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IIW YORK,

J, C. KIKE K. 9 lb ANN STREET,
1834

YOUTH'S KEEP-SAKE ;

NEW-YEAR, CHRISTMAS,

BIRTH-DAY PRESENT,

FOR BOTH SEXES.

NEW- YORK:
J. C. RIKER, 15 ANN-STREET,

INTRODUCTION.

At the present enlightened period* when every depart-
ment of literature has a thousand votaries, who devote
unsparingly, their wealth, energy, industry, and talent, at
the intellectual shrine ; it were, perhaps, a presumption
to profess to have discovered an especial excellence, pecu-
liarly calculated to promote any branch of mental cultiva-
tion. But though the multitude of competitors in the
literary arena, preclude a possibility of an author or pub-
lisher claiming transcendant merit for any offering sub-
mitted to the reading world, it may still be very possible
to devise a work, so precisely adapted to a given object,
that all its pretensions may not only be sustained, but th&t
it may be made honorable mention of among its compeers.

Books for the perusal of the youthful abound in all the
land ; some good, some indifferent, some so foolish, that
the human intellect is degraded both in tbe authorship
and reading. And in writing, or compiling a work de-

INTRODUCTION.

signed to have an influence, and leave its impress, on the
character yet unformed, and the mind yet uninstructed,
there are many errors to be avoided, many essentials to be
attained.

The original articles in this work, having been written
expressly for it, by several gentlemen who have long been
before the public in capacity of writers, it is hoped, will meet
the same degree of approbation that has been so often
awarded to other emanations from the same sources.

This little volume is now commended to the patronage
of an intelligent and generous community, without further
comment or apology, hoping that its faults will be excused
by all, and its suitableness to the end proposed be quite ap-
parent.

CONTENTS.

Page.

Introduction - - 3

The Mask. By Mrs. Sargant 7

A Puzzle 20

Jessy of Kibe's Farm. By Miss M. R. Mitford ... 25

Emily 36

Motto for the Bible. By J. Montgomery, Esq. 37
Tale of the Christmas Holidays. By the Author of " the Flower show"

and "the Black Linn." - - - 38

On Visiting the Sylvan Cottage, inhabited by Miss Hannah More and

her Sisters, 1791. By Anna Seward 50

The Morning Song. By Allan Cunningham - - - - 52

Anecdotes of South African Baboons. By Thomas Pringle, Esq. - 54

Imitation of Claudius, Morning Lesson. By John Bowring, Esq. - 59

A Little Boy's Letter from London. By Miss Jewsbury 62

Children at Play. By Wm. Howitt 71

The Lost Girl ; or, Indian Gratitude 73

The Anemonie and the Carnation By Edward Walsh, M. D. - - 82

The Blow Forgiven 86

The Nut Cracker. By Miss Jewsbury. 91

The Deserted Village , or The Confiding Boy. By Miss Hofland - 94

Frank and his Kite. By James Bird, Esq. 107

Home 112

Stanzas 123

The Nutting Party. By Miss Hofland 124

The Recall. By Mrs. Hemans 138

Lines written on the last leaf of a Friend's Album. By Miss Mitford 139

CONTENTS.

Page,

The Two Soliloquies ; or, The Idle Boy, and the Idle Boy become a

Man. By Miss Jewsbury - 141

The Quarries under Paris 144

Hebe. By Frederick Muller 150

Children of the Lake 152

The Stream's not deep Llerena 164

The Birds and the Beggar of Bagdat. By Miss Jewsbury - - 165

The wind in a Frolic. By William Howitt 173

Story of the Two Pigeons ; or, To oblige quickly, is to oblige twice.

By Miss Jewsbury -176

Pass of the Green Mountains 183

Epitaph Extraordinary - 198

The Bereaved Parent 199

Childhood - 201

The Broken Pitcher. By Richard Howitt 203

Domestic Chit-Chat ; or, A Word to the Injured. By Mrs. Hofland 205

Lines. By Miss J. E. Roscoe - ••. .* 215

LIST OF ENGRAVINGS,

Vignette Title Page

Emily and her Kitten 36

The Lost Girl - - 78

Home 121

Children of the Lake - 156

Llerena Crossing the Brook 164

The Weeping Mother 193

Childhood 201

THE MASIL

, .

By Mrs. Sargant

" What a coward you are, Jamie," cried George Gordon
to his cousin, as with his younger brother and sister they
were proceeding in Farmer Wilson's light cart on a visit to
the Abbey Farm ; " I really think you have not spirit enough
to face a mouse. Do you know," continued he, turning to
the good man who himself drove them, " my cousin Jamie is
the greatest coward alive. If you were only to say in a
whisper to him, 1 Hark ! Jamie, what's that — don't you see
something move yonder V he would turn as white as a sheet,
and tremble from head to foot ; and if he was not too much
frightened, would run away as fast as his legs could carry
him."

"Oh George," interrupted the little fellow who seemed
about ten years of age, and whose delicate appearance was
strongly contrasted by his cousin's robust and healthy aspect;
and superior height, though only a year older, " I am not so

THE MASK,

bad as that— I know I am not so brave as you ; I wish I was,
for I do not like to be called a coward. It is only some sort
of things that frighten me and then it is because — "

"Phaugh! Because!" said George, scornfully, " because
you are a chicken-hearted fellow, and only fit to be among
girls [crying]. Now what have you to cry for ? But this
is always the case ; if you only say a word to him he begins
to make that ugly face."

" To tell you the truth, Master George," said Wilson, "I
think you are enough to make him cry ; and for my own
part, I don't count much of persons who talk a great deal
about their courage, and are fond of laughing at others,
Brave boys and brave men too say little, and boasters gene-
rally do little ; and though I agree with you it is like a wo-
man to be whimpering for every thing, or for nothing, I con-
sider that man no man at all who is ashamed to shed a tear
on a proper occasion ; and any way, too much feeling is better
than too little. He may not grow up a worse man, for not
being quite so bold as others while he is a boy."

Jamie nestled closer to the farmer's side, and looked grate-
fully up into his face, while George, indignant at the implied
rebuke, showed his displeasure by a toss of his head, and a
more consequential adjustment of his hat.

11 Indeed, Mr. Wilson," said Caroline, "cousin Jamie is a

THE MASK.

very kind, good-natured boy, and though papa says he wishes
he would exert himself more than he does, and endeavour to
conquer his failing, he often makes excuses for him, and de-
sires us to do all we can to encourage him ; for he suffered
a great many hardships when he was abroad, and was badly
nursed, and for a good while was left to the care of weak and
ignorant servants, for his papa was killed in India, and his
mamma died on her passage to England.

" Poor little boy !" sighed the farmer. Jamie's eyes again
filled with tears, but he quickly said, " Yes, dear Caroline,
my poor papa and mamma are, indeed, both dead, and well
do I remember how cruel the maids were to me on board that
ugly ship, and what horrid tales they told me — but it is over
now — and your papa is my papa, and you are my brothers
and sisters, and dearly do I love you all."

" And so do we love you, Jamie," returned Caroline, afFec
tionately. " You do, I know," replied the little fellow timidly
" but, but," and he looked wistfully at George —

"Oh! I love you too," said George, understanding him,
"but I hate crying boys, and" — cowards he would have
added, had not Wilson, in whose kind heart Jamie had se-
cured an interest, interrupted him by saying, " Since I know
your papa's wishes, Master George, I shall not scruple to
forbid your talking of your cousin in this way. But I should

THE MASK.

like to know if you are really as brave as you would make
us believe."

" Oh yes," warmly exclaimed Jamie, " that he is— if I were
but as brave as he, Mr. Wilson, I should be so happy."

u I'll soon show you what I am, and what I dare do,'" — ■
said George, consequentially, at the same time attempting to
take the reins.

"No, no, Master George," said the Farmer, " there's no
courage in pretending to do what we know nothing about^
or that is above our ability, — you talk largely ; but take care
— all is not gold that glitters. Squibs make almost as much
noise as guns, but after all they are only squibs, and when
they have whizzed, and hissed, and cracked a bit, fall to
pieces and come to nothing : and as to daring — the boy that
dares to do what does not become him, is fool-hard}7 in order
to show his bravery : is not only as noisy as a squib, but as
empty and as worthless too, and proves that both his head
and his heart are not what they ought to be."

At this moment the cart stopped at the gate, which led
directly to the dwelling of Wilson. It was part of the an-
cient Abbey from which the farm derived its name, and had
been made habitable for the parents of the present worthy
tenant, who stood so high in the estimation of Mr. Gordon,
that his children were allowed once in the course of the sum-

THE MASK.

rner, to spend a day or two with him and his wife, the latter
having also been a favorite servant in the family. Mrs Wilson
and her children came out to receive and welcome them, and
having conducted them into her parlour, regaled them with
curds, cream, and strawberries. Every thing contributed to
gratify them, and the day passed away very happily : to-
wards evening however, the sky became gradually obscured,
and a tempest seeming to threaten, she called her young vi-
sitors into the house. The apartment, which was always
gloomy, grew doubly so as the heavy clouds collected in
masses over the building. The wind sighed in low murmurs
along the ivied walls, or in sudden gusts shook the huge
branches of the majestic oaks, which extended along the north
side of the Abbey.

The children, who had amused themselves with a variety
of sports, were for some time insensible of the increasing
darkness. It was first perceived by Jamie, on whose percep-
tible mind and nervous fiame, it quickly operated. He started
at every sound, and looked fearfully around him, nor could
any inducement draw him into the deeper shades of the large
room. George soon espied the state of his mind, and suffered
not the opportunity to escape him, of playing upon his weak-
ness. At length, by way of diverting their attention, Mrs.
Wilson proposed a game of geographical puzzel ; this being

the mask.

eagerly accepted, she went in search of the box. George ac-
companied her as the boldest of the party : on her return a
game was agreed upon, but was soon exchanged for an ex-
hibition of tricks, which the youngest sister of Wilson pro-
posed to show them. They were all too intent to remark the
absence of George, and so entirely were they engrossed by
what was passing, that even Jamie forgot his fears, and was
as much amused as his companions. In the midst of their
enjoyment, a loud groan, followed by a smart stroke upon
the door, made them start with affright. In an instant they
stood aghast : but Caroline quickly recovering herself on
having perceived that George was missing, moved hastily to
the door, followed by her brother ; when the noise being sud-
denly repeated, it opened, and a figure of hideous aspect and
clothed in white entered. — A universal shriek attested their
terror — the youngest child threw its arms round the neck of
its Aunt. Caroline retreated in haste, while poor Jamie who
had sunk on the ground, clung to her for aid, and with his
hand clasped in hers, was incapable of withdrawing his eyes
from the appalling object before him. The horrible noise
which the figure uttered as it burst into the room, was imme-
diately succeeded by a loud laugh, and the salutation of
" Oh you silly things" — proclaimed the monster to be George.
He had espied, in the drawer from which Mrs. Wilson took

THE MASK.

the cards, a mask : the idea instantly occurring to him how
well it might answer his purpose, he secured it ; and having
persuaded one of the maids to aid him7 he thus accomplished
his plan.

Poor Jamie's dismay was not to be removed by the disco-
very of its folly, and George had now sufficient food for his
raillery. The pleasure of the party, however, was destroyed ;
and, unable to restore their spirits, Mrs. Wilson thought it
more prudent to dismiss them for the night.

A bright morning removed all former disagreeable impres-
sions, and nothing occurred throughout the course of this
day to diminish their enjoyment. The next, their papa ar-
rived for the purpose of conveying them home. The two
boys having expressed a desire to explore the Abbey, Mr.
Gordon agreed to accompany them. The view of the sur-
rounding country -from the exterior, was beautiful; and the
care they were obliged to observe, as they proceeded from one
part to another, and the occasional scrambles that the decay-
ed state of the building caused them, added, in no inconside-
rable degree, to their gratification. They were now in the
most ancient part of the building.

" I believe," said Mr.. Gordon, " we are perfectly safe ; but
it may be as well to go to the other side— wait an instant till I
step over this parapet, and I will then take hold of your hands/'

THE MASK.

" Oh, I can get over by myself/' cried George, pressing
forward.

" Stay where you are !" commanded Mr. Gordon, and so
saying he moved forward ; but no sooner had he set his foot
on the wall, the ruinous condition of which was concealed
by the ivy which covered it, than it fell with a sudden crash,
and he was precipitated along with the fragments. In his
descent, however, he caught at a projecting stone, and thrust-
ing the point of his foot in the tendrils of the ivy, hung sus-
pended over certain destruction. His situation was frightful
in the extreme. A chasm was formed in the wall between
him and the children. George uttered a shriek of terror, and
springing back from the widening gulph, continued to scream
aloud for help ; but in less time than the relation could be
made, Jamie had leaped across the opening to the opposite
wall which was considerably lower, and sliding down to a
part of the root which was remaining, threw himself upon
his face, and crept to its edge, then firmly grasping the ivy
with one hand he extended the other to Mr. Gordon.

" Uncle ! dear Uncle ! look up," cried he, for it was not
possible for the latter to perceive the action, "take hold of
my hand, I can support you." It was his only chance of
life, and Mr. Gordon instinctively seized the proffered assis-
tance.

THE MASK.

u Run, run, George," cried the now ardent boy, " fetch
Wilson in a moment."

Roused by the words, George fled for assistance ; but hap-
pily the shriek he had uttered, had answered every desirable
purpose. Wilson, who was in the adjoining field engaged
in hay-making, had heard it. and beholding the accident, and
the perilous situation of Mr. Gordon, had seized a ladder, and
with his men, had run to the spot.

The strength of both Uncle and Nephew were nearly ex-
hausted.

"You must leave hold, dear boy," said Mr. Gordon, " I
shall only drag you clown also. God bless you." — " Only
an instant longer" — was the eager reply.

M Courage, Uncle, — here is Wilson, don't shake, — steady,
he is close to you, — now, now, grasp tighter." — But Mr.
Gordon was relaxing bis hold, when the Farmer threw his
powerful arms round him and drew him safely upon firm
landing. Nearly overcome, he was obliged to pause to re-
cover himself. Wilson looked up to his favourite. " Well
done, little one," said he ; " keep where you are, don't attempt
to stir, and I will come for you." He now shifted the ladder,
and again mounting it, in another moment brought Jamie,
trembling with emotion, to his Uncle.

Mr. Gordon caught him in his arms: " my brave hide

THE MASK,

preserver," cried he, and as he spoke, tears would have been
visible had not the curls of Jamie, whose head was buried in
his bosom, hid them, 11 to you, under Providence, I owe my
life."

" Brave, Uncle !" exclaimed Jamie, quickly rising, and re-
garding him with a look of astonishment, — "you forget it is
George who is brave, Jamie is a "

George who had rejoined them in time to witness the latter
part of the scene, stood by in visible emotion. He was white
and red alternately, his lip quivered, and his whole frame
shook ; at length, bursting passionately, into tears, he ex-
claimed, " No, Jamie, you are no coward ; it is I who — "He
could not finish the sentence ; but approaching his father
from whom he had hitherto kept aloof, he clasped his arms
around him, and sobbed with violence. " Indeed, indeed, I
love you," he articulated in broken accents, " although I did
nothing to assist j^ou."

" Ah ! Master George," said Wilson, "you remember now
what I said about the squibs ; it is one thing, you find, to act
goblins and frighten people, and another to expose yourself
to save them from danger." This speech afterwards led to
an explanation of the former evening's exploit. Mr. Gordon
heard the recital with concern.

" George," said he, " let this be a lesson never to be for-

THE MASK.

gotten by you. To play upon the weakness or failings of
another, always evinces an unamiable, and often a dastardly,
spirit. True courage does not consist in a presumptuous
bearing to our fellow-creatures, nor in exhibitions of boldness
where it is uncalled for, and which have no tendency but to
make us oppressive and to feed our own vanity. The really
brave are those who are the least selfish, and by whom the
calls of humanity are no sooner heard than regarded ; and
who, on just and reasonable occasions, set no competition
between another's preservation or benefit, and their own in-
dividual safety and convenience ; who never court danger
merely to exhibit their prowess, and who never shun it when
to meet it becomes a duty. This is the only courage that
dignifies a man : all other is counterfeit, and merits no better
designation than ferocity, and is a quality possessed in equal
or greater degree by brutes."

" But why, papa," asked George, " should there have been
such a difference between Jamie and myself before?"

" Much of your apparent courage," replied Mr. Gordon,
" is mere animal spirits, and depends greatly upon bodily
health, and other external causes or circumstances. Jamie
is the reverse of yourself in this respect ; and the peculiar
disadvantages under which he has laboured, have added de-
fects which were not natural to him. The timidity which

THE MASK.

created your contempt argued no positive absence of courage;
and sufficiently exciting cause, as the event has proved, only
was wanting to display his real character ; and this applied,
your cousin showed a superiority which you would never,
without such a demonstration, have believed him capable of
Learn, then, to distrust yourself, and to judge more favourably
of others whose exterior may promise less than opportunity
may hereafter present to your own confusion."

Jamie eagerly waited till his uncle had finished speaking.
"No, dear uncle," then, said he, warmly; "do not say that
I am, or ever can be, superior to George ; say only that I may
be as brave as he, and I shall be quite happy; and will never
again be afraid of goblins, or terrified at masks "

" You are not only a braver boy than I," said George, on
whose naturally good disposition both the conduct and words
of Jamie had acted powerfully, 11 hut a better one ; and never,
papa, never, Caroline, (for his sister had now joined them,)
will I play tricks upon him again. But, oh, papa, how much
happier is he than your own boy ! — I envy and love him too ;
for he saved your life, while I should have left you to a honid
death.

He shuddered as he spoke, and the fulness of his heart
prevented further utterance. Mr. Gordon affectionately ca-
ressed him. " The avowal of error is another species of cou-

THE MASK.

rage most honourable in itself," said he, " and that my boy
evinces to my entire satisfaction. Henceforth, excite each
other to true heroism, and let the thankfulness which the
remembrance of this day's mercy must ever awaken in my
mind, be confirmed by your uninterrupted harmony, and es-
tablished reputations for all that is good, arid virtuous, and
honourable. Sweet is the recollection of danger past; but
sweeter far the conviction of the present good resulting from
it. Thus beholding you, I shall esteem myself richly repaid
for what I have really suffered ; and, in my affection for my
equally brave and dear boys, will leave them nothing to envy
nor to rival each other,"

A PUZZLE,

IN WHICH I GIVE A FEW PARTICULARS OF MY OWN LIFE AND CHARACTER,
BUT WITHHOLD MY NAME,

I shall not commence, like most autobiographers, with an
account of my birth, parentage, and education.

