seeing his family restored to the throne, he settled in Italy, where he died in 1788, in the 68th year of his age. He was the last of the Stuart line, and was called the Pretender, on account of his pretending to set up claims to the throne of England.

Winter.

December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.

Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must remain till spring again returns.

Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead, to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.

Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold and fearful slumber.

Winter means all these melancholy things; but it also means something more. It means that the granary of the farmer is full; that his barn is supplied; that there is good and ample store for the beasts that look to man for support, and for man himself. It means, too, that the comfortable fire will be kindled, around which the family will assemble, and where, secure from the bitter blast without, there will still be peace, comfort, and content. It means, too, that there is such a thing as poverty, shivering, without fire, without food—perhaps, without sufficient shelter; and it means that charity should seek and save those who are suffering in such a condition.

And winter means something more than all this: it means, by its examples of decay and death, to teach us that we, too, must pass away; and that it is well for us to make preparation for the great event. Winter also brings us to the end of the year, and suggests a serious self-inquiry, and self-examination. It would ask us if the last year has been one of profit or loss? Are we better, and wiser, than when it began? Are we more kind, more just, more patient, more faithful, more fond of truth?—Summer is the season for the harvest of the field; winter is the season for the moral harvest of the heart. Let it not pass with any of us as a barren and unproductive season, in which we neither sow nor reap the fruits of wisdom and peace.

The Hand.

Every limb and member of the body is made for some good purpose.

The eye is made to see with; the ear is made to hear with; the nose is made to smell with; the mouth is made to eat and speak with.

The feet are made to run and walk with; the hands are made to work with, to write with, and to do many other things.

But do you think children’s hands were ever made to strike their brothers, or sisters, or playmates? Were your little hands ever made to snatch away things from each other?

Who gave you hands? God gave them. Did he give you hands to steal with? Did God give you hands that you might throw stones at geese, or dogs, or hens, or cows, or any other innocent animals?

Did God give you hands to injure or wound any of the creatures he has made?

Take care of your little hands, then, my children! Take care that the hands God has given, do nothing that God disapproves.

Nuts to Crack.

The Word “Fast.”—This is as great a contradiction as we have in the language. The river is fast, because the ice is immoveable; and then the ice disappears fast for the contrary reason—it is loose. A clock is called fast when it goes quicker than time; but a man is told to stand fast, when he is desired to remain stationary. People fast when they have nothing to eat, and eat fast when opportunity offers.

Military Courtesy.—Gen. Meadows, equally renowned for his wit and bravery, being on a reconnoitring party, in the Mysore country, a twenty-four pound shot struck the ground at some distance from the General, and was passing in such a direction as would have exposed him to danger had he continued on his route; quick as lightning he stopped his horse, and, pulling off his hat very gracefully, as the shot rolled on, good-humoredly said: “I beg you to proceed, sir; I never dispute precedence with any gentleman of your family.”

A doctor, in Scotland, was employed by a poor man to attend his wife, who was dangerously ill. The doctor gave a hint, amounting to the suspicion that he would not be paid. “I have,” says the man, “five pounds; and if you kill, or cure her, you shall have it.” The woman died, under the hands of the doctor, and, after a reasonable time, he called for his five pounds. The man then said: “Did you kill my wife?—did you cure her?” “No.” “Then,” said the poor man, “you have no legal demand,” and turned upon his heel.

How to shake off Trouble.—Set about doing good to somebody: put on your hat, and go and visit the sick and poor—inquire into their wants, and minister to them; seek out the desolate and oppressed, and tell them of the consolations of religion. I have often tried this method, and have always found it the best medicine for a heavy heart.

A Father’s Impulse.—When Lord Erskine made his debut at the bar, his agitation almost overpowered him, and he was just going to sit down: “At that moment,” said he, “I thought I felt my little children tugging at my gown, and the idea roused me to an exertion, of which I did not think myself capable.”