The first and second I have important reasons for conceal-
ing ; and the third, education, was to me unnecessary. I was
a natural genius, — my powers were all innate. In my ear-
liest infancy I enlightened and improved more human beings
than the wisest sages and profoundest philosophers ever hoped
to do, in their fondest schemes for the benefit of the human
race.

Do not'suppose that I conceal my origin from false shame.
On the contrary, I can outvie in antiquity the proudest prince
on earth ; and if the Chinese can prove that their first king,
Puon-ku, reigned ninety six millions of years before the
Christian era, I can bring undeniable proof that I reigned
before him.

I am a great and rapid traveller. It is recorded, that Eu-

A PUZZLE.

chides, a citizen of Platsea, walked to Delphi, and returned
with the sacred fire, before sunset — having walked one hun-
dred and twenty-five miles in one day. I performed the
journey in less than half the time !

"I've heard of riding wagers.
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That rim i' th' clock's behalf."

I have excelled them all ! I visited America long before
Columbus was born. I have long ago anticipated Captain
Parry, in making the north-west passage to China; — if he
had followed my path, he would have found no interruption
from the ice. My constitution can endure extremes — heat
and cold are alike indifferent to me; I have therefore, gone
farther into the interior of Africa, than Park or Bowditch
ever attempted. I have also crossed the Andes, with more
ease and expedition than Captain Head.

Some Irishman said, " that no man could be in two places
at once, barring he was a bird." I can, I have been in
more than two hundred places at the same time!

Do not think I assume to myself an attribute of Deity.
There are more than two thousand places where I am not !

I have been an eye witness of many of the most remarka-
ble events in history, sacred and profane.

I was present at those most sublime and awful periods, —

A fTJZZLE.

the Resurrection and Ascension. I was present wi'h St.
Paul, at his conversion ; and also when he made Felix
tremble. I accompanied Titus, the " delight of mankind," in
all his deeds of mercy, and was present when he gave up his
property for the relief of the sufferers from an eruption of*
Mount Vesuvius. I was inseparable from King Alfred. I
witnessed the devoted affection of Queen Eleanor, who sucked
the poison from her husband's wound at the risk of her own
life. I was also at Calais, when Queen Philippa used her
benevolent influence to preserve the lives of six citizens who
had offered themselves to save their city.

You have already guessed that I am the " Wandering1
Jew"— You are mistaken. He was present at the Cruci-
fixion— I was not.

It is my greatest glory, that I have seldom been present at
outrageous deeds of sin and wickedness; indeed, my very
presence is often sufficient to deter men from deeds of evil.
Plots contrived with the greatest secrecy, are sooner or later
brought to me, and I am generally enabled to subvert them.

As candour and sincerity are my distinguishing charac-
teristics, I may affirm that I have no dark side in my own
disposition, or conduct.

I may also declare, without conceit, that I excel in paint-
ing ; and that Raphael and Reubens were as much indebted

A PUZZLE*

to my instructions, as Reynolds and Lawrence have been in
later times. I have no ear for music, nor can I produce a
note, though I am well versed in the science of harmony.

It is to the science of optics that I chiefly devote myself,
and have done more to its elucidation, than most practical
men. I owe a debt of gratitude to Sir Isaac Newton : his
discoveries and writings have developed my faculties, and
enlarged my capacity.

Poets of renown have celebrated my praise: but to the best
of poets, Homer and Milton, I was almost a stranger. I am
not known as an author, and I never preached a sermon ; yet
my " Reflections on Mankind" have been of incalculable be-
nefit to the human race. Critics will tell you that these Re-
flections are not solid, — in fact, have no weight, though they
confess they bear some colour of truth.

" I will confess my want of gravity ; but I have other pro-
perties, or qualities, which supply that of solidity. I have
an unvaried rectitude of principle, and pursue that line of
conduct which leads me directly to my object. My power
surpasses that of the greatest potentate on earth ; yet so far
from exciting fear, or terror, by my presence, fear flies at my
approach. I am the harbinger of joy; and it is only in my
absence that men turn pale with affright !

My form is slender and agile. I can pass through the

A PUZZLE.

narrowest passages; yet I am, at times, so large, that the
most spacious chamber will not contain me.

I cannot describe to you the garb by which to recognize
me, as I vary it continually, both in form and colour ; and
without vanity, or extravagance, I conform to every variety
of fashion. My constitution is such, that I cannot exist in a
dungeon, nor even in a room, if the shutters be closed, and
have no aperture. But I must now conclude with a most
humiliating confession ; you have heard the German story
of a man who had no shadow — / am in the same predica-
ment !

JESSY OF KIBE'S FARM.

By Miss M. R. Mitford.

About the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in
the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house,
whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a pecu-
liarly forlorn and deserted appearance ; they can, in fact,
scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land
preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leav-
ing this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife,
who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts
and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining mea-
dow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in
humble circumstances and her young family.

The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in
a narrow woody lane, wliich winds between high banks,
now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with pollards
and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens suffi-
ciently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge,

JESSY.

closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in
a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy
frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and
makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad
shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes me-
andering along from a chain of beautiful meadows; then
turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally
spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet,
amidst the rushes and willows of Hartly Moor. A foot-
bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane,
which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing
its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every
season a pretty rural picture.

Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation ; very old,
very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement
windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting
out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine,
which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moon-
light, of an ivy mantled tower. On one side extend the
ample but disused farm buildings ; on the other the old or-
chard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as to
convey the idea of a fruit forest. Behind the house is an am-
ple kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the ex-
clusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and her family, to whom in-

JESSY.

deed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, ser-
ved in some sort as domestics.

Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her husband had
been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last
battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her w7ith three chil-
dren, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle
through the world as best she might. She was an accom-
plished woman, and at first settled in a great town, and en-
deavoured to improve her small income by teaching music
and languages. But she was country bred ; her children
too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses
of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and soli-
tude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy
that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and
appearance and pining for them also ; and finding that her
old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in
this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for
a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh,
and fixed there apparently for life.

We lived in different parishes, and she declined company,
so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her
for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the
mild, placid, elegant mother, sourrounded by three rosy, romp-
ing1, bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate

JESSY.

friend at Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the
lonely farm house, and threw this interesting family again
under my observation.

The first time that I saw them was on a bright summer
evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the
briar rose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the
bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and
elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walk-
ing pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower
court ; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her
dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like a
bird ; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums,
now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet
which dangled from her arm ; and now feeding a brood of
bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious
and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, com-
ing long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between
a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling
patience the showers of grain which she flung to them across
the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, and health,
and happiness ; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile,
accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butter-
fly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that
rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might

JESSY.

have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by
an object no less charming, although in a very different way.

It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger
than the pretty romp of the flower garden, not unlike her in
form and feature, but totally distinct in colouring and expres-
sion. She sat in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and
honeysuckle, with the western sun floating around her like a
glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her chesnut hair,
brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of her
smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so
healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and
statue-like grace, encreased by the adjustment of her splendid
hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered
up behind in a large knot — a natural coronet. Her eyebrows
and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair,
and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw
rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild
and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong
to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with
the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this
moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some
groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile — such a smile !
— spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice ; put the
flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet

JESSY.

that hung near her ; and then resumed her seat and her work,
imitating better than I have ever heard them imitated, the va-
rious notes of a nightingale who was singing in the opposite
hedge ; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature
was increased tenfold — for I then knew that Jessy was blind —
a misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth
and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal
character of the individual. We soon became acquainted,
and even intimate under the benign auspicss of the kind mis-
tress of the rectory ; and every interview served to encrease the
interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the
sweet blind girl.

Never was any human being more gentle, generous, and
grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity.
The pensiveness that marked her character arose as I soon
perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been
of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully
treated, and was pronounced incurable ; but from coming on
so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she
was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude.
M She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out,
and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run
errands in the house she knew so well without making any

JESSY.

mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been
forced to give up, and drawing ; and some day or other she
would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses
which her dear brother William had written upon a groupe
of wild flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune.
Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject
of such verse, and the object of such affection ! Her dear
mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma; but Wil-
liam— oh she wished that I knew William ! No one could be
so kind as he ! It was impossible ! He read to her ; he talked
to her ; he walked with her ; he taught her to feel confi-
dence in walking alone ; he had made for her use the wooden
steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's meadow ; he
had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she
could get across without danger, even when the brook was
flooded. He had tamed her linnet ; he had constructed the
wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so com-
fortably and evenly ; could write letters to him, and say her
her own self all that she felt of love and gratitude. And
that," she continued with a deep sigh, " was her chief com-
fort now ; for William was gone, and they should never meet
again — never alive — that she was sure of — she knew it."
11 But why, Jessy ?" " Oh, because William was so much
too good for this world ; there was nobody like William !

JESSY.

And he was gone for a soldier. Old general Lucas, her
father's uncle, had sent for him abroad ; had given him a
commission in his regiment ; and he would never come home
— at least they should never meet again — of that she was
sure — she knew it."

This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor
Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded
her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no
one knew ; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition,
some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her
mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she
bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and
loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings ; partly
from her trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy
of frame and of habit which had always characterised the
object of her love — a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was
but to apt to overtask his body.

However it found admittance, there the presentiment was,
hanging like a dark cloud over the sun-shine of Jessy's young
life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions
who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the
fear that is born of love ; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to
amuse away these sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's
letters, and, above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

JESSY.

The letters came punctually and gaily ; letters that might
have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the
fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved
health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and ex-
pected recal. At last he even announced his return under
auspices the most gratifying to his mother, and the most
beneficial to her family. The regiment was ordered home,
and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he
had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to
accompany him to Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his ne-
phew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he
expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General
Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, wTas still
more explicit : it adduced the son's admirable character and
exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and
avowed his design of providing for each of his young rela-
tives, and of making William his heir.

For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters,
Jessy was happy — till the peril of a winter voyage (for it
was deep January) crossed her imagination, and checked her
joy. At length, long before they were expected, another
epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the
next vessel to that which conveyed their previous despatches,
and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. The voyage
5

JESSY.

was past, safely past, and the weight seemed now really
taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and
smiled ; yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and
somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very intensity
of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind ; and the
Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water,
had overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams
which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's
lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying
poor William's railing, and was still foaming and dashing
like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if
William should insist on coming that way ! To be sure,
the carriage road was round by Grazely Green, but to cross
the brook would save half a mile; and William, dear Wil-
liam, would never think of danger to get to those whom he
loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed im-
possible, for no postillion would think of breasting that roar-
ing stream ; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering like
a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.

All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened,
and listened and stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense
of sound which seemed to come with her fearful calamity,
and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation,
and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she

JESSY.

heard the sound of a carriage rapidly advancing on the
other side of the stream. " It is only the noise of the rush-
ing waters," cried Emma. " I hear a carriage, the horses,
the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the
double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the pos-
tillion against crossing the stream. Emma and her mother
followed, fast ! fast ! But what speed could vie with Jessy's
when the object was William ? They called ; but she
neither heard nor answered. Before they had won to the
bend in the lane she had reached the brook ; and, long be-
fore either of her pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot
had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was borne
resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately
procured; men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind
girl was beloved of all, and many a poor man perilled his
life in a fruitless endeavour to save Jessy Lucas ; and Wil-
liam, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not de-
ceived her. William was there, struggling with all the
strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless
creature: but every effort — although he persevered until he
too was taken out senseless — every effort was vain. The
fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's
prediction was verified to the letter ; and the brother and his
favourite sister never met again.

EMILY.

I lo'e thee, gleefu' little one,

For in thy leer in' e'e
I ken a spirit, far aboon

A' insincerity.

I lo'e to ponder on a heart
Sae young an' pure as thine,

Tho' nigh it makes the saut tear start,
Contrastin' it wi' mine.

For I am auld, an' I ha'e seen

Of a' life's joys their ends,
An' my youth's innocence ha' been

Lang ganging wi' my friends.

But ye a frien' ha'e chosen weel
To share in a' your glee, —

For puss can lo'e, and puss can feel,
An' wha sae blythe as she ?

MOTTO FOR THE BIBLE.

Guid heav'n bestow its blessin's a!

On thee my bonnie bairn ;
An' as abundantly they fa'

This lesson may ye learn : —

A gratefu' spirit, an7 content,

Ari pity's kindly glow,
To a' aboon thee reverent,

An' guid to a' below.

MOTTO FOR THE BIBLE.

By J. Montgomery, Esq.

Behold the Book, whose leaves display
Jesus, the life, the truth, the way ;
Read it with diligence, — with prayer ;
Search it, and thou shalt find Him there.

A TALE OF THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

By the Author of "The Flower Show," and "The.Black Linn."

Twilight had long departed from a drawing-room in Bed-
ford-Square,— for it was during the Christmas Holidays, and
the silver Time-Piece had just chimed four. The fire burned
dim, and nothing was visible in the room, but the red re-
flected lights on the polished steel fender and fire-irons. The
folding doors were partly open, and in the inner drawing-
room William Stanhope and his sisters were busy at their
several occupations, by the light of two wax tapers.

" I will not do a stroke more," exclaimed William, rising
suddenly from the table at which he had been sitting, " or I
shall be as blind as my old Homer himself : — it is prodi-
giously dark! — Annie! will that tiresome Sonata never be
done?"

" It is done now cried the lively little musician, spring-
ing from her chair, " Have you any thing amusing to talk
about ?" — continued she shifting up to her brother. " What

A TALE OF THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

are you thinking about, that makes you look so extremely
comical ! — Oh ! / know — / know," added she laughing and
dancing.

" What can you both mean ?" asked Mary, quietly looking
up from her drawing.

"Oh!" cried William, "you will never juess, if we allow
you fifty guesses, Mary. But look here — this is what we
are laughing at," added he, running to the door, and then
coming back with stiff formal bows, as if he were entering a
room filled with company.

Annie, with a scream and bound of delight, flew to his
side, mimicking, with the most comic gravity, some other
person s entree, and short hurried curtsies.

Mary laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.

"Is it like?" asked William, resuming his own manner.

"As like as life," replied Mary. "Only you want that
yellow wig, and that yellow face, and comical little legs."

"And I," cried the sister, "the cap, and tight gown, and
the look altogether, as if I had been drawn through the key-
hole."

" I am glad, Mary, that you saw the ridiculousness of it,"
continued William , " I think every body present did, but
they were too polite to laugh. I cannot conceive why my
father was so civil to them."

A TALE OF THE

" He is civil to everybody," said Mary.

"Yes — yes — I don't mean civil. I mean really and ho-
nestly glad. He was talking to the Bishop at the moment
when these people were announced, about very interesting
things. I know he was interested, because I was behind his
chair."

"Well done, Willy! a very good reason," cried Annie,
laughing.

" No Annie," resumed her brother, somewhat disconcerted;
" I don't mean that, I mean that I saw his face, and heard
what he said — but when he heard the name, he darted up
with the greatest delight, and seemed quite to forget that he
had not finished his sentence."

"And such a name too," said Annie going to the door
and imitating the manner of the servant, who announces
company. " Dr. and Mrs. Lockett."

"Oh," said William, "you did not do it half grandly
enough. It was just as if it were the Emperor of Russia
and the Queen of Prussia, who were arriving. Dr. and
Mrs. Lockett f '

" Yes, said Mary, " and in they came. The little yellow
wig, and the little pinched cap, bowing and curtseying! It
was perfectly irresistible ! I cannot think why papa and
mamma invited them to so pleasant a party."

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

The children continued for some time longer to talk thus
gaily and foolishly, little imagining that their mother was
in the front drawing-room, resting on the sofa. If they had
known it, open and sincere as they were towards their father
and mother, they would not have thus indulged themselves
in ridiculing their parents' guests. But as their mother slip-
ped out of the room without speaking, and joined their father
and them at dinner afterwards, with her usual affectionate
and cheerful expression, they had no idea that she had over-
heard, or lamented the conversation.

Dinner being concluded, and the sofa having been drawn
round, that this happy holidajr party might thoroughly enjoy
their dessert and a good fire, Mr. Stanhope, as was his cus-
tom, led the conversation to such subjects as would interest
and encourage the children.

It seemed by chance this evening, to turn upon the cele-
brated characters of History, and their different claims to
approbation and gratitude ; and each person present was re-
quired to bring forward their favorite hero, and to endeavour
to' defend him when attacked.

This "game," as Annie called it, pleased the children,
as they were well read in Ancient and Modern History. Wil-
liam especially had many favorites, and fought their battles
with zeal and dexterity, till they were all one by one rejected.

A TALE OF THE

Mr. Stanhope pointed out to him, that neither brilliant
military renown, nor superior political talents, make a man
truly great, when he uses them for selfish, or unworthy ends ;
and he illustrated this observation from history.

" I see, sir," said William, " that a man to be truly great
must have the good of others in view," and he instanced se-
veral, of whose patriotism and virtue he had read with de-
light. His father was glad to find that he had so just a sense
of what was admirable in the human character.

His mother observed, that great and good as such men were,
they were not in her opinion the greatest and best. " Dear
mamma, how can you say so!" exclaimed the children.
" Who can be greater or better than such characters as these W

" Those, my dear children, who are not drawn into their
bright path by the intrinsic pleasure to be found in it — nor
consecrated to virtue from infancy, by the example of noble
ancestors — nor urged on by the stimulus of an observing and
admiring world — but who relinquish their own ease, happi-
ness, and even life itself, to a strong sense of duty, and the
good of their fellow-creatures." —

The children perceived their mother's distinction. Mary
directly thought of the conduct of Malesherbes, who, at the
utmost hazard of his life, defended Louis the sixteenth, in the
day of his calamity.

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

Mrs. Stanhope mentioned Howard the philanthropist, and
as the children had never heard of him, she gave them a
short account of his life. How, for ar -space of nearly thirty
years he had spent his time and fortune, and health, in in-
specting and improving the state of prisons and hospitals, in
this country, and on the Continent, which at that time were
such frightful receptacles of misery and disease. How he
had travelled repeatedly through Europe, undergoing volun-
tarily, prodigious labour, great suffering, and the continual
risk of infection in the steady pursuit of his benevolent de-
signs. And how, by his example and his publications, he
produced an attention to the subject, and an improvement in
the prisons, throughout Europe.

William and his sisters were extremely interested in the
character of this extraordinary man. And they agreed in
their father's observation, " that Howard was one of the
greatest benefactors of mankind that ever existed ; and that
before such self-devotion the noisy deeds of military heroes
shrink to nothing."

They were delighted to find that their mother knew many
particulars of Mr. Howard's private history, as her father had
been intimate with him. She related how his faithful servant
had attended him through all his wanderings, performing
even for him such offices as the mending, and making of his

A TALE OF THE

clothes. And how at last, Mr. Howard had parted from him,
because his two last journeys were directed chiefly to laza-
rettos, and other places where the plague prevailed, and where
he did not consider himself justified to take even a servant.
"He died," continued she, "of a malignant fever, at Cherson,
on the Black sea, without a friend near him to perform the
last offices of humanity, aged sixty-three. A statue has been
placed in St. Paul's to his memory, and I believe a few years
back, a monument was erected on the spot where he was al-
tered, in the Crimea."

"Oh! Papa," said Annie, "take us to see his statue in
St. Paul's ! Is it like him, do you think, Mamma ? — " I be-
lieve extremely so, my dear," said Mrs. Stanhope; "I have
heard my father say that it was the exact likeness of him,
before they destroyed the tie-wig which he was accustomed
to wear, and substituted the present head in its place."

"A wig!" exclaimed Annie with a look of dismay, "did
Mr. Howard wear a tie-wig?" The 'children all rather co-
loured. Their mother continued, " I have often heard my
father describe Mr. Howard, as a neat, little man, in a tie-wig."

16 Oh dear," said Mary ; " he should have been a tall noble
person."

" Why so?" said her father. " Many great men have been
little men ; and if they have good heads and good hearts

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

within, it does not much matter if they have tie-wigs and
snuff-brown coats without, does it, my dear?"

11 No, Papa," replied Mary, with a look of shame.

" If I had known Mr. Howard, as Grandpapa did, how I
should have loved him," exclaimed Annie, clapping her
hands. Then turning to her mother, she added, in a sor-
rowful tone, "It's a pity we know no such people now,
Mamma."

" Perhaps we do, my dear, without being aware of it —
people who have given up their own good for the sake of
others — whom the world neither knows nor honours, and
whose consciences are their sole reward."

u Your mother and I," continued Mr. Stanhope, " have the
pleasure to know at least two such persons."

" Have you indeed, sir. Who are they V asked the chil-
dren, eagerly. " They are strangers in town," said Mr.
Stanhope smiling, " but we expect them to dinner to-morrow,
and shall present them to our dear children with joy."

"But what is their history? do tell us, dear papa," said
Annie. Their father smiled again, as he looked at the chil-
dren, and he began as follows —

" The hero and heroine of my story, (for they consist of a
lady and gentleman — let not the ladies be altogether omitted
in our list of worthies,) — were in early life intimate friends,

A TALE OF THE

as they lived in the same village, and there was not many
years difference in their ages."

"But their names, their names, papa?" cried Annie.
" Gertrude and Stanhope," said her father. " Stanhope?"
said William* " any relation of yours, father?" No, William,
but he was called Stanhope, after my father. But let us
proceed. Gertrude's father was a surgeon, in this said vil-
lage, and for twelve years Gertrude was his only child. At
the end of that time he married again, and was blessed with
five children more. Bat his life was not prolonged, that he
might enjoy this blessing. He died suddenly when Ger-
trude was only eighteen, and his wife hardly survived him
six months. Thus was Gertrude left with these five chil-
dren dependent upon her care and bounty, for her father had
left no property, and she had nothing to depend upon, but the
small fortune which her own mother had left her. She
considered them as a sacred trust, and she resolved to devote
her time, talents, and fortune to them. Young, handsome?
and beloved as she was, she put aside, once and for ever,
every personal indulgence, every selfish wish, that might in-
terfere with the object to which she devoted herself.

Such conduct insured the love and admiration of all who
knew her, and her earliest friend was not the last to respect
and approve it. He had settled as successor to her dear fa-

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

ther, so that he had constant opportunities of observing her.
She indeed made him an adviser in all her plans, and found
him a comforter in all her difficulties. The attachment which
subsisted between them was of the purest and the strongest
kind. — It commenced with infancy, and was strengthened
by similarity of principles.

But Gertrude and Stanhope soon discovered that this too
must be sacrificed to their duty. Gertrude's fortune was
hardly sufficient to support and educate the children, and it
was essential that her whole time and thoughts should be
directed to their care and education, and to the economizing
of her small means. Stanhope, young and inexperienced,
could not for years expect to obtain from his profession, an
income such as would support a family.

They submitted to their circumstances with resignation.
Gertrude silently and patiently pursued a task, which now
had become her only pleasure. — Stanhope sailed for New
Orleans, where prospects of success opened to him. In this
miserable and unhealthy place he resided for twenty years,
never shrinking from his dangerous duty at the worst of sea-
sons, but fearlessly administering comfort to the deserted sick
and dying. Often and often, during the prevalence of the
yellow fever, did he, with tender solicitude, perform the part
of physician, friend, clergyman, nurse, and executor ; stand-

A TALE OF THE

ing up to his knees in water in the burial-ground, to read
the burial service over those whom no human power could
save: — and returning into the deserted city to contribute (as
far as kind particulars and consoling words could do) to the
comfort of mourning friends, across the wide Atlantic. His
life was spared, amidst such universal mortality, and it is
now twelve years since he returned to his native country.
He found his earliest friend surrounded by the love and re-
spect of all who enjoyed her society ; with her brothers ad-
vantageously settled, and her sisters well married. There
no longer existed any obstacle to their union ; and happy in
the rational pleasures and pursuits of their retirement, this is
the first time they have ventured into the gay world. I hope
that when they return, tired of the follies of fashion and the
heartlessness of society, they will be able to say, <£ at least we
have found one family who could estimate and remember old
friends."

" Oh they shall ! they shall ! we love them dearly already,"
exclaimed Mary. " Oh ! that to-morrow were come," said
her sister.

To-morrow came — though not so fast as the children might
desire. And at five o'clock the party was assembled round
the drawing-room fire, on the tiptoe of expectation.

" Mamma," said William, " I cannot imagine why you

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

told Ravenscroft not to light the lamp 1 — you generally have
it lighted before dinner, have you not, ma'am ? — We shall
not be able to see these dear delightful people. — Do stir the
fire, Mary, it is extremely dark." —

"Light enough to see old friends," said Mr. Stanhope.
At that instant came the longed for " knock and ring," and
in a short time Ravenscroft threw open the drawing room
door and announced

" Dr. and Mrs. Lockett !"

ON VISITING THE SILVAN COTTAGE,

INHABITED BY MISS HANNAH MORE AND HER SISTERS, 179L

By Anna Seward.

Fair, silent scene, soft rising in the vale,
By mountains guarded from the stormy gale !
Long 'mid thy sloping lawn, and winding glade.
And the mossed concave of thy cool arcade,
Be seen, in health and peace, the virgin train
Led by the boast of Bristol's tuneful plain ;
Where Genius oft has fed its rising fires,
Rolled the 'rapt eye, and struck the golden wires.
Bristol, that hears her More's distinguished name
In echoes wafted from the shrines of Fame :
On whose mild brow she sees gay laurels twine,
Wove by the liberal hands of all the Nine,
Enwreathed with Charity's assuasive balm,
And Faith and Piety's immortal palm.

ON VISITING THE SILVAN COTTAGE.

Friends to the friendless, by your cares benign,
On infant minds religious lustres shine,
That else in lightless ignorance must stray
Where guilt's dark snares penurious youth betray.
Ye bright examples of an heedless age,
Ye true disciples of the sacred page,
Oh, may your virtues make our just desire
To live like you — to be what we admire !

I was permitted to copy this interesting little poem from the "autograph"
collection of the excellent and honoured Jady, who, nearly half a century ago,
formed the subject of Miss Seward's verses. The time I had the enviable
privilege of spending with Mrs. Hannah More will form, to the latest moment
of my existence, one of the most delightful recollections my mind is capable
of retaining. As I hope, at a future period, to give my young friends some
short sketch of the most illustrious woman that

" Ever lived in the tide of time,"
any further remarks upon the subject may be postponed.

A.M. H.

THE MORNING SONG.

By Allan Cunningham.

Oh, come ! for the lily
Is white on the lea ;

Oh, come ! for the wood-doves
Are paired on the tree :

The lark sings with dew-
On her wings and her feet ;

The thrush pours its ditty,
Loud, varied, and sweet :

We will go where the twin-hares
Mid fragrance have been,

And with flowers I will weave thee
A crown like a queen.

ii.

Oh, come ! hear the throstle

Invites you aloud :
And soft comes the plover's cry

Down from the cloud :

MORNING SONG.

The stream lifts its voice,

And yon lily's begun
To open its lips

And drink dew in the sun :
The sky laughs in light.

Earth rejoices in green —
Oh, come, and I'll crown thee

With flowers like a queen !

in.

Oh, haste ! for the shepherd

Hath wakened his pipe,
And led out his lambs

Where the blackberry's ripe
The bright sun is tasting

The dew on the thyme :
The gay maiden's tilting

An old bridal-rhyme :
There is joy in the heaven

And gladness on earth —
So, come to the sunshine,

And mix in the mirth !

ANECDOTES,

SOUTH-AFRICAN BABOONS.

By Thomas Pringle, Esq.

The large dog-face baboon of South Africa, (Simia Cyno-
cepkalus, Cercopithecus JJrsinus) is known to - naturalists
from the descriptions of Sparrman, Vaillant, Burchell, and
other scientific travellers. It is an animal of considerable
strength, and attains when full grown, the size of a very
large Newfoundland dog. It is covered with coarse shaggy
hair, of a brownish colour, except on the face and paws,
which are bare and black. On level ground, it always goes
on all-fours, like other quadrupeds ; but among the rocks and
precipices, which are its natural refuge and habitation, it
uses its hind -feet, and hands, somewhat as a human being
would do, only with inconceivably greater boldness and agil-
ity, in springing from cliff to cliff, or in clambering up the
crags.

ANECDOTES.

The cynocephalus is not believed to be in any degree
carnivorous, but subsists on wild fruits and berries, and
principally on the numerous variety of edible roots, which
abound in the districts it inhabits. These roots it digs out
of the earth with its fore-paws, the nails of which, from this
cause, are always short, as if worn down by scratching ;
in other respects they nearly resemble those of the human
hand.

For defence against its numerous and ferocious enemies^
such as the leopard, hyaena, wild dog, &c, the cynocephalus
is armed with very large and strong canine teeth ; and when
driven to extremity, will defend itself successfully against
the fiercest wolf-hound. It has a mode of grappling its
antagonist by the throat with his hands, while at the same
moment, it tears open the jugular vein with its sharp tasks.
In this manner I have known a stout baboon despatch
several dogs before he was overpowered ; and I have been
assured by the natives, that even the leopard is sometimes
defeated and worried to death by a troop of these animals.
It is only collectively, however, that they can successfully
oppose this powerful enemy, who, in many of the mountain-
ous districts, subsists chiefly by preying upon them, catching
them just as a cat does a rat, by lying in wait and pouncing
upon them unawares.

ANECDOTES.

With all his strength and capacity for conflict, and in
spite of certain evil reports that are circulated to his disre-
pute, the dog-headed baboon appears to be in reality a very
harmless and inoffensive creature ; making allowance for a
thievish propensity, which he has, to rob gardens, orchards,
&c., when he can contrive to get at them. There is, indeed,
one story told at the Cape, and said to be quite authentic, of
a party of these cynocephali carrying off an infant from a
farm house in the vicinity of Cape-town, and only resigning
it after having been hunted for a whole day, by a nume-
rous party of men and dogs, over the tremendous precipices
of the Wynberg mountains. The child, however, when
recovered was found perfectly uninjured ; and perhaps this
extraordinary abduction (the only instance of the sort I ever
heard of in the colony), may have been prompted rather
by the erratic affection of some mother bereaved of her own
offspring, than by any more ferocious or mischievous pro-
pensity.

But however this may be, the strong attachment of these
creatures to their own young, is as unquestionable as it is
interesting. In my rambles in South Africa, I have fre-
quently witnessed affecting instances of this attachment,
when the inhabitants pursued them from their orchards to
the mountains ; the females in such emergencies returning

ANECDOTES.

to search for the young ones they had lost through the very
midst of their mortal enemies.

On more peaceful occasions, also, I have often contem-
plated them with great pleasure and interest. It is the prac-
tice of these animals to descend from their rocky fastnesses
in order to enjoy themselves on the banks of the mountain
rivulets, and to feed on the nutritious bulbs which grow in
the fertile valley ground. While thus occupied, they gener-
ally take care to be within reach of a steep crag, or preci-
pice, to which they may fly for refuge on the appearance of
an enemy ; and one of their number is always placed as a
centinel on some large stone, or other prominent position, in
order to give timely warning to the rest of the approach of
danger. It has frequently been my lot, when riding through
the secluded vallies of that country, to come suddenly, on
turning a corner of a wild glen, upon a troop of forty or fifty
baboons thus quietly congregated. Instantly on my appear-
ance, a loud cry of alarm being raised by the centinel, the
whole tribe would scamper ofF with precipitation ; splashing
through the stream, and then scrambling with most marvel-
lous agility up the opposite cliffs, often several hundred feet
in height, and where no other creature without wings, cer-
tainly, could attempt to follow them ; the large males bring-
ing up the rear-guard, ready to turn with fury upon the dogs,

ANECDOTES.

if any attempted to molest them; the females, with their
young ones in their arms, or on their shoulders, clinging with
arms clasped closely round the mothers' necks. And thus
climbing, and chattering, and squalling, they would ascend
the almost perpendicular crags, while I looked on and watch-
ed them — interested by the almost human affection which
they evinced for their mates and their offspring ; and some-
times not a little amused, also, by the angry vociferation
with which the old ones would scold me when they had got
fairly upon the rocks, and felt themselves secure from pur-
suit.

IMITATION OF CLAUDIUS.

MORNING LESSON.

By John Bowring, Esq.

Come, children, I've a tale to tell
Both serious and surprising ;

And rub your eyes — and listen well —
And see the sun is rising !

And did you ever see him rise ?

For 'tis a glorious wonder!
He every morning mounts the skies,

And every night sinks under.

And know ye that he never fails,
But all the world walks over,

And gilds the hills and glads the vales,
From Doneenak* to Dover?

* The extreme Western point of America.

IMITATION OF CLAUDIUS.

He travels through a vast unknown,

Than any arrow faster—
But — can a chariot go alone

Without a guiding master?

My children ! when the sun's bright wheel,
Thro' the wide heaven is rolling,

O ! there is one to guide it still,
Conducting and controlling.

Upon the chariot of the sun,

There sits that awful being,
Whose path is light — whose name is One —

Unseen, but all things seeing.

Tho' far above, what thought can reach,

So marvellous is His power,
It gives its beauty to the peach,

Its fragrance to the flower.

He painted the Ephemerae's wings,

Who sets the stars in motion —
He formed heaven's great and glorious things,

Who pour'd the drops of ocean.

IMITATION OF CLAUDIUS.

The ruddy face of morn He streaks,
He makes the sun-beams glisten,

He speaks — my children ! when he speaks.
Will ye not joy to listen ?

His works are loveliness and light,
To all who see and heed them —

His words are beautiful and bright —
Now — listen ! while I read them.

A LITTLE BOY'S LETTER FROM LONDON.

By Miss Jewsbury.