The Sublime.—Over the stall of a public writer, in Rue de Bac, at Paris, is the following inscription: “M. Renard, public writer and compiler—translates the tongues, explains the language of flowers, and sells fried potatoes.”

Feeling for Another.—A Quaker, once hearing a person tell how much he felt for a friend who needed his assistance, dryly observed: “Friend, hast thou ever felt in thy pocket for him?”

“What are you writing such a thundering big hand for, Patrick?” “Why, do you see, my grandmother is deaf, and I am writing a loud lether to her.”

A Knotty Case.—Not many years ago, a man appeared in court, whether as plaintiff, defendant, or witness, tradition does not inform us. Be this as it may, the following dialogue ensued:—Court—“What is your name, sir?” “My name is Knott Martin, your honor.” “Well, what is it?” “It is Knott Martin.” “Not Martin, again! We do not ask you what your name is not, but what it is. No contempt of court, sir.” “If your honor will give me leave, I will spell my name.” “Well, spell it.” “K-n-o-tt, Knott, M-a-r, Mar, t-i-n, tin—Knott Martin.” “O, well, Mr. Martin, we see through it now; but it is one of the most knotty cases we have had before us for some time.”

Good.—It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend what he intended to do with his daughters, he replied: “I intend to apprentice them to their mother, that they may become like her—good wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society.”

A Learned Character.—“Give me ‘Venice Preserved,’” said a gentleman, last week, on going to a celebrated bookseller’s at the West-end. “We don’t sell preserves,” said an apprentice, newly-imported from the country; “but you will get them next door, at Mr. Brown’s, the confectioner.”

Ten To One.—Strict attention to office hours is a duty incumbent upon every public officer. We heard of a case of an American consul, in a foreign country, who was not remarkable for his attention to duty. A gentleman, calling one day, found his office shut, and a label sticking upon the door, with these words: “In from ten to one.” Having called again several times within those hours, without finding him, he wrote at the bottom of the label—“Ten to one he’s not in.”

To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d Friends of Robert Merry.

It is now about a twelvemonth since our acquaintance commenced; and I hope the feeling is such between us, that there is a mutual desire to continue it. I know that the young, the happy, and the gay-hearted, are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad—disposed to look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more ready to preach than practise charity.

I will not pretend to deny that, now and then, a person gets cross and crabbed as he grows old, and like cider too long kept, turns to vinegar: but this is not my case, or, if it be, my ill-humor never displays itself toward the young. They are to me the buds and blossoms of life, and their presence ever brings the welcome feelings that belong to sunshine and summer.

Old age has been often compared to winter—the close of the year; the season of desolation; the period of storms and tempests; the funeral-time of the vegetable world; the time when the leaves, the fruits, and the flowers are laid in their tomb, and covered over with a winding-sheet of snow. This is a sad picture at first view; and I believe many a child is led to avoid old people from the habit of regarding them in this light—from the idea that they are shrivelled, frost-bitten, bitter, and disagreeable.

Now, I will not deny that there is some resemblance between winter and old age: an old man has not the warm blood of youth; his pulses are, perhaps, like the river, chilled and obstructed by ice; his temper is sometimes capricious and gusty, like the winds of December; and his head, bald, or covered with a few silvery hairs, is like the oak, stripped of its covering, and having its boughs powdered with snow.

All this may be true enough; but it is not good reason why the old should be deserted by the young. I remember very well, that, when I was a boy, there was a fine old walnut-tree, upon a hillside, not far from where I lived. Now, I never thought or cared about this tree, till the time when winter approached. Then, when the leaves were scattered, the nuts were all ripe, then it was that the tree became an object of interest to me. Then it was that I loved to visit it; to climb its limbs and give it a shake, and hear the fruit rattle down like hail. Never, in all my boyhood days, did I meet with anything more delightful than this!