O dear mamma, what a great, large, wonderful place this
is ! — as large as a million villages joined all in a row ! — I do
think even our town could be set down in one of the squares ;
and if a hundred streets were swallowed up, I don't think
the rest would miss them. I am very sorry, dear mamma,
I did not write sooner, but I have been so busy all day that
at night I was quite tired ; and my uncle has been so good
to me, and has shewn me such a many, many things ! — and
I will tell you now what I liked best. But first of all,
dear mamma, pray don't fancy I have forgotten you, or my
sisters, or my pigeons and my rabbits, or any body ; and I
think Westbury a very nice place, though now I do live in
London, and sit up every night till ten o'clock and sometimes
later. Don't be angry, dear mamma, for I will be very good
when I come home, and I will bring you a gold watch, and
Jane and Mary a parasol a-piece, for my uncle has given me

A LITTLE BOY'S LETTER FROM LONDON.

three sovereigns, three, mamma, to spend in what I like.
Perhaps you know that we have got a new King now — he
is called William the IV. — and I heard him proclaimed at
Temple Bar, where the City gates are, and they were shut ;
and if the King himself had been there, he could not have
been let through, without knocking and telling his name
and errand ; so the procession did so, and then it was let
through, to proclaim that the Duke of Clarence was King.
I saw him yesterday in a carriage, but I did not see that he
looked any different from what he did last year, when he
passed through Westbury. In the procession there was the
Lord Mayor's gilt coach — you may tell Mary it was nothing
but glass and gold — and the heralds, who proclaimed the
new King, wore something like waggoners' frocks, made of
stiff gold cloth; and I heard "God save the King" played
by fifteen trumpets altogether ; and you might have walked
on the heads of the people as old nurse says ; and when they
shouted, it was like the roaring of the sea ; and my uncle
says I shall go to Windsor to see the dead King lie in state,
before he is buried, for that is a very grand sight too. Yes-
terday I saw a real live lion eat his supper, and several leo-
pards, and tigers, and panthers, and a hyaena, and many
other animals too ; and I was a little frightened just at first,
for Exeter Change is no larger than our church, and the

A LITTLE BOYJS LETTER

cages stand all round, and don't look so very strong ; and
when eight o'clock came, all the beasts began to grow im-
patient. First there was a growling among them, and then
they rubbed themselves against the iron bars of the cages,
and the leopards put their paws through, but you may guess
I did not offer to shake hands with the gentlemen, though
their skin is covered with pretty spots, and they jump about
like grey-houds. The keepers were very busy dividing the
meat, which was legs and shins of beef, into proper parts ;
and at last they went up to the o]d lion, who is always fed
first — and then what a roaring there was ! — I quite fancied
I was in a forest, only I felt very glad I was not. The old
lion and his wife had waited more patiently for their suppers
than any other animals, but the keeper teazed the old fellow
a little, just to show us what he could do ; and when the
bone was flung into the den — for they don't feed these ani-
mals by holding their meat to them, or they might chance
to bite off a finger or two just by accident — -well, when the
bone was flung to the lion — oh, mamma, I shall never forget
his eyes, for they flared just like two lamps ! — and he crouch-
ed down and clutched the bone, and roared, as much as to
say, " take it back if you dare ;" but his face was so grand,
it made me tremble, though I knew I was safe — I felt,
mamma, just as I did last year when I heard the thunder

FROM LONDON.

among the mountains. I shall never forget that lion ; there
was another, but he was more snappish, and yet did not make
me tremble half so much. The leopards, and tigers, and
panthers, took their meat playfully, but it was very terrible
play — I should not like them to play with me, I know.
The laughing hyaena, poor old fellow ! — was as tame as our
Neptune, almost as stupid — he let the keeper plague him,
and yet never grunted or grumbled ; — and he took his meat
quietly from the keeper's hand. The panthers had each a
very tough beefsteak, but they soon managed to tear it to
pieces, and then lay down and licked their lips very merrily.
There were two elephants, not fine fellows, but very funny
ones : one was let out, and walked down the hall, and rang
a bell when he was desired, and opened his mouth, expect-
ing, no doubt, that something should be put in it; and his
trunk reminded me of a large, large leech, screwing itself
about, and sucking hold of every thing within reach. It is
very odd, but when all the other animals were roaring, and
jangling the bars of their cages, I thought that if they had
broken loose, I should have run to the elephants to protect
me, and I think they would, though they were very ugly.
After the animals had been fed, the pelicans were let out,
and they scuffled up, flap, fiaping their wings, just like great
geese. They had each about three dozen small fish put in

66 A LITTLE BOY'S LETTER

a bucket of water, and they scooped them out as fast as I
could count, for their bills are half a yard long, and the
bottom one that has a bag to it is just like a shrimper's net.
They made every one laugh heartily. And afterwards I saw
the snakes ; they are kept in boxes, and wrapped up in flan-
nel, like little babies : but I am sure you will be tired, so I
will tell you all about the birds and monkeys another time,
and about the Zoological Garden, which I like better than
Exeter Change, because the poor things must be happier in
fresh air, though many of them were starved to death last
winter. And, mamma, I have seen the Tower. I can't
awhile tell you all the history of it, but very likely you know
that it stands upon twelve acres of ground within the walls,
and that before it was used as a prison, it was a palace ; and
that now it is only a curiosity, but it is very curious indeed.

I liked the armouries every one ; but especially that were
many of our old kings are, not they themselves, I mean, but
their armour, which looks just like them, with spears held in
the iron gloves, as if they were hands ; and then I liked
Queen Elizabeth in her white satin petticoat, with another
steel petticoat over it, the dress, they say, she wore at Tilbury
Fort ; and I liked very, very much the armoury where guns,
and swords, and pistols, are fixed against the walls, so as to
look like beautiful stars, and suns, and half-moons. I could

FROM LONDON.

hardly remember that such beautiful shining things were,
after all, only meant to kill people with, and that one ought
to admire spades and ploughs more. But the jewel office,
mamma ! — I wonder what Sinbad or Aladdin would have
said to such a show as this ! — I saw the new crown, made
for George the IV., and it shone like a bed of tulips ; dia-
monds, pearls, rubies, and a sapphire " of the purest and
deepest azure," as the book says — and azure means blue,
mamma, — and the ancient ruby that the Black Prince wore
at Cressy and Agincourt ; and I thought what a nice brooch
it would make you ; — and I saw the five sceptres ; and the
gold swords of justice, which, of course, won't cut ; and the
bracelets and the spurs that the King wears when he is
crowned ; and a hundred other things that dazzled my eyes
to look at.

I have also heard a musical instrument ; my uncle calls
it the musical mountain, but its real name is the Apollonicon,
played by a steam engine ; some of its sounds made me
think of the roar of the lion, but some of its tunes were very
soft, softer than your piano.

My uncle has taken me to some exhibitions, but I don't
understand pictures, though I am nine years old. I liked
Sir Thomas Lawrence's portraits of the kings, and generals,
and people, for I saw them lighted up with gas, and the light

A LITTLE BOY'S LETTER

made the uniforms look very beautiful ; and I thought our
own George IV. looked more like a king than all the rest of
the kings, and even emperors, that were hung up with him,
though, in one picture, he had not half so much gold lace
upon his clothes. I have been to the Thames Tunnel, a road
that is being dug under the river Thames ; and as it will be
always dark because of being under ground, lamps will al-
ways be lighted. It made me shiver rather, just as if I was
walking into a vault ; and it was strange to think that a
river was rolling over your head, and ships sailing over your
head, and steam vessels and boats, all over your head.

I have been to see the Suspension Bridge at Hammer-
smith, which means a bridge hung up in the air; but not
hung upon nothing, for the chains that hold it up go through
two great stone archways, that are reared a good height :
altogether, it looks something like two cat-gallowses, with a
plank lying between. Every time a carriage goes over, the
bridge shakes like a leaf, but it is quite fast ; and when you
stand underneath, and a carriage goes over, the sound is ex-
actly like thunder at a distance.

At the new London Bridge they are building, you are ob-
liged to pay a shilling to walk over and look at it, but the
money goes to help such of the workmen as get hurt at their
work ; and the man who collects it fought at the battle of

FROM LONDON.

Waterloo, and had his hand crushed while building the
Waterloo bridge, and now, because his hand was obliged to
be cut offj he takes the money with an iron hook instead — so
I did not grudge my shilling, that is, my uncle did not
grudge it for me.

I have seen Saint Paul's Cathedral, and it is a quarter
of a mile long, and it was thirty-five years in building, and
the hours on the great clock are marked in figures two
feet long, and the great clock itself measures nineteen
yards round ; and from the floor up to the ball at the tip top
of the dome, are six hundred and sixteen steps, more than
enough to tire one pair of legs, I should think ; and the great
bell, that only tolls when the king and queen, and a few
other people, die, can be heard twenty miles off: and the
whispering gallery brings whatever is whispered on one side,
close to your ear on the other ; and when a door is shut op-
posite to you, it makes a noise like cannonading. And Lord
Nelson lies buried in the tomb that Cardinal Wolsey intended
for himself, and I am glad of it, for he deserved it much
better.

My uncle was so good as to get me a ticket to go to Saint
Paul's, when the children of all the charity-schools sit up in
the dome, and sing ; there were ten thousand of them, and
it made me giddy to look up at them, for they seemed to be

70 A LITTLE BOY'S LETTER FROM LONDON.

sitting up in heaven ; and when they burst out in the hun-
dredth psalm, it seemed like heaven really — and I felt sick,
but I liked it very much. And, dear mamma, I am tired,
and my pen is split, and I have not got another ; and I have
taken two whole wet days to write this letter, but I hope you
will like it, and Mary and Jane too.

I have seen many, many other things, — the Colosseum,
and the Dioramas, and the Panoramas and the Parks, and
Kensington Gardens, and Richmond, and I have sailed on
the Thames in a wherry ; and I am sorry to say I have worn
out my new shoes, and spoiled my best jacket — for one does
so wear out clothes in London ! — But I hope, dear mamma,
to make you and my uncle amends, by getting on with my
Latin ; and I remain, with love to my sisters, and every body,
Your affectionate and dutiful son,

George Merton.

P.S. Please excuse blots.
London, June 30, 1830.

CHILDREN AT PLAY.

By William Howitt.

Up in the morning as soon as the lark,

Late in the evening, when falleth the dark,

Far in the moorland, or under the tree,

Come the sweet voices of children to me.

I am an old man — my hair it is grey,

But I sit in the sunshine to watch you at play,

And a kindlier current doth run through my vein,

And I bless you, bright creatures ! again and again.

I rejoice in your sports,— in the warm summer weather,
With hand locked in hand, when ye' re striving together;
But I see what you see not — the sorrow and strife,
Of the years that will come, in the contest of life ; —
For I am an old man — and age looketh on
To the time that will be — from the time that is gone —
But you, blessed creatures ! you think not of sorrow,
Your joy is to-day, and ye have no to-morrow !

CHILDREN AT PLAY.

Aye, sport ye — and wrestle — be glad as the sun,
And lie down to rest when your pastime is done,.
For your dreams are of sunshine, of blossoms and dew,
And the God of the blessed doth watch over you,
And the angels of heaven are missioned to keep
Unbroken the calm of your sealed sleep ; —
And an old man's blessing doth on ye dwell
The whole day long — and so fare-ye-well.

THE LOST GIRL;

OR,

INDIAN GRATITUDE.

" What will become of me ! — the sun is going down — the
snow is falling. Oh my dear father and mother, I shall never
see you again."

Such was the exclamation of Lucy Johnson, as, overcome
by fatigue and cold, she sat down upon a fallen tree in the
forest, and wept bitterly. She was alone, and knew not
whither to turn to find shelter and protection.

In company with a number of his neighbours, Mr. John-
son had emigrated from one of the New England states,
and with his family, consisting of a wife and daughter, had
chosen a residence on a spot of singular beauty, upon the banks
of the Mohawk, at about sixty miles from its mouth. The
banks of that river were then, as well as they are now, re-
markable for their fertility and beauty. Crops were raised
from the cleared land, almost without the trouble of plough-

THE LOST GIRL.

ing, and at the time to which we refer, the greater part of
the farmers of the settlement, had gone in company, to con-
vey the product of an abundant harvest to Albany. Among
them went Mr. Johnson, taking with him his wife, while
Lucy remained at the house of one of their neighbours.
Early in the morning of the day, upon which the settlers
were expected to return, the remaining inhabitants of the vil-
lage were alarmed hy a report, that a body of Indians from
the country toward Lake Ontario had destroyed several of
the settlements farther back, and were then advancing on the
opposite side of the river, to continue their work of destruction.
All was hurry and consternation. The terrified inhabitants
having no means of successful resistance, resolved to aban-
don their homes and fly to the nearest settlement, which was
ten miles distant in a southerly direction. Lucy among the
rest hastened away with the fugitives. She was, how-
ever, unused to travelling on foot, and the rough stony ground,
and the chilly air, (for it was in November,) soon disabled
her from keeping up with the company, who were already
scattering. By degrees the party became separated ; and
Lucy at length found herself alone ill the rniclst of a
wide forest, to escape from which seemed impossible. Still
she walked on in the direction which the rest seemed to have
taken, and hour after hour passed away, and she was still

THE LOST GIRL.

wandering without coming near the place, where all the
villagers had taken refuge.

Meantime the party that had gone to the city were re-
turning home again. They were, perhaps, anticipating the
comforts of a domestic fireside. What was their dismay
then, as they rose over the hill which separated them from
their homes, to behold them in ashes, or still consuming, and
the savages dancing and yelling with frightful contortions, as
they drank the "fire water," of the white men. Their fami-
lies might have been cruelly murdered, or carried into cap-
tivity, yet they could not render any assistance ; their
numbers were too small to attack the savages, and with
heavy hearts, they took the road which their families had
previously taken, resolving to unite in defence of the south-
ern settlement. Upon arriving there, they were rejoiced to
find that but one was missing ; every heart was gladdened
but Mr. [Johnson's. His only child — his dear Lucy was
gone, no one knew whither. She might be in the hands
of the savages — she might be wandering in the forest, to die
by cold or hunger, or to fall a prey to wild beasts. Mr. John-
son felt that this one stroke had swept away his all; for he
had left his wife nigh unto death at Albany, and he knew
too well, that the news of Lucy's loss, would deprive him of
his companion, who, perhaps, even then, was enduring all the

THE LOST GIRL.

agonies of apprehension, for the fate of her husband and daugh-
ter. His cup of affliction was full. While he was endeavour-
ing to nerve himself for the occasion, one of the few friendly
Indians who were then in the settlement, stood beside him.

tl White man is sorrowful," said he, after standing silent a
few moments ; " let Kawaga know it, that he may help him,
as white man help poor Indian when him sick."

Mr. Johnson looked up, and saw an Indian of the Oneida
tribe, whom, at a time when a disease was raging among the
tribe, he had taken home and restored to health, by means of
the simple remedies with which he was acquainted. An In-
dian never forgets either an injury or a favor. Upon leav-
ing Mr. Johnson's house on that occasion, Kawaga seized his
hand, and the stern features of the warrior relented as he
said, " Indian never forget — Indian never forget good white
man." Many a deer, and many a beaver skin, had he
brought after his successful hunting expeditions, and left at
Mr. Johnson's door. He would accept of no reward. " White
man was kind to Kawaga" he would say, as he turned
round and departed.

Mr. Johnson could not but be moved by the kindness of
Kawaga, in thus offering to assist him in his greatest dis-
tress. In a few words he related the circumstances of his
loss, and his fear that Lucy might be suffering in the forest.

THE LOST GIRL

" Has the daughter of the pale face gone % The leaf falls,
and the cold winds blow, but Kawaga will find her. Before
the rising of the sun thou shalt again see thy daughter."

" But, kind chief, there is danger. The enemies of your
tribe, and of the whites, are perhaps even now coming to
attack us here. You may be taken a prisoner and put to
death."

The Indian drew himself up. " Kawaga is brave — he
fears not death. He will lose his life to serve his friend.'7

He turned away with the indifference which an Indian
warrior considers it a merit to assume ; and, in a few minutes*
he was observed to enter the edge of the forest in company
with another of his tribe. Every one in the settlement were
busy in endeavouring to fortify themselves against the anti-
cipated attack of the Indians ; and much as they sympa-
thized with Mr. Johnson, they could not, except at the hazard
of their own lives, render him any assistance.

Kawaga and his companion proceeded in silence, each
armed with a bow and arrows. Every now and then they
would stoop to examine the ground and the fallen leaves, by
which the sagacious Indian can tell not only when persons
have passed, but can also discover, in many cases, whether
they are white men or Indians, to what tribe they belong if
the latter, and what were their numbers ; and that too when

THE LOST GIRL.

a white would not be able to perceive any resemblance to
a foot-track. Guided by his knowledge in these things,
Kawaga proceeded rapidly on for some time, until at length,
starting in surprise, he clapped his hands, and to the inquiring
look of his companion, pointed out something on the ground.
The Indian gave the usual u Huh !" of acquiescence, and
both immediately walked with a rapid pace toward the west.

The sun was setting, and the thick snow clouds were
moving down from the north. The air grew colder and
colder, and the wind whistled shrilly through the branches
of the trees , and Lucy was still wandering in that wild fo-
rest. A few berries were the only food she had tasted during
the day, and now night was approaching cold and cheerless,
and her limbs would no longer support her. Her hands and
feet were lacerated by the briers, and as she again attempted
to walk, the snow began to fall, and the benumbing influence
of the cold rendered her completely powerless. She felt as
she sank upon her knees in that wilderness, as if all hope
had departed, and uttered a prayer, that if she must die, God
would comfort her dear parents.

A noise, as if some one was forcing a way through the
crackling branches, caused her to start up in alarm — and Ka-
waga stood before her.

11 The pale woman pray," said he, " and the Great Spirit

THE LOST Gift Li*

I*.

THE LOST GIRL.

send Kawaga to find her. Kawaga is the friend of the pale
faces. Arise, daughter of the good white man, and return
with us to thy father."

Who can express the gratitude Lucy felt at being thus
saved from a fearful death 1 But she was too much over-
come by the cold to move ; which Kawaga no sooner per-
ceived, than he motioned to his companion, who immediately
gathered a few dry leaves and branches together, and striking
a flint stone against the steel head of his tomahawk, in a
moment obtained fire. Lucy was soon sufficiently revived
by its warmth to partake of some refreshments the Indians
had brought with them. In a few minutes they had prepared
a litter of the branches of trees, and covering it with one of
their cloaks or blankets, and some dried leaves, formed a con-
venient couch, on which they placed Lucy, giving her another
blanket to protect her from the cold. They then lifted it be-
tween them, and set off rapidly toward the settlement, where
they arrived without meeting with any of the hostile Indians.

In a few minutes Lucy was with her father. His grati-
titude to Kawaga for her restoration was unbounded.

"You shall stay with us/5 said he, as he seized the In-
dian's hand; "when we return to our home, and eat of our
bread, and drink of our cup; and we will take care of you,
and provide for you in your old age."

THE LOST GIRL*

Lucy ardently seconded her father' request. The Indian
wavered for a moment. u No," he said, at length, " Kawaga
must return to his tribe. When many snows have passed,
and his head comes white, and his eye is dim, then will he
return to the wigwam of the pale face and smoke the calu-
met of peace, until the Great Manitou shall tell Kawaga to
lay down in the burial place of his fathers."

The Indian turned and departed, and he was not again to
be found when search was made in the settlement. The
night passed away, but no attack was made by the invading
Indians, who were alarmed by the knowledge that a strong
body of troops were advancing to cut them off, and hastily
returned to their own land. The destroyed settlement was
soon rebuilt. Mr. Johnson resided there many years, happy
in the possession of moderate wealth, with enough of con-
tentment to enjoy it, and of a wife and daughter whom he
loved as his own life.

Weeks and months passed away, and ten snows came
and departed, and Kawaga returned to the l: wigwam of the
pale face." It is needless to say that he met with an earnest
and hearty welcome from Lucy and her parents. He lived
many years afterward, and when we last saw him his hair
was white as the snows of winter, and his eye was dimmed
with age ; and not long after, to use his own expression

THE LOST GIRL.

11 the Great Spirit called him to go to the hunting ground of
his fathers beyond the setting sun."

" And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones,
Which hallowed by their tears and moanB,
Was all the Indian's monument."

THE ANEMONIE AND THE CARNATION.

(TO ELIZA IN HER TUTELAGE.)

By Edward Walsh, M. D.

Not heedless culture e'er bestows
The charms that deck the truly fair ;

The gem its finished lustre owes
To patient toil and studious care.

Vain fools affectedly admire

Attractions due to fashion's hand ;

The swelling gourds few suns require,
But oaks a thousand years demand.

Those intellectual graces seek,

That slowly, surely win the heart —

That beam the eye, suffuse the cheek,
Beyond the utmost power of art.

THE ANEM0N1E AND THE CARNATION.

Scarce had the tepid vernal rains,

With wild Favonius breathing round,
Unloosed the earth from icy chains,
And strewed with pearls the verdant ground

When, eager to secure alone

The primal honours of the year,
A knot of Anemonies shone

All gorgeous on the gay parterre.

So shine at balls the rising belles,
In zones of purple, gold, and green,

Whilst each fair envious bosom swells
With wishes only to be seen.

Near to the splendid group was laid

A plain carnation's tufted train,
For yet no starting bud betrayed

The future glories of her reign.

The gay parterre affect surprise,

Whilst one, installed in purple pride,

Addressed the stranger in disguise,
And thus in scornful accents cried :

THE ANEMONIE AND THE CARNATION*

" How dare that sedgy weed presume
So near our borders thus to stray %

Vile sod ! — hence to thy native home,
The miry pasture — hence away !"

The genius of the dormant flower
Starts at the chidings of the fair :

She rose — and rising shook a shower
Of brilliants from her fragrant hair.

" Why," she replies, " invidious rail,
Ere Sol my virtues gives to bloom ?

When I my spicy breath exhale,
That boasted bed shall be thy tomb.

" I freely own thy various dyes —
Selected from th' aerial bow —

May for a moment charm the eyes,
But they like it soon cease to glow.

" For virtues that to me belong
To Sol be all due praises meet j

And if I lead the floral throng,

Those virtues culture makes complete.

THE ANEMONIE AND THE CARNATION.

" Enjoy thy being whilst you may,
Raised by the gelid breath of spring ;

A longer date and warmer ray,
To mine more perfect gifts shall bring.

"My matchless tints, my form improved,

My cordial aromatic soul,
Esteemed by taste — by fancy loved,

Shall please while suns and seasons roll."

She ceased — and fragrance breathed around —
The gaudy beauty bowed her head ;

Whilst the sweet modest sylphid found
The covert of her leafy shed.

THE BLOW FORGIVEN.

By Mrs. Opie.

Two very dear friends of mine, first cousins to each other,
reside in a picturesque cottage in Norfolk, which stands in a
valley surrounded by wooded hills, and commands from the
windows a view of the sea.

To the inhabitant of a city, the country, even in winter,
offers a refreshing variety. I should, therefore, eagerly have
accepted an invitation to visit the cottage in the beginning
of the year 1829, even if its possessors had not been dear to
my heart, and congenial to my taste.

I arrived on the birthday of one of my friends, and during
the evening I was told the following little anecdote, which
pleased me so much that I committed it, not only to memory,
but to paper.

The ladies were in the habit of allowing some of the vil-
lage children to come to the cottage every day for instruction,
which they themselves communicated, assisted by a young
girl whom they employed as a teacher.

THE BLOW FORGIVEN.

" Well, children/' said the elder of the ladies, entering the
school-room on her cousin's birthday ; Here are some pre-
sents which I mean to give you in honour of the day ; shall
you not like to receive them, and particularly on such a joy-
ful occasion ?"

" O yes, Ma'am," was the general answer; but the young
teacher, looking very grave, said, to the lady's painful sur-
prise, " I am sorry to inform you, Ma'am, that Sarah Anne
N must not have a present."

Now, Sarah Anne N , from being some time in the

back-ground, had lately become one of the best and most pro-
mising little girls in the school, and was no doubt conscious
how high she stood in the esteem of her benevolent instruct-
ress :

Dangerous pre-eminence ! — mischievous consciousness !

We are never so likely to err as when we fancy ourselves
raised above the possibility of erring ; and poor Sarah Anne
had been good so long, that she fancied she could not be
naughty again ; but she had erred that very day, and greatly
too.

The facts were these: she had a younger sister in the
school, who learnt with such difficulty that she had been in-
duced the preceding day to carry up a hymn to repeat to the

THE BLOW FORGIVEN.

ladies which she had said before ; and a little girl, named
Mary Anne H , had that morning, in the hearing of Sa-
rah Anne N , reproached her with this breach of a usual

custom. The reproach was not the more palatable because
it was true, and Sarah Anne N , resenting it for her sis-
ter, pushed eagerly forward, and gave Mary Anne H a

hasty blow.

This indulgence of anger, though rendered excusable in
her eyes, probably, by the motive which prompted it, was
judged sufficient to forfeit her right to the present in store ;
and while her mortified benefactress, after hearing the tale,
was forced to own the young teacher judged rightly, and
was considering how she could prevent her cousin's birth-
day from being clouded over with a discontented face, the an-
gry girl exhibited no signs of contrition, but sat swelling, as
it were, with a sense of having incurred unjust censure, and
a belief that she had done a praiseworthy action, in avenging
her sister's quarrel.

For the moment all traces of her lately acquired goodness
vanished from her countenance, and, in every look and ges-
ture, temper reigned triumphant.

Just then, Mary Anne H , who had been absent on an

errand, entered the room ; and my friend called her to her,
to receive her just reproof for having taunted Martha N ,

THE BLOW FORGIVEN.

for an action more the result of weakness than of indolence ;
and while the child stood abashed and penitent before her she
said, " Are you not sorry, Mary Anne, for having, by your
talkativeness and unkindness towards her sister, tempted poor

Sarah Anne N to do such a wrong action ?"

11 Yes, Ma'am, I am."

"But what did she do? Did she really give you a blow?"
"Yes, Ma'am."

" What ! a blow ? — and in this cottage ?"
u Yes, Ma'am."

u And are you not sorry that Sarah Anne N , who has

been so good, should now be so naughty?"
" Yes, Ma'am."

" And are you sure that you are sorry for it ?"

" Yes, Ma'am, quite sure."

" And you forgive her ?"

"O yes, Ma'am!"

" Then go and give her a kiss."

The child instantly ran up to Sarah Anne N -, who

was still pouting, and swelling with rebellious feelings ; and
not only kissed her burning cheek, but threw her little arms
round her neck. Poor Sarah Anne N — — could not resist
this appeal to her best feelings ; she impulsively rose and re-
turned the embrace, and the reconciled enemies, to the tear-

THE BLOW FORGIVEN.

ful joy of all the children present, stood sobbing in each
other's arms. Bat no one's satisfaction equalled that of my
friend, when she saw how well she had succeeded in pre-
venting the birthday of her beloved relative from being
clouded over by the necessity of inflicting punishment.

She had indeed effected still more: and the day, so dear
to all who have the happiness of living in the circle of the
cottage was distinguished by a proof of the judicious, Chris-
tian training which the pupils receive there — " since to err
is human, to forgive, divine;" and two of the objects of my
friends' benevolent exertions had exhibited an instance of
subdued resentment, and forgiveness of injury.

THE NUT-CRACKER.

By Miss Jewsbury.

"The Squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play." — Cowper.

His home was once the forest tree,
He leaped from bough to bough ;

But even there he scarce could be
More frolicsome than now.

When free, his fare must oft have been

Exceeding poor and scanty ;
Now, if there is a fetter seen,

He lives, you see, in plenty.

And pray, is not that shoulder fair,

A standing-place as good,
As if a leafy branch it were,

An oak-branch of the wood ?

The working of a squirrel's brain,

Of course, I cannot tell ;
But I should guess, nor guess in vain,

He likes it full as well.

THE NUT CRACKER.

There is a sparkle in his eye,
He pricks his ears with glee ;

Ev'n by his tail may one descry,
A happy rogue is he !

Or rather was ; for years have fled
Since he'd his portrait taken ;

Those nimble limbs are now like lead,
Those bright eyes will not waken.

No matter ; in no cruel cage %
He lived — or leaped for pelf;

And when his nuts, through very age,
He could not crack himself, —

His mistresses — each merry maid —
Turned nut-cracker to squirrel;

And when he died, his corse was laid
Beneath a tree of laurel.

Enough of him ; but not for me,

Of those two gentle girls ;
In russet may their picture be,

But they wear silk and pearls.

THE NUT CRACKER.

I saw them only jester-night,

It was not out of door,
But in a room where lamps were bright —

Bright eyes and smiles a store.

They fixed my gaze among the crowd,

And if I call them fair,
It will but be to say aloud

What many whispered there.

They were not children — sat not now

Upon the mountain-heather ;
But sisterhood still marked each brow,

And still they sat together.

Their looks, their music — smile and song,

Awoke delight and prayer ;
And as I left the glittering throng,

(I was a stranger there)
Love came upon my spirit strong,

M And I blest them unaware !"*

♦Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE;

OR,

THE CONFIDING BOY.
By Mrs. Hofland.

u What will become of me? the sun Is going down, the
children are weary and hungry, and I have neither food nor
shelter for them ; would I had remained in my own country
and perished among my own kindred."

Such was the exclamation of Janet Ferguson, as she
clasped the babes in her arms closer to her breast, and pressed
with deep emotion the hand of her little Sandy, whose
strength was failing, though his spirits were unsubdued.
Like many others, she had been driven from the Highlands
of Scotland, to seek a far distant home in Canada, and until
within a few hours had never repented the step adopted
by her excellent husband; but sudden misfortune had be-
fallen her.

Their dwelling in the New World was chosen in a spot of

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 95

such singular beauty, as to compensate for that magnificent
scenery remembered so fondly by all those who are born in
the "land of the mountain and the flood.1' It was situated
within a short distance of the river St. Lawrence, at that
part where it enriches the Riehlieu Islands, where the gene-
ral temperature is mild, the soil productive, and the advanta-
ges offered by the country concentrated. So profitable had it
proved to the industrious farmer, that he was now gone
(with several of his neighbours), to the great fair at Mon-
treal, for the purpose of selling grains and furs, which had
been partly purchased from the native Indians.

The inhabitants of this new settlement called their village
Benoni, (child of sorrow), yet until this d&y it had little me-
rited the name, but the arrival of an old man journeying
much farther, who had learnt by chance that a tribe of In-
dians was on the way to attack them during the absence of
their men, placed all who remained in a state of the utmost
terror. They were out of the line of roads, had no connection
with the river, at a distance from all neighbours, and igno-
rant of the way by which their foe was advancing; but of
that foe every one entertained the most lively terror. A few
only of the red men (such they call themselves), had found
their way to Benoni for the purposes of trade, and from them
the women and children held aloof, for they had heard such

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

terrifying details of the ferocity of this people, their treachery,
cruelty, and even cannibalism, that the bare idea of falling
into their hands was insupportable to them all.

The sad news ran like wildfire from house to house, and
the inhabitants of each ran out, and impelled by the same
fears, soon met in the open ground, and began to consult on
the possibility of saving themselves and their little ones, for
more they could not hope to effect. All their cattle, furni-
ture, and humble wealth, must be instantly abandoned, and
it was further deemed advisable, that they should separate
into small parties, and hide themselves in the trees and
among the rocks, in order to escape from those merciless sa-
vages to whom their homes were abandoned, and who, in
thus dividing them, had half accomplished the ruin they me-
ditated.

Thus situated, Janet wandered forth with her two chil-
dren, suffering under such anguish of mind as few even of
the unhappy can conceive, for not only was she bereft in a
moment of all the comforts of life, but she was parted from
that beloved husband, whose presence would have consoled
her, and she did not know whether she was not going every
moment still farther from him. In the horror and confusion
of the hour, she had omitted to enquire the route to any set-
tlement, or learn if any of her neighbours could rejoin each

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

other at a particular spot — in their terror they had been
scattered like a flock of sheep, but they were not blest with
the power of instinct to unite again.

Janet had dragged her weary limbs forward in the dark-
ening twilight, sometimes looking from side to side in hope
of discovering a distant dwelling, or a safe resting-place,
when all at once, upon turning a projecting knoll, she was
startled by the light of a bright fire, around which were
seated a number of Indians, with their squaws, (or wives),
and little ones. The sight was in itself so surprising and
curious, that although poor Janet was sensible these were the
enemies she dreaded, and those who were perhaps on the
road to destroy her forsaken home, and her beloved neigh-
bours, she stood for a moment to gaze upon them.

The men were nearly naked, and painted in such a gro-
tesque manner as to render them objects of horror ; for being
prepared for an expedition, their heads were almost covered
with vermilion, and their ribs marked out by broad black
stripes, whilst their hair was bristled up in the midst of the
head, so as to increase the look of fierceness natural to their
stern and sedate countenances. The appearance of the wo-
men was much more prepossessing, as they were generally
arrajred in cloaks and trowsers, of blue cloth, which had been
purchased at Montreal, and as they sate behind their hus-

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

bands, and appeared to wait upon them as servants, it struck
Janet that they were civilized and gentle, but under severe
subjection to the terrible-looking savages before her. Just as
she was turning round, to retrace her steps in silence, her
little girl, who had been slumbering, awoke,, and terrified by
the blazing light and the strange objects, uttered a loud
shriek, which instantly drew the attention of the Indians to
the alarmed and fugitive mother.

In a few moments Janet and her children were surrounded
by the Indians, and led towards their fire, and since all re-
sistance to their will was evidently useless, the poor woman
very wisely appeared willing to accompany them, and to
throw herself upon their mercy in such a manner, that if they
had indeed any traces of humanity in their dispositions, it
might be called forth in her behalf. For this purpose, she
sought eagerly to still the cries of her affrighted child, by
turning its eyes away from the objects of dread, whilst she
whispered to her little boy, in a voice of cheerfulness, " Sandy,
my man, dinna be feared o' the guid folk around ye ; be good-
humoured an civil, and doubt not their kindness : it is fra
them your dear father gets the fine furs an the sweet honey,
my child."

This little boy was naturally courageous, and habitually
obedient ; his father had very wisely taught him to exert his

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

mind (young as he was), by sustaining certain hardships,
and practising certain privations, which rendered him manly,
enterprising and enduring. Poor Sandy had been hungry for
the last two hours, but he knew his mother could give him
no food, therefore he did not wound her by complaints which
were useless. His feet were sore, but since he could not be
carried by her, he would not grieve her by describing his
sufferings ; and since he knew she always told him the truth,
and knew what was the best to be done, he determined to con-
quer his own fear of the Indians, and rouse himself, notwith-
standing his weakness, to fulfil the wishes she had expressed.

In consequence of this resolution, when they had arrived
at the circle of Indians, he directly went up to the Chief, who
was an old man, seated on a mat, and after asking his name,
he sate down beside him, and with an air of confidence,
showed him his swollen feet, and informed him that he was
hungry.

The chief, in a few words, but to Sandy's joy they were
uttered in English, informed him that his name was A paeth-
Yaali, or the stranger's friend, and as such he gave instant
orders to his squaw to feed the mother and her young.

Long stripes of the dried flesh of the reindeer, and the In-
dian maize, compounded into delicate cakes, were imme-
diately placed in the hands of Janet and her famishing babes ;

100

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

and so glad were they to receive sustenance at a time when
nature craved it so importunately, that they fancied they had
never tasted food so sweet, nor met with friends so kind.
The extraordinary gravity of the Indians made Janet afraid
of speaking, least she should offend those whom she desired
to propitiate ; but her little boy, refreshed and gladdened,
crept closely to the old warrior, and, with all the endearing
confidence of childhood, thus addressed him, despite of the
tremendous appearance he had assumed.

" My good master, Apaeth-Yaaii, I am very much obliged
to you for my good supper and the kindness you have shewn
to my dear mother, and little Janet. I shall always consider
you as my friend, and I wish you would tell me the names
of the rest of these warriors."

" The one nearest to thee," replied the warrior, " is called
Split-log — the one now standing near thy mother is Red-
jacket. These are named by thy own people. He who is
now advancing to us, is Nico-Mingo."

"And a very good looking fellow he is," said Sandy,
" and though he has not a British name, I like him as well
as any body here."

So saying, little Sandy by a strong effort arose, and ran
to the Indian, who having heard his words, received him
kindly, led him to his hut or wig- warn, and gave him the

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

101

place of repose so necessary for him. The wants of his
mother and her child were also supplied, and after a night
of profound repose, the worn-out family awoke to find them-
selves in the midst of the enemies they had dreaded, and be
sensible not only that they were uninjured, but most hos-
pitably entertained.

Hour after hour, and day after day, passed on for the fol-
lowing week, and Janet continued as if spell-bound with the
Indians, who laid no injunctions on her will, but continued
to supply herself and children with food, and to receive
her attention to their own babes, and especially her kindness
to their sick, with much gratitude, though few words passed
on either side. Janet still in great awe, and considering
herself a prisoner, dared not rouse their anger by attempting
to escape, which was not likely to succeed, and even if it
should, " might she not meet with some other tribe who
were less kind and civilized than these ?"

In the mean time Sandy made himself perfectly at home
amongst them — he joined the women in weaving mats, the
men in fishing, listened with profound attention when any
of the orators made a speech, though he could not under-
stand more than half of it, and when he was permitted, sung
them the songs of his country, and taught their children the
national dance. His good humour, frankness, and courage,

102

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

so won the heart of Nico-Mingo, that he offered to adopt
him as his own son, to clothe him in the finest skins, tattoo
his whole body with stars and flowers, feed him with the
best venison and the purest maize, and finally to instruct
him how to scalp his enemies, and endure their utmost tor-
ture, like the " son of the brave."

To this generous offer, the boy replied as far as he was
able, in the language adopted by the people amongst whom
he was placed.

" Warrior, you have given me food when I was famishing,
and rest when I was weary. I love you, and I desire to
handle the tomahawk like an Indian, and to brave danger
as the son of a Chief, but like you I love truth also, and it
compels me to say that I desire to see my dear father, and to
live in my own home above all other enjoyments."

" Thou hast well spoken," said the old chief Apaeth-
Yaali.