And let me tell you, my black-ey’d and blue-ey’d friends, that this old walnut-tree was like many an old person you may meet with. You will remark that, in this case, it was when winter had come, or was near at hand, that the fruit was ripe, and ready for those who would climb up for it and gather it. And let me tell you, that old people, like this tree, have many a good nut to crack, many a good story to tell, to those who will climb up in the lap and ask for it.

This is my view of the matter; and I hope that young people, instead of running away from me, as a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will treat me as I did the old walnut-tree—give it a shake, and see if the nuts don’t rattle down!

I am not fond of making great promises; but, as I am anxious to have my readers, who have set out on a journey with me, still keep me company—at least for one year more—I am ready to engage to do my best to please them. I shall, if I live, tell the rest of my own story, and bring the history of Brusque to a close. The tale of the Sable-Hunters, the travels of Thomas Trotter, the stories of the Indians, will be continued and completed; and a variety of other things are in store.

I can promise one thing more—and that is, some tales from the pen of Peter Parley. That pleasant, kind-hearted old man is no more; but I knew him better than anybody else, and all his papers are in my hands. Among them are several tales, and I intend to publish them in my magazine. My young readers, perhaps, do not know how shabbily poor old Peter was treated. The fact was, that several people in this country, as well as in others, wrote stories, and put his name to them; thus pretending that they were actually his! Some of these were very silly, and some were very improper. This cut Peter to the heart, and it served greatly to shorten his days. I am sorry that, even now, people are palming off trumpery works of their own as Peter Parley’s.

But the tales that I propose to give, are genuine; there is no mistake. They are by the same hand that wrote the tales about Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; and I hope they may be as acceptable as those were.

I return a thousand thanks to my many young friends, who have written me letters, whether of criticism, advice, or commendation. I am glad to know that so many of them like Bill Keeler: let them be assured his whole story will come out in due time. I shall be very glad to get the bear story, which L. S., of Vermont, offers to tell. The Indiana legend of the Wolf and the Wild-cat, is received, and will appear soon. Jane R—— will accept my thanks for—she knows what! If she were not so many hundred miles off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is a blue-eyed or black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly received from Alice D——, and were very welcome. Ralph H—— will see that I have done as he requested; I have given a portrait of the fine gray squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as ever.

Robert Merry.

WINTER—A SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

“Tell me what does winter mean!”
’Tis a drea-ry change of scene—
When the meadow yields its bloom,
And the blo-soms seek their tomb.
Winter is the time of storms,
When the cloud in angry forms,
O’er the land in terror sweeps,
And the sighing forest weeps.

’Tis the funeral time of flowers,
Withered in their lovely bowers;
While the zephyr sings in grief,
O’er each shrivelled stem and leaf.
’Tis the dreary time of snow,
Falling chill on all below,
As a winding-sheet it weaves
O’er the graves of myriad leaves.

Winter is a time of tears,
For the poor, in youth or years,—
Where the storm drives keenly in,
And the blanket’s brief and thin.
Winter is the time of wreck,
When the billow cleaves the deck,
And the mariners go down
Where the battling surges frown.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated below. Obsolete and alternative spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were not corrected.

One Footnote was moved to the end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to common usage. Page numbers in the Table of Contents were corrected to match book pages.

Links to audio files were added for music. The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the printed notation and are placed in the public domain. At the time of this writing, music file links will not work in mobile e-book formats like epub or Kindle/mobi. Users who are reading the e-book in one of these formats can listen to the music or download music files in the HTML version. Lyrics to musical scores are presented as poetry following the illustration of the music.

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Table of Contents

ROBERT MERRY’S

MUSEUM:

INDEX

Address to the Reader.

The Sociable Weavers.

About Labor and Property.

My First Whistle.

Owls and Eagles.

Origin of “The House that Jack Built.”

My own Life and Adventures; by Robert Merry.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

Swallows.

The Human Frame likened to a House.

Chinese Spectacles.

Story of Philip Brusque;

- CHAPTER I.

The Sailor’s Family.

The Groom and the Horse;

The Druids.

The Re-entombment of Napoleon.

What is Truth?