Nico-Mingo and the rest were silent, but there were no
symptoms of anger in their manners, and when Janet retired
for the night as usual, she did so under the belief that they
had forgiven the honest assertion of her little Sandy, though
they might not grant the request which was couched in it,
of restoring him to his father.

Soon after the sun arose, Janet and her children were

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

103

awakened by the voice of Nico-Mingo, who thus addressed
his sleepy little companion : —

" Son of my love, arise, behold a journey is before thee."

They all instantly arose, and followed their conductor,
who proceeded with the customary silence of this extraordi-
nary people, until Sandy gave token of weariness, by taken
hold of the hand of his guide, and casting a look of enquiry
towards the wallet girded round his waist. The Chief com-
prehended his wants, and sitting down on the first green
sward near them, he presented each of the party with suffi-
cient food for breakfast — the remainder he packed up with
care, for the Indians are always frugal, (having great dif-
ficulty in supplying their wants,) and this he placed on
the arm of Sandy, after which they re-commenced their jour-
ney.

Janet had for some time conceived that the kind-hearted
savage was leading them towards Montreal, but as that was
a distance of at least sixty miles, she could not suppose one
apparently so considerate would expect that she could walk
all the way, or that he would dismiss them in a district
where there were apparently neither roads nor dwellings,
with only such provision as so little a boy could carry.
Still she dreaded making enquiries and giving offence, and
was endeavouring to render Sandy the medium of learning

104

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

their guide's intentions, when he suddenly stopped, and after
drawing the boy closely towards his bosom, thus spoke :

" To the left of that little mountain, you will find the blue
stream which waters your own dear village of Benoni. Re-
turn to it and remain in peace, for thy father even now is
on his way thither in alarm and sorrow. Sandy, take thou
the last embrace of him whom thou hast loved and trusted,
and who for thy sake promises safety to thy people."

" Do not go — do not leave us," cried the boy, "come to
our cottage and eat bread, dear Nico-Mingo; my father will
give you ale and beef, my mother will knit gloves and stock-
ings for you, and I — Ah ! I will love you and sing to you,
and call you my Indian Daddy."

At this moment, Janet thankful for all she had been de-
livered from, not less than all she had received, warmly se-
conded her son, and with tears protested that neither he nor
his tribe should ever visit Benoni without receiving a Chris-
tian welcome.

Nico-Mingo answered, " I believe thee, because thy child
did not mistrust us, therefore, when the leaf falls, and the cold
winds blow, I will visit the door of thy husband's wigwam."

The Indian departed, and the steps of the exiles were
quickened, until they, reached the clear stream, on the banks
of which they joyfully pursued their way, and by the hour

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

105

of noon, were thankfully sheltered in Benoni, which but for
Sandy's courage and obedience, would now have been a
heap of ashes. They found several fugitives returned, who
were ready to expire with terror at the sound of a human
voice, but had yet been driven by want to re-enter their dwell-
ings. Others had pursued the path to Montreal, and were
bringing thence succour which was no longer wanted. With
the earliest of these Sandy Ferguson appeared, and with a
joy the wretched man can alone appreciate, found unharmed,
and happy, the beloved wife and children whom he believed
to have perished.

When peace and plenty were restored, when the harvest
had been gathered, the fuel stacked, and the leaves were
falling, Sandy said, "My new daddy will come soon," and
his prophecy was fulfilled, for as Ferguson was returning
late one night from his labour, he found a red man seated on
the outside of his cottage door.

" What do you want, friend ?" said Sandy, thinking him
one of the traders in skins whom he had formerly dealt with.

11 1 come to smoke the calumet of peace with the pale man
who is father to little Sandy."

"Then welcome, thrice welcome, brave Nico-Mingo," said
the farmer as he led him into his house, where he was wel-
comed with ardour by little Sandy and his mother, the for-

106

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

mer exclaiming, " 1 knew he would come — you know I told
you he would come — the red men always speak truth, and
Nico-Mingo is the best of them all."

" Son/' said the Chief, " I come to thee, and to thy people,
whom thou savedst by thy confidence once, and mayest
again save, if they will, like thee and thy house, be simple
and sincere."

" I will answer for all Benoni," said Sandy.

" And I will confirm his words," said the father.

The Indian ate his supper, smoked his reed, and lay down
on the mat provided for him, in token of reliance on this pro-
mise, and the next morning opened a treaty of commerce
which eventually benefitted alike the settlement and the tribe,
and which, at the instance of this powerful chieftain, was
named, " The Treaty of the Confiding Boy."

107

FRANK AND HIS KITE.

By James Bird, Esq.

Little Frank had a small, but a very gay kite, —

Oh ! he deemed it a beautiful one :
It was truly his pet, and his sole delight,

As it flew up the path of the sun.

But Frank became proud, and he fancied his skill

Was sufficient to manage a larger :
Just then his rich uncle rode over the hill,

On his favourite Waterloo charger.

" Dear uncle," cried Frank, " I perceive other boys
Have their kites which are six fee.t high,

While mine is the least of these juvenile toys;
Pray tell me the reason why.

" O give me, dear uncle ! a very large kite,
Like the one that so buoyantly flies: —

Look ! look ! what a grand and a marvellous sight
It now forms in the beautiful skies !"

108

FRANK AND HIS KITE.

"Nay, Frank," said his uncle, "you think yourself clever;

The huge kite which we yonder can view
Is above your control — you could manage it never ;

It would fly away, imp, with you !"

Frank did not believe it — he deemed himself wise,

And as clever as clever could be ;
As is often the case, in their own dim eyes,

With mortals much older than he.

So Frank he said, " No ! I can manage it well, —

Buy a large one, dear uncle, I pray 1"
His uncle consented, and, sooth to tell,

Bought him one on that very same day.

The kite was magnificent, stately and tall,

And as wide as a fishing boat's sail;
On its top shone a glittering gilded ball,

At its bottom a long white tail.

Then Frank's little heart swelled high with pride ;

He exclaimed, "Oh ! to-morrow's the day !
We will bear you, my kite, to the bleak hill's side j

I shall cap all the boys at their play I"

FRANK AND HIS KITE.

J 09

Frank rose in the morn with the light of the sun ;

How knowing he looked ! — how arch !
For the wind had its blustering song begun, —

'Twas the twenty-first morning of March.

The wind blew stronger — the house-top vane

Loud creaked, and the doors did clatter,
The yard-dog howled o'er his rattling chain,

For he wondered what could be the matter,

The elms and the oaks all roared — the birds

In affright left their favourite tree :
How proud was Frank ! and how proud were his words —

"Ho ! this is the morning for me !"

He called to his playmate with joy and delight,

Bade adieu to his father and mother ;
His playmate caught hold of one end of the kite,

And Frank he caught hold of the other.

Its string was so long it might reach to the sky,
And they bore the great kite to the hill : —

"Now! — now!" exclaimed Frank — "let her fly! — let her fly!"
" I will !" cried his playmate, " I will !"

110

FRANK AND HIS KITE.

Away went the kite, like a bird on the wing —

Up ! up ! she soared higher still ;
And Frank felt the tightening pull of the string,

As he stood on the brow of the hill.

On came the storm-blast, strong and loud,
And the kite mounted higher so fleet,

To quit his firm hold Frank was far too proud,
Though she lifted him off his feet.

Away went the kite, o'er hedge and o'er tree,

And away went the boy, too bold ;
And now, though he longed on the fair earth to be,

Yet he dared not abandon his hold.

Now over the river, that flowed through the vale,
The kite hovered the space of a minute ;

And little Frank looked, as he hung from its tail,
Like a gull that could see no fun in it.

The kite, as in scorn, her white wings flapped,
While her sides to the blast did quiver;

Louder it blew, and the long string snapped ;
And Frank — tumbled into the river !

FRANK AND HIS KITE.

Ill

In confusion and shame he crawled up the high bank,

And he looked like a half-drowned rat ;
And he heard a gruff voice — " Ho ! ho ! gallant Frank !

What a notable feat you've been at I"

His uncle was there, and his finger of scorn

He pointed at Frank, as ashamed
He stood hanging his head, with a visage forlorn,

Like an imp of his monkey-tricks tamed.

11 Frank ! Frank !" cried his uncle, " thy folly and pride

Have exposed thee to this degradation :
What an ape you must be to presume thus to ride,

So high, Sir, above your right station !

" Remember that he who attempts to perform
What his strength and his skill cannot master

May meet with a check in some turbulent storm,
Which may end in a wretched disaster ;

" And that he who pretends to be wondrously wise

Above others — misled by ambition —
May find, when he thinks he must certainly rise,

That he'll fall in no pleasant condition!"

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HOME.

"So when in childhood's quiet morning,

Sometimes to distant haunts we rove,

The heart, like bended bow returning,

Springs swifter to its home of love.
Each hill and dale that shared our pleasures,
Becomes a heaven in memory." Thaarup.

It was January, — the snow was falling thick and fast, —
the wind blew almost a gale, and every thing abroad indi-
cated one of our longest and most severe New-England storms.

Many a time had Henry Ackland walked impatiently to
the drawing-room window, in the hope that he should dis-
cover some promise of fine weather: in vain was his eye cast
anxiously from one quarter of the heavens to another ; dense
clouds shut out every streak of sky-blue, and concealed every
sun-beam. The branches of the leafless trees groaned, and
poured sad wailing music through the air ; — ever and anon
their accumulated burthen of snow would fall rushing to the
ground, not unfrequently accompanied with the rent boughs
themselves.

Not a living thing was to be seen. The timid winter birds

HOME.

113

were all concealed in nooks and hollow trees ; and domesti-
cated animals were securely sheltered.

Henry gazed long upon the dreary scene without, now and
then- striving to dissipate mental restlessness by traversing
the adjoining hall, yet returning full often with unabated so-
licitude to his post at the window.

It was seldom that the cheerful and engaging conversation
of his aunt failed to interest him, and still less frequently was
he insensible to the never spent gaiety of his cousin Gertrude.

But it is time that I should make you acquainted with
Henry's history. He had been an orphan from early child-
hood, but had known few of the ills which follow such des-
titution ; for his uncle Melville had adopted him into the bo-
som of his own family, and he had found in his aunt a
mother's tender love, united to the unchanging kindness of a
friend.

His cousin Gertrude was to him a sister; no little unkind-
nesses were ever suffered to show themselves, or disturb that
delightful harmony which makes all who come within the
sphere of its influences contented and happy.

Henry had one brother, some years his senior, from whom
he had been long separated, and it was for his arrival he had
been looking with earnestness for several days. The storm
before alluded to had, hour after hour, depressed hope and

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HOME.

destroyed expectation, and Henry was suffering under the
disappointment, as all those do whose minds are not equally
balanced, and subjected to control.

" No, — he cannot come while this tempest rages," said he,
as he again looked from the window; — "no traveller could
brave this weather."

" Certainly we cannot expect the happiness of embracing
our dear Herbert to-night," said Mrs. Melville, "but, my
Henry, the hours would pass less wearily if you would be
persuaded to give yourself some occupation. You are really
now allowing your disappointment to affect you too much,
and too unreasonably."

Henry felt the truth of this remark, and just then his eye
was attracted by the graceful form of a mountain fir, the long
thick branches of which were laden with snow. He caught
up Gertrude's pencil, and sketched the tree and surrounding
scenery with a rapid hand, then playfully throwing it before
his cousin, he said, half gaily, half in sadness, — " This for
remembrance, Gertrude."

The smile on Gertrude's cheek vanished at these words,
and taking up the picture, she, after showing it to her mo-
ther, placed it carefully in her port-folio.

" Come, my children, ' said Mrs. Melville, "This must not
be ; sad hearts and tearful eyes are known full oft of need : —

HOME. 115

but now we must not suffer clouds to gather round our own
home circle, as they have accumulated in stormy strength
abroad. Let us think of the joys that have been and the
pleasures that may be ; not the disappointments that are, or
the separations that will soon divide us."

Gertrude and Henry acknowledged the kindness of Mrs.
Melville's effort to cheer them by a coresponding exertion,
and the evening passed so pleasantly that they were quite sur-
prised when the faithful time-keeper " doled its strokes, in
numbers ten." They bade good night, and parted, saying
that to-morrow the sun must break in upon them, and the
roads be opened for travelling.

The morrow did indeed prove a sunny one : the heavens
were one wide expanse of pure blue, unshaded by a sin-
gle cloud. The temperature had become more moderate
during the night ; — raiu had fallen, and congealed upon every
branch and sprig, — and now all were glittering in the sun
beams, reflecting light and brightness like the famed mirrors
of Persia, — or glancing back all the colours of the rain-
bow in a thousand varied tints presenting to the eye a scene
of more glorious splendour than bard can paint, or tongue,
except gifted with angelic powers, describe.

The family were early assembled, and enjoying the beau-
ties thus widely and liberally scattered round them, when

116

HOME.

Mrs. Melville remarked that to-day they might look for Her-
bert ; " and suppose," continued she, " that we ride to the Fir-
forest hotel, and meet him there ; we shall have a delightful
day for the excursion, and you will sooner enjoy the happi-
ness of meeting."

This plan was eagerly entered into by Gertrude and Henry.
But first the former hastened to the green-house, to see if the
flowers were still blooming to welcome her cousin, and if the
beautiful geraniums and roses, which she had carefully reared
for him, still promised successful growth. Henry arranged
and re-arranged the books in the room assigned his brother,
and read again and again his last letters. His uneasiness
and impatience found relief, however, when the carriage was
announced, and, assisting his aunt and Gertrude, he sprang
in after them. " The day is so fine," said he, " that Herbert
will ride early ; he must be quite recovered now, and able to
bear the cold air of our northern regions."

" We hope so," replied Mrs. Melville, 11 but we must be
cautious in proving the strength of one who has been so long
an invalid."

In two hours the party arrived at the pleasant hotel in the
Fir-forest, where they designed waiting the appearance of
their young relative.

Not far thence was a small lake, which in summer pre-

HOME.

117

sented a beautiful sheet of water, arid in winter afforded
amusement and exercise to all the lovers of skaiting for miles
round. In this amusement Henry excelled, — and to relieve
the suspense which hung on his brother's arrival, he resorted
with some young persons to the lake. Their interest and
enjoyment were every moment increasing, for the ice af-
forded no obstructions, and they glided rapidly from side to
side as if borne by the very winds over the wide smooth sur-
face.

Presently a shriek of distress filled the air ; all hearts were
chilled, for one of the party had incautiously approached an
opening in the ice, and fallen through. Henry Ackland was
nearest the sufferer, and rushed forward to save him : the boy
grasped his hands, but in this struggle the ice gave way,
and both sank. At this crisis some woodmen, who were
passing on the shore, hastened to their aid, and, after much
perilous exertion, both lads were taken insensible from the
water.

Words cannot express the distress of Mrs. Melville and
Gertrude, when Henry was borne into the hotel ; yet it was
expressed more on their countenances than by their actions,
for both maintained so much composure as to render prompt
and active assistance in the measures taken for his restora-
tion. Medical aid was summoned ; and, while every fear

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HOME.

was yet alive, Herbert arrived, and was ushered into the
apartment, wholly unprepared for the scene.

It was now that every one felt, the benefit of self-command ;
for never had the fortitude of the young people encountered
so severe a trial. At length Henry opened his eyes, and
breathed more freely, but it was more than half an hour be-
fore consciousness was wholly restored, and he recognised his
dear brother. This interview, at all times looked for as deeply
interesting, under present circumstances proved almost too
much for each party, and the medical attendants ordered them
to separate till the invalid was in some degree strengthened.

It was not till several days of perfect quiet that Henry was
sufficiently recovered to converse with his brother, or be re-
moved to his own home. But as he regained his usual
health, every moment seemed winged with joy, and four
weeks of domestic happiness were quickly sped.

The time was now approaching when Herbert was ex-
pected to resume his collegiate studies, which, on account of
ill health, had been for some months suspended. Henry, too,
was preparing to leave his much loved relatives, to prove the
united pleasures and trials of a large academy. They were
both to be separated for some months from their friends and
each other, and we cannot but own the truth, that much sad
feeling was called up on the occasion.

HOME.

119

Herbert gave his favourite flowers into Gertrude's care,
with the expression of a hope that they might, by their growth
and beauty, repay her skilful cultivation. As for Henry, his
final commissions were so many, that I cannot enter into the
detail; but his most careful petitions were made in favour
of his ring-doves, which had gained on his affections in pro-
portion as his care and gentleness had made them familiar.

Gertrude, with a smile brightening her countenance, even
through tears, promised to perform all that her cousins asked,
nay, twice more than they would have urged; but then, in
return, she made them engage to collect for her any valuable
minerals, or rare plants, which they might find; but above
all, to write often. " Oh," said she, "Lif your doves, Henry,
were but carriers, how often might we hear from you ; and
they too might enliven your dull hours "

"Stop, my daughter," said Mrs. Melville, cheerfully, "no
sad anticipations : Henry must not look for dull hours, — and
I charge you," said she, addressing her nephews together,
"that you think of us with bright feelings, and in the ani-
mating thought that we shall be re-united in the summer va-
cations.

" We shall often talk of you, and you will speak to your
friends of us. Gertrude will send you all the news from
hence, and will, I doubt not, prove the more active correspond-

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HOME,

ent of the three, for you young gentlemen are not given over
much to letter writing."

"But, dear aunt, we like it," replied Herbert, "when we
have a sufficient motive, and that, when from home, we never
lack."

Soon after the above conversation Mrs. Melville announced
to the young people that all things must be in readiness by
the morrow.

I will not dwell on the leave-taking, nor the £rst hours of
arrival at the schools. After a few days all parties were
busily engaged in the pleasant work of improvement, whe-
ther there or at home, and often, after the closing lessons of
the day, would talk of the hoped-for meeting in June.

Notwithstanding that Gertrude had thought six months a
period which would be long, almost unbearably long in pass-
ing, June, with its stores of buds and bloom, did come; and
a day was fixed for the return of the young students. Ger-
trude loved home so much herself, that she could hardly
imagine it possible to be contented elsewhere. She possessed
a lovely mind, and affections that sprung from a heart over-
flowing with mnocence and goodness.