Varieties.

JACK FROST, A SONG

My own Adventures.

- CHAPTER V.

Origin of Words and Phrases.

The Pelican.

John Steady and Peter Sly.

The Three Friends.

The Fox and the Tortoise;

The Travels, Adventures and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER I.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER II.

Napoleon’s Last Obsequies.

Our Ancestry.

The Month of March.

The Child and the Violets.

Varieties.

SPRING IS COMING! A SONG.

My own Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER VI.

The Great Northern Diver, or Loon.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

The Spectre of the Brocken.

Trifles.

The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

The New Custom-House, Boston.

The New Patent Office, Washington

What sort of Heart have you got?

Professions and Trades.

What is Poetry?

THE RIVER, A SONG.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER V.

The Sun.

Night.

Queen Elizabeth, of England.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 1.

Hunting Wild Animals in Africa.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER I.

The Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER IV.

The Kingfisher and the Nightingale;

Absence of Mind.

Varieties.

Death of the President.

THE APRIL SHOWER, A SONG.

My own Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER VII.

The Artists’ Cruise.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER V.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER II.

Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy;

Antiquities of Egypt.

A Drunkard’s Home.

The Boastful Ass.

Architecture of Birds.

HYMN.

My own Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER VIII.

The Humming-Birds.

Madagascar.

A Philosophical Tea-pot.

Astonishing Powers of the Horse.

The Moon.

Importance of Attention:

The Horse and the Bells,

The Crane Family.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER III.

The Shetland Pony.

Instinct.

Varieties.

TEARS.

ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

- CHAPTER I.

The Wolf that pretended to be robbed.

Beware of Impatience.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER IV.

Lion Hunting.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER IX.

Toucan

The Newfoundland Dog.

The Mysterious Artist.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 2.

Egyptian Schools.

Varieties.

THE BOY AND THE LARK.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

- CHAPTER II.

The Lion and the Mouse;

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER X.

Origin of Words and Phrases.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

HYMN.

The Sparrow and Robin;

The Mysterious Artist.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

The Alligator.

Mungo Park and the Frogs.

A Child lost in the Woods.

AUTUMN.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER XI.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

- CHAPTER III.

Habit.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

The Oak and the Reed.

Sincerity.

The Hyena.

Jewish Women.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER VI.

An Incident from Ancient History.

Saturday Night.

Oliver Cromwell.

Musings.

THE BIRD’S ADIEU!

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER XII.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER VII.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.

- CHAPTER IV.

Wisdom of the Creator.

Washington a Teacher to the Young.

The Poet and the Child.

The Ostrich.

What do we mean by Nature?

A Vision.

The Sun and Wind.

Habits which concern ourselves.

Anecdotes of Haydn.

The Fox and Raven;

I don’t see why.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER VIII.

Charles and his Mother.

John Doree.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

Story of Philip Brusque.

- CHAPTER VIII.

London.

AURELIA AND THE SPIDER.

Exotic Fruits and Flowers in England.

Benevolence of the Deity.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER IX.

The Rhinoceros.

Briers and Berries.

The Crows’ Court of Law.

The Story of the Supposed Miser.

The Mouth.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his Schoolmates. No. 3.

Travels, Adventures, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

THE PILOT.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER XIII.

A Little Child’s Joy.

The Mammoth.

Geordie and the Sick Dog.

The Sable-Hunter.

- CHAPTER V.

The Tongue.

What is Selfishness?

WINTER.

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and History of the Indians of America.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

A Long Nap.

Lord Bacon.

Habits which concern Others.

The Black Skimmer of the Seas.

The Squirrel.

Gothic Architecture.

Merry’s Life and Adventures.

- CHAPTER XIV.

The Apple; a German Fable.

The Pretender and his Sister.

Winter.

The Hand.

Nuts to Crack.

To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d Friends of Robert Merry.

WINTER—A SONG.

- Transcriber’s Note:

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