Her hours we;e given alternately to study and recreation,
and her lively spirit was ever active in promoting the enjoy-
ment of all with whom she associated.

HO M R.

HOME.

121

She had culled fruit from her own garden for her cousins,
and ornamented their apartments with her choicest flowers.

Henry arrived first, and the pleasures of meeting proved
quite as delightful in reality as they had done in anticipation.
But those who have a home, and a happy home, and have
left it for months, can tell with what emotions we salute, on
our return, the friends from whom we have been separated.

" Home never looked half so beautiful before," said Hem y,
kissing his aunt again and again, after having for the twen-
tieth time expressed his joy in as many different ways.

u Come, come," said Gertrude, after their salutations had
been many times renewed, "you have not seen your ring-
doves : they are alive, and quite tame," — and away the cou-
sins sped to the pretty enclosure where they were kept, in
the free, open air. The birds, unused now to any one save
Gertrude, flew timidly into the low branches of the trees as
Henry came suddenly upon them. " Ah, ungrateful, you
have forgotten me," said he, and threw himself on a moss-
grown rock, while his cousin conciliated their confidence by
offering them food, and they soon gathered round reassured.

" Now, Henry," said the happy girl, see them, see them
now\ I have cherished them for your sake ; not one is lost,
and they will soon come fearlessly to feed from your hand."
"1 cannot take them dear coz ; they must still be j oin's,"

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HOME.

said Henry, crowning her with a wreath of early Climatis ;
" come let us away — Herbert is coming ; I hear the carriage.'*

It was really Herbert, who, as full of joy at returning as
Henry, now in his turn quite overpowered his aunt and cou-
sin with questions, which followed in such rapid succession,
that it was vain to attempt reply. £,'Here, Gertrude," said
he, " here are some choice minerals for you ; and, aunt, I
have found out the very best method of rearing our beautiful
mountain Azaleas ; I have some very vigorous plants, too,
which I have procured this season, and think that you will
no longer want success in their culture."

Just then their uncle entered, and the boys had so much
for his ear, that I retired from the party, persuaded that the
heartfelt happiness I had witnessed would be still prolonged,
and that a hapvy home is the happiest of all earthly places.

" Oh, they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from Home."

123

STANZAS.

I never cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me,
, A little flower — a faded flower,
But it was done reluctantly.

I never looked a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart

Shrank with a feeling almost pain,
E'en from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word, farewell !

But with an utterance faint and broken,
A heart-sick yearning for the time

When it should never more be spoken !

M. J. J.

124

THE NUTTING PARTY.

By Mrs. Hofland.

" Do look, uncle, what nice bags Maria and little Annie
have made us for our nutting expedition, to-morrow ! We
shall be off at five in the morning, and we shall bring home
such a load of nuts, you cant think ! I wonder who will bring
the most? I should like very much to know who will — I
mean who you think will bring the most."

I can't form any judgment on so important a topic," said
Mr. Rothwell, smiling.

" Now don't say so, uncle; I am quite sure you have a
good judgment about every thing."

This was said in such a coaxing tone of good-humoured
patronage, from a really good-humoured boy, that his uncle
could not forbear to take up the subject with the interest it
held in George's eye, and he replied with all becoming gravity.

11 I think Richard will probably succeed the best in filling
his bag."

THE NUTTING PARTY.

125

"Richard ! — how can you think so? He is grave, and
learned, and all that ; as good a fellow as ever was born, bat
by no means fit for a lark of this kind. Tom is more likely,
or Frederick, or — or — "

" Or yourself, you would say, to whom the sins of being
grave or learned do not apply. Be that as it may, 1 think,
my dear boy, neither you nor William have an equal chance
with our boys ; for though you are very active and agile, yet
you cannot have been equally habituated to country occu-
pations. A ride to Richmond, or a walk to Hampstead, by
no means imply a power to pierce thickets, break down
branches, climb neighbouring trees, or burst through imped-
ing hedges."

George paused, while William, his younger brother, said
despondingly, " I don't think I shall get any nuts, for I am
sure I can do none of these things ; besides, I am a kind of
heavy boy as well as a little one, so that I don't suppose I
shall get any, for I am sure town boys are not the same as
country boys in some things."

George, who had been charmed with his visit to his uncle's
in Derbyshire, and was fully persuaded of his own prowess,
was stimulated by his brother's language rather than de-
pressed ; and he eagerly interrupted him, to exclaim, " it may
be so with you, Bill, who can scarcely be called a match

THE NUTTING PARTY.

with either of the cousins near your own age ; but in regard
to myself, who am taller than Richard, and just as old, the
case is quite different. Now, uncle, what will you bet that
I don't bring home the better filled bag to-morrow evening % 1

" I am by no means fond of wagers, George, but to oblige
you I will place the matter on this footing. If you bring
the best laden bag I will forfeit the large bowl of syllabub,
and you shall be master of the feast ; if — "

" Hurrah ! — dear uncle, you are very kind ; it will be the
most refreshing thing in the world after our day's fatigue ;
but don't say a word to Richard, or I shan't consider it a fair
wager."

" You have not yet heard my proposal : it is, that if Ri-
chard brings home the most nuts, you shall write twenty
lines of Latin verse the day after."

u Latin verses in holiday time ! — that appears to me quite
unnatural, uncle."

" Every one to his taste. I have as great a fancy for
your verses as you can have to my syllabub ; so the bargain
is a fair one."

" Oh ! I am quite willing — I know I shall win."

The rest of the party entering, a significant look from each
person to the other concluded the agreement, and various
voices were heard arranging their plans, and disposing, by

THE NUTTING PARTY.

127

anticipation, of their expected gains. George professed an
intention of sending his bag to Russel Square, by the wagon,
"just to astonish the natives." Tom intended to make
strings of hob, dob, does, such as had never been made before.
Frederick hoped to bring home a few for his sisters at all
events, though he confessed he should crack a great many ;
and Richard professed an intention of bottling a few, and
burying them in the garden, for his mamma to eat at Christ-
mas. All were full of plans, and in their various schemes
and wishes developed their dispositions, and enabled their
affectionate relatives to see how they could best render their
amusements not only pleasurable, but beneficial to them.

The morning was as fine as young hearts could desire.
A hearty though hasty breakfast was swallowed by the boys,
during which the kind sisters made their appearance ; and
the eldest examined their baskets of provision, cautioned
Tom against running into danger, and recommended Fre-
derick and his cousin William to observe all that Johnson
said to them. This done, their guide appeared, a shout of
exultation proclaimed their readinsss " to be off ;" and away
they all bounded, each armed with a bag and a hooked stick,
all boasting or believing that they should do great things,
and George's voice soaring above the rest, as he sang,

" Five blither lads ye wad nae see.1'

128

THE NUTTING PARTY.

On they went, neither turning to right nor left, though
many a temptation was in their way as they passed the hedge-
rows in Mr. Roth well's fields, and others in their vicinity,
where hung many a rich cluster of the fruit they sought.
This forbearance might be attributed to Johnson's observa-
tion, that " gathering them there nuts was work for women ;"
and who ever knew a boy that would submit to do " women's
work?" — these were left for their sisters to gather.

Even afterwards, when a coppice was entered where many
hazel trees grew, they still trudged patiently after their guide,
though, he allowed, the young trees 11 grew handy for the
little ones to gather;" there were no "little ones" (at such an
early hour) who would plead guilty to any unmanly cha-
racteristic. All and each were ambitious of reaching " high-
bank wood," where, all the world knew, the " best brown
shellers" alone could be found — where there were rocks to
climb, brushwood to impede you, springs to intercept you,
delightful difficulties to overcome, and rich rewards to recom-
pense exertion."

At length the brow of the wooded hill was gained ; the
thick clusters weighed down the drooping stems, as if invit-
ing the hand to gather them, and, in some places the lipe
brown fruit had dropt on the grass below. Richard, an old
nutter, cast his eye around, and seeing where best he couid

THE NUTTING PARTY,

129

obtain such a standing as would enable him to bring down
the nuts, began his operations with the caution of an adept.-
George, shouting for joy, and from the sense of conscious
triumph, felt as if he could instantly sweep all he beheld into
his bag ; whilst Tom, with great alertness, began swarming
up a high tree, and having seated himself across one of the
branches, drew up the ends of the nut-tree sprigs with great
facility, and soon conveyed the fruit into the bag which hung
round his neck. He had not, however, pursued this method
of realizing long, when venturing too near the end of the
branch, it broke under him, and he fell into the thicket be-
low, his open bag disgorging its contents — his hooked stick
left sticking in the tree — his hat lodged out of all reach, and
his trowsers miserably torn in the descent.

But Tom's troubles were of short duration. He was not a
boy to mind a bump or a scratch, and he had seen from his
elevation so much of the riches of the land, as would ena-
ble him, by perseverance, soon to recover his loss, a loss
which the little active Frederick turned to good account, as,
creeping through the more pervious parts of the underwood,
he regained many a rich bunch lost from Tom's bag, besides
using his position to look up through the branches, and knock
down those ripe nuts he had not height nor strength to reach ;
and this art he communicated to his cousin W illiam, who

130

THE NUTTING PARTY.

crept fearfully after him, and thought a single nut, so ob-
tained, an achievement.

Far different was the fate of poor George ; every twig he
seized appeared to him animated with a power of repelling
his attacks ; they eluded his strongest grasp, bounced against
his face, slipped from his hook, tore his hands and his clothes °r
and even when at length he despondingly submitted to beg
instruction from Johnson, he succeeded little better. Despite
of the excitement of the scene, and the general buoyancy of
his happy spirits, poor George felt and owned that he was
discomfited completely.

Courage 1" cried Richard, as with a heavy bag he joined
George — " remember what Miss Edgeworth says of the dif-
ference between 1 heroes full, and heroes fasting' — let us sit'
down in this pleasant glade and dine ; you see Johnson is
spreading our cloth below the shadow of that noble oak."

Down they sate, and thankfully did they eat, and merrilj
did they descant on their adventures and their troubles, until
George's spirits again were roused to exertion, and his past
failures became beacons which he considered likely to en-
sure future success. Nor was he wholly wrong ; for his re-
newed strength and his acquired experience So far assisted',
his future endeavours that he really did attain the power of*
securing a decent portion of nuts — quite as majay as any in-

THE NUTTING PARTY,

131

habitant of Russel Square could expect, on the day of their
installation into the profession of a nut-gatherer.

At length the sun gave symptoms of decline, and the
strength and spirits of the younger portion of our party re-
sembled him ; but a glass of spruce beer so far revived them
that all set out for home with renewed spirits ; and under
the care of Johnson their strength was so well husbanded,
that they hailed the rising chimnies of sweet, sweet home/*
with acclamations of delight.

George alone was silent, not from envy of the heavy bag
which he had several times most kindly assisted his cousin
Richard to carry, but from a sense of his own folly in sup-
posing that he could outshine that cousin; aud he felt most
anxious to make the amende honourable by confessing his
error, yet had also to struggle with his own pride and mor-
tification on the occasion. As every one was completely
tired, it was no wonder they entered the lawn, wThich led to
the house, in an irregular manner; and when they sur-
rounded Mr. Rothwell, who was waiting at a certain white
gate to receive them, it was no wonder that he did not, in
the first instance, perceive who was the most loaded with
the produce of the woods.

" William, my little man, how are you? I fear this day's
fatigue has been too much for a little London boy."

132

THE NUTTING PARTY.

" Oh, no, "uncle, I am not tired a bit, I assure you ; and
look at my bag, it is a quarter full at least; not that I got
the nuts myself, I own, but every body was good to me. I
got lots that fell out of poor Tom's bag ; and Richard threw
me many a fine bunch, when he was gathering his own
great heap ; and Frederick — poor little fellow ! — showed me
the way of it ; so you see, altogether, I have got quite a de-
cent show for a cockney."

" That is more than I can say," observed George, " though
I don't plead guilty to being a cockney."

" Mr. Rothwell was just about to reply to this confession,
when Mrs. Rothwell and her daughter joined him on the lawn?
being anxious to see the younger branches. As each came
in with the air of one wearied, though all were in spirits, it
was not immediately remarked that Richard had not arrived.

On entering the usual sitting room, each boy deposited his
bag on the table, and with it his own account of his difficul-
ties, perils, and comparative success. In the midst of this
confusion and exultation, Richard entererl, and quietly seated
himself at a little distance from the busy group.

" You are sadly tired, I fear, Richard ?" said his mamma.

" I am tired, but not overdone, I assure you, my dear mo-
ther. I only lagged behind to call at Betty Holmes's to
measure my nuts,"

THE NUTTING PARTY.

133

" And how many had you got?" said Maria.
" There was a bushel and several quarts, I forget how
many."

" Produce them, my boy, I am interested in your bag," said
his papa.

Richard instantly rose, and approaching his father, said
with some confusion, " I am very sorry, Sir — I had no idea
you wanted the nuts, and — and I gave them to Betty."

" How happened that, Richard ? I wish you had not done
so, I confess."

" Why, Sir, all the time the poor old woman was measuring
them, she kept praising them, and said once or twice to
herself, as it were, 'lauk-a-me! — what fine ones they be!
Now at Bakewell fair these nuts would fetch a surprising
deal.' "

" And so you gave them the poor creature for purposes of
merchandize. Well, well, I cannot blame you, though I lose
a syllabub by you, nor am I very sorry to find you so truly
generous as to be able to give a boon so hardly earned.
George, I must pay my wager, for it is evident that your bag
is far better filled than Richard's."

" No, dear uncle, I have no claim. I resign all right to
the syllabub."

" Nor have I any claim to the praise of being generous,"

134

THE NUTTING PARTY.

said Richard evidently labouring under some particular
anxiety.

"Not generous to giveaway all your nuts !" said Maria,
"How you talk! Besides, you have given Betty Holmes
many a thing to my knowledge "

" Not because I was generous, Maria, for I owed her more
than I could ever pay her, I am certain."

" Owed her!" exclaimed Mr. Rothweli, "what can you
mean? How could you dare to contract obligation to a poor
woman like that, unknown to me ?"

" Dear father, I will tell you how it was, since my mother
is absent. I used to be very fond of climbing trees, and once,
when I was about Frederick's age, I got up to the very top
of the larch in the Lea lane, when all at once the topmost
bough gave way (in the same manner a lower one did to-day
with Tom) and I fell, but not to the ground. Most happily,
Betty .was passing under at the moment ; she caught me in her
arms and we rolled down together, she being a good deal the
worse hurt of the two. When I came to myself, she took me
to her cottage, rubbed my bruises with vinegar, made me lie
down an hour, and did all she could to soothe and restore me,
only insisting '-that I would neither do such a naughty trick
again,' nor on any account c tell Madam the danger I had
experienced, lest she should be always in fear for me.' For

THE NUTTING PARTY.

135

this reason I have hitherto been silent as to my error, but cer-
tainly not unmindful of my obligation. Since I am now of
an age to be trusted, I hope I am right in explaining my situ-
ation as to poor Betty.5'

" You art right, Richard ; the duties we owe the poor wo-
man now devolve on me — but here comes our good mamma,
followed by supper and syllabub."

All troubles were speedily forgotten by our nutting friends,
who " fought all their battles o'er again" with much glee, till,
overpowered by fatigue, the three youngest withdrew, already
half asleep. Richard was cheerful, though he did not say
much ; but George for the first time was silent and thought-
ful, yet evidently in good will with all around him.

The following morning, as Mr. Rothwell was returning from
Betty Holmes's cottage, where he had " made the widow's
heart sing for joy," and received himself the purest pleasure in
hearing the praises of his son Richard, who wras the old woman's
especial darling, he met his nephew George, who, approach-
ing him with an air of assumed gravity, though with a buoyant
step, placed in his hand a neatly written copy of Latin verses.

u What may this be, George?"

" My payment of the wager, uncle, which undoubtedly
was due in honour. I am afraid it will be found very faulty,
but indeed I have done my best."

136

THE NUTTING PARTY.

" I will examine it in the library, and depend upon it, even
if I find many errors, I shall yet duly estimate the good feel-
ing which dictated your conduct in writing it. After a day
of such exertion and excitement as yesterday, it required no
little resolution to sit down steadily to work, in a boy of your
age and — "

" And habits, you were going to say, uncle. Ah ! I know .
I have been very idle, but I have begun to feel — I mean, to
think — how happy it would make my father to see me as
steady and good as Richard (who is a famous fellow at play
too,) so I intend to try what 1 can do. But do tell me, dear
uncle, if it is likely 1 should ever overtake him as to being
clever and good T1

11 Unquestionably ! At your time of life, and with your na-
tural abilities, diligence will conquer every difficulty, and af-
fection sweeten every toil."

" Then I will begin from this very day. I will try to get
as good a name in the school as I have in the play- ground ;
and who knows, uncle — who knows but I may live to be a
Lord Chancellor?"

" Who indeed, George?" Nevertheless, though I approve
of this rapid change in the object of your anibhion, from a
bag of nuts to a woolsack, L would yet remind you that good
resolutions, and good conduct also, may arise from blending

THE NUTTING PARTY.

137

a little humility and diffidence of your own powers, with a
steady determination to exert those powers,"

" Yes, yes, uncle; I see all that," said George, as a quick
blush rose over his honest countenance ; " I hope I shall ne-
ver forget the lesson I learnt from my own mortification yes-
terday. " No, as long as 1 live I will remember my dear
consin's kindness, my own folly, and every thing connected
with our 1 Nutting Party.' "

138

THE RECALL.

By Mrs. Hemans.

O'er the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea-foam,
Come thou long parted one !

Back to thy home.
When the bright fire shineth,

Sad looks thy place ;
While the true heart pineth,

Missing thy face.
O'er the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one !

Back to thy home.

Music is sorrowful
Since thou wert gone ;

Sisters are mourning thee —
Come to thine own !

LINES IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Hark ! the home-voices call,

Back to thy rest !
Come to thy father's hall,

Thy mother's breast!
O'er the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one !

Back to thy home!

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE LAST LEAF OF A FRIEND S ALBUM.

By Miss Mitford.

The book is filled, thy comrade long,
The pretty book of sketch and song ;
Of words with gentle kindness fraught,
Of wisdom, peace, and lofty thought :
Book of sweet sadness ! Book that told
Of friends beloved beneath the mould,
And waken'd oft the tender sigh
For vacant homes, and years gone by.

140

LINES IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Yet sighs that breathe o'er well-spent hours,

Are sweet as western winds on flowers ;

Yet tears, o'er virtuous memories shed,

Embalm and sanctify the dead.

And, oh ! may many a brightening ray

Illume and gild thine onward day !

And many a friend (for few can claim,

More proud to share, that honour' d name)

Combine thy future life to bless

With peace, and love, and happiness !

For thee may every good conspire,

That verse can ask, or heart desire !

And the full Album's latest line

Call blessings down on thee and thine !

141

THE TWO SOLILOQUIES;

OR,

THE IDLE BOY, AND THE IDLE BOY BECOME A MAN.

By Miss Jewsbury.

O dear me ! what a terrible trouble it is to learn lessons
and go to school ! Here I have one, two — no, not two, bat
a whole column and a half of words with meaning's, to get
by heart: I wish words had no meanings. Well, I suppose
I must begin to learn them : — p-r-i-s pris, o-n on, prison,
"a place where people are confined." Why couldn't they
say school at once? — that's a prison, I am sure. Well, what
comes next? P-u-n pun, i-s-h ish, punish ; I know the mean-
ing of that word without the book, every body in our house
is so fond of using it. "Master Charles," says old cross
nurse, " if you will rampage out your clothes in this manner,
I shall ask your papa to punish you." " Master Charles,"
cries Betty housemaid, "you deserve punishing, that you
do, scrasing my chairs, and writing on my tables so." — Now

142

THE TWO SOLILOQUIES.

they are not your chairs and tables Mrs. Betty, they are
papa's. O this nasty ugly lesson, I never shall get it !
P-l-e-a-s pleas, u-r-e ure, pleasure, " gratification of mind."
Nay, but I am sure pleasure means eating penny tarts, and play-
ing at watchmen and thieves with all our scholars. I dare
say, if Fred Jones had heard me, he'd say pleasure meant
having a new book. Read, read, read, — I hate reading :
when I'm a man, I'll never open a book, and I'll never send
my children to school, and I'll have a black horse — no, it
shall be a grey one with a long tail, and I'll ride up and
down street all day long. O, how I wish I were a man now !
#*####
Yes, I am a man ; and wo is me for having been such a
little fool when I was a boy ! I hated my book, and took
more pains to forget my lessons than ever I did to learn them.
What a dunce I was even over my spelling ! always at the
bottom of my class, and my book thumbed and dog's-eared,
and cried over — the very emblem of duncishness. " Do,
Charles, learn your lessons," said my father, or " you'll be
fit for nothing when a man." " Do, dear Charles, give
your mind to your books, or I shall be ashamed of own-
ing you for my boy," said my poor mother ; but no, I must
give my mind to whipping tops, and eating cakes ; and a
fine scholar they made me ! Now, there was Fred Jones; he

THE TWO SOLILOQUIES.

143

liked play well enough, but he liked reading better ; and he
learnt more out of school hours than ever I did in them. Fred
Jones is now like myself, a man, but a very different kind of
man : he has made friends among the wise, the honourable,
and the learned. I cannot be admitted to their acquaint-
ance! He can interest a whole company with useful inform-
ation : I am obliged either to be silent, or talk about the wea-
ther and my neighbours. I can make out a bill of parcels,
but I blunder over a letter to a friend. I see my error now,
but now it is too late : I have no time to read, for I must
work for my daily bread ; and if I had time, I could not now
turn my reading to profit !

Behold the bitter fruits of idleness in childhood !

144

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS,

Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void
O'ei the dim fragments cast a lunar light,

And say, " Here was, or i*," where all is doubly night ? —Byron.

The beautiful city of Paris contains many objects worthy
of the attention of the traveller ; but the immense subterra-
nean cavern over which it is built, must always excite the
deepest interest in the breast of the curious observer. The
important fact, that this fine city actually stands on the brink
of a frightful abyss, remained a state secret till the middle of
the last century : even the existence of the caverns now
known by the name of the Quarries was treated as a fable
by foreigners, and doubted by the greater part of the Pari-
sians themselves, till Mr. Thomas White member of the Royal
Medical Society of Edinburgh, obtained leave from the
French Government to visit them and published the following
amusing account of his subterranean travels in the second
volume of the Manchester Transactions :

11 At the entrance by the Obsei vatoire Royal the path is
narrow for a considerable way ; but soon we entered large and
spacious streets, all markedjwith names, the same as in the

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS. 145

city. Different advertisements and bills were found as we
proceeded, pasted on the walls, so that it had every appear
ance of a large town, swallowed up in the earth. The gene-
ral height of the roof is about nine or ten feet ; but, in some
parts not less than thirty or forty* In many places there is
a liquor continually dropping from it which congeals iuime-
diate'y, and forms a species of transj arent s one, but not so
fine and clear as rock crystal. As we continued our j eiegii-
nation, we thought ourselves in no small danger from the
roof, which we found but in iflerently propped up, m some
places, with wood much decayed. Under the homes, and
many of the streets, however, it seemed to be tolrniWy se-
emed, by immense stones ^et in mortar : in oiher parts, w here
there are only fields and gardens, it was totally unsupported for
a considerable space, the roof being perfectly level as a plane
piece of rock. Alter traversing about, two miles, we again
descended about twenty steps, and hoe found some work-
men, in a very cold, damp place, propping up a must dauge-
rous part, which they were fearful would give way every mo-
ment. The path here is not more than three feet in width ;
and the roof so low, that we were forced to stoop consider-
ably. On walking some little distance farther, we entered
into a kind of saloon, cut out of the rock, and said to be ex-
actly under the Eglise de St. Jaques. This was illuminated

146

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS.

with great taste, occasioned an agreeable surprise, and made
us all ample amends for the danger and difficulty we had
just before gone through. At one end was a representation,
in miniature, of some of the principal forts in the Indies, with
the fortifications, draw-bridges, &c. ; and cannons were plant-
ed with a couple of soldiers to each, ready to fire. Sentinels
were placed in different parts of the garrison, particularly be-
fore the governor's house ; and a regiment of armed men was
drawn up in another place, with their general in the front.
The whole was made up of a kind of clay which the place
affords, was ingeniously contrived, and the light that was
thrown upon it gave a very pretty effect. On the other side
of this hall was a long table, set out with cold tongues, bread
and butter, and some of the best burgundy I ever drank.
Now every thing was hilarity and mirth, and the danger we
dreaded the moment before, was no longer thought of. In short,
we were all in good spirits again, and proceeded on our jour-
ney about two miles farther, when our guides judged it prudent
for us to ascend, as we were then got to the steps which lead up
to the town. We here found ourselves safe at the Val de
Grace, near to the English Benedictine convent, without the
least accident having happened to any one of the party. We
imagined we had walked about two French leagues, and were
absent from the surface of the earth between four and five hours.

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS.

147

" There were formerly several openings into the Quarries ;
but the two I have mentioned. — namely, the Observatory and
Val de Grace, — are I believe, the only ones left ; and these
the inspectors keep carefully locked, and rarely open them,
except to strangers particularly introduced, and to workmen,
who are always employed in some part by the King. The
police thought it a necessary precaution to secure all the en-
trances into this cavern, from its having been formerly inha-
bited by a famous band of robbers, who infested the country
for many miles round Paris. As to the origin of this quarry,
I could not, on the strictest inquiry, learn any thing satisfac-
tory; and the only account I know published, is the follow-
ing, contained in the Tableaux de Paris, nouvelle edition,
tome premier , ckapitre, 5me, page \2me. 1 For the first build-
ing of Paris, it was necessary to get the stone in the envi-
rons, and the consumption of it was very considerable. As
Paris was enlarged, the suburbs were insensibly built on the
ancient quarries, so that all you see without is essentially
wanting in the earth for the foundation of the city: hence
proceed the frightful cavities which, at this time, are found
under the houses in several quarters. They stand upon
abysses. It would not require a very violent shock to throw
back the stones to the place from whence they have been
raised with so much difficulty. Eight men being swallowed

148

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS.

up in a gulph one hundred and fifty feet deep, and some other
accidents, excited, at length the vigilance of the police and
government ; and, in fact, the buildings of several quarters
have been privately propped up, and by this means has been
given to these obscure subterraneous places the support which
they before wanted.' All the suburbs of St. James's Harp-
street, and even the street of Tournou, stand upon the ancient
quarries, and pillars have been erected to support the weight
of the houses. What a subject for reflection, in considering
this great city formed and supported by means absolutely
contrary ! These towers, these steeples, the arched roofs of
these temples, are so many signs to tell the eye that what
we now see in the air is wanting under our feet."

Since Mr. White's visit to the Quarries, a great alteration
has taken place in the interior of these caverns : for the con-
tents of all the cemeteries in Paris have been lodged there
ever since the memorable Revolution ; and they now contain
the bones of three millions of human beings. These last re-
mains of mortality are fancifully arranged on the floor, in a
kind of pattern resembling a Mosaic pavement. The skulls
are heaped in the form of an immense altar, at the upper
end of the great saloon ; and the whole has a singularly
whimsical appearance. This is, indeed, a strange proof of
levity in our Gallic neighbours, who seem desirous of ex-

THE QUARRIES UNDER PARIS.

149

eluding solemn ideas from the mind, even in the midst of
these chambers of death. A thinking person will, neverthe-
less, feel awed as he enters the Quarries, and contemplates
the scene around him, which will afford him a striking les-
son on the vanity of human life, and the folly of ambition ;
nor will the impression be less vivid, when he considers that
a slight shock of an earthquake, or even the loosening of
a prop may mingle his bones with those of these forgotten
millions.

150

HEBE.

By Frederick Muller.

Who could not smile and sing of thee,

Thou fair and lovely thing ?
Sweet child, in all thy sportive glee,

Thou knows' t no sorrowing !
But smiles, and joys, and happy hours,
Are unto thee as pretty flowers :
Not flowers of earth — but of the sky,
That bud, and bloom, but never die !

There is no shadow on thy face,

No cloud upon thy brow ;
I love the silent tranquil grace

Shed o'er thy beauty now ;
Thou innocent and happy one,
Thou star of childhood's horizon,
Where sky and cloud are ever fair,
Without one shade to slumber there !

HEBE.

Sweet peace has spread her gentle wings

Like clouds around thy form ;
Where thou dost sit — a lovely thing,

Secure from every storm ;
The dove comes with her happy brood,
To murmur o'er thy solitude,
And the eagle stoops his sunny flight,
Gently beside thy form of light.

There thou wilt sit secure from harm,

And every earthly sorrow:
Each morn will fill thy cup of balm,

Without one thought of morrow ;
And time will pass on rainbow wing,
Like a dove without its sorrowing ;
And thou wilt ever, ever be,
A child amidst eternity !

152

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

After a toilsome day's journey along the eastern border
of Lake Champlain, some time in the month of June, 1833,
I stopped, as it grew towards sunset, at a refreshing spring
by the wayside, for the double purpose of reviving the ener-
gies of my jaded horse, and of inquiring of a little urchin
who was there filling a bucket, respecting the distance to
the nearest inn, or other house, where I could be entertained
until morning. The instant I had put the question, his intel-
ligent eyes seemed to acquire an additional lustre, and as if
instinctively prompted by a particular desire to serve me, he
set down his vessel and approaching, replied, that it was
at least three miles to the tavern, and through a very lonely
way ; but, added he, at the same time, unconsciously lay-
ing his hand on the bridle which I was reining up for a start,
we live close by, in the white house you observe through
the trees yonder, and I know my grandfather will be glad to
have you put up for the night with us, I will take care
of your horse myself, and my mother will do her very best to
get a good supper,

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

153

The pressing and artless invitation of the little fellow in-
clined me to believe he knew something of the character of
his parents for hospitality ; and as the object of my tour was
adventure, I allowed him, as he had already put my horse in
motion, to lead on. On turning into the avenue that led up
to the front of the mansion, I was peculiarly delighted with
the simple yet charming aspect of all around ; scarcely a
stone was out of place, the bushes and flowers that skirted
the way on either side were trimmed with such regularity,
and exhibited such evidences of tasteful industry, that I
asked my little guide if his father employed a man solely to
do the garden work. He smiled and said his father was
not wealthy enough for that ; and if he were, added he, with
an air of satisfaction, he would have no need, for I am able,
and love to do such work, and, indeed, all other that he is
willing I should undertake. I commended him for forming
such habits of industry and acquiescence in the judgment
of older persons, and was about to ask some further questions,
when a pleasant looking elderly gentleman, whom he styled
grandfather, stepped from the door to which we had nearly
arrived, and came to meet us. There was a benignity in his
every feature which at once assured me of a welcome ; so
without further ceremony I dismounted, and briefly relating
the reason of my intrusion, hoped if the kind hearted little

154

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

one had made a demand upon his goodness which it was not
convenient to accede to, he would not hesitate so to say, and
then mechanically turned as if I would have remounted, but
my horse had vanished.

My young readers will understand that the sudden disap-
pearance of my horse was not owing to the agency of any
of the fabulous beings, which are so often foolishly intro-
duced in readings designed for the youthful minds, the truth
was, the generous nature of the boy could brook no further
preliminaries than merely to ascertain the need of the stran-
ger, so the moment I was off the saddle, the saddle was off
the horse, and in a few minutes we were both in a fair way
for realizing the substantial gratifications so cheering to the
weary at such an hour. The benevolent host had interrupted
the train of apologies usual on such occasions, by a most po-
sitive welcome, and in going the few steps to the door, we
became quite familiar friends ; so instantaneous were the in-
fluences of that noble spirit so perceptible in the manner of
the child, and so perfected in the bearing and character of
his amiable relation,

I was ever a great lover of nature ; the gently sloping hill,
the majestic mountain and the spreading lawn, possess
charms, that exalt while they delight the musing mind ; but
here was a scene, the pleasantness of which perhaps none

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

155

but travellers can conceive. The beautiful lake harmonizing
with the tranquillity of the hour, seemed, as it glided along a
few rods before the portico on which my host and myself were
then standing, to murmur an invitation for me to come nearer,
and indulge in that sweet communion with the past and ab-
sent, that the contemplation of a softly flowing sheet of water
is certain to inspire. Accordingly, when my new friend had
presented me to his interesting family, the several members
of which will in due time be introduced to the reader, I obeyed
my feelings, and wandering down to the margin, was soon
lost in the contemplation of the romantic scenery with which
I was surrounded ; and then first flitted across my mind the
reminiscence which led to a protracted sojourn with the
happy family upon whose courtesy I was thus unexpectedly
thrown, and, to the relation of the singular and somewhat
romantic incidents forming the present subject.

Having alluded to the recollection of some circumstance
that transpired in years gone by, it is more proper to inform
the reader of its import, and bearing upon the theme of these
pages.

During the late war, and shortly after McDonough's vic-
tory on Lake Champlain, 1 was bearing some private go-
vernment dispatches to the town of Plattsburgh, and happen-
ing to pass in the vicinity of the very spot where I was thus

156

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

calling up the images of former scenes, my attention was for-
cibly attracted by a group of the three represented in the en-
graving, standing close together upon the beach, gazing in-
tently over the wide expanse before them, as if in eager
anticipation of some home-bound sail. The singularity of
the occurrence excited my curiosity, and I asked for what
they were thus earnestly looking. It was a question too
much, and deeply did I repent of my inquisitiveness, when
I noticed the instantaneous gush of anguish that poured from
the eyes of the lonely trio : I would have given worlds to
have soothed the emotion it occasioned, though the associa-
tions it had unhappily awakened, were yet, to me, a most in-
scrutable mystery. The eldest, a sweet creature just bloom-
ing into womanhood, gave me to understand that her father,
and another person, had sailed a day or two before the battle,
in a small schooner with a cargo of supplies for the Ameri-
can fleet, and had not since been heard of. I at once con-
jectured the nature of the catastrophe, and promising my ut-
most exertions to obtain some tidings of the absent, I pursued
my journey ; melancholy with the thought of the many
dreary days these little innocents might unavailingly watch
for the father's returning prow.

In the midst of my reverie, while reflecting upon the inci-
dent just related, I was interrupted by my little friend, inviting

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

157

me to a participation in the welcome considerations of the
table ; and obeying the hint with an immediate locomotive
demonstration, I was soon in the enviable predicament of one
much in debt to an importunate appetite, and, having the
wherewith to answer its demands.

The social evening board, it is well known, is a wonderful
inspirer of conversation, and stirrer up of the days " lang
syne ;" wherefore, when the mysterious influence came on,
I introduced the subject of my former visit to the Lake with
the circumstance already detailed to the reader, concluding
the recital as follows.

On taking leave of the hapless three, I penciled down the
name of their father and his vessel, determining to write the
British commandant at Isle au Noix ; suspecting that the
cause of the non-return, was capture and detention by the
enemy. Having this impression on my mind, I hastened to
the point of my destination to embrace the first opportunity of
obtaining information.

The day after my arrival at Plattsburgh, I fortunately
learned that General Moores was about to despatch a mes-
senger to the British commander Brisbane ; I accordingly
enclosed a note to the Intendant at Isle au Noix, inquiring if
the person I named was a prisoner there, and if so, whether
his vessel could be redeemed, and himself exchanged for any

158

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

prisoner in the American camp. With return of the de-
spatch I received an affirmative reply, and was also informed
that the individual accompanying the one whose enlarge"
ment I solicited, could also be released on similar conditions.
As communication was necessarily much obstructed, the let-
ter contained at once all requisite information relative to the
appraisal of the prize, and the persons demanded in exchange.

Enjoying considerable influence in Plattsburg, I readily
succeeded in procuring the liberation of the one last named in
the overture ; but the other, being a British lieutenant, was
detained a fortnight longer, that a court martial might decide
upon the merits of my petition. The result being favourable,
I paid into his hands, on the day of his departure, the sum
demanded for the vessel, and giving instructions for its im-
mediate application to the purpose intended on his arrival
at Isle au Noix, I left Plattsburgh pursuant to an order from
the President to return to Washington. Having thus ful-
filled what I conceived heaven to have thrown in my way
as a pleasant duty, I left the issue to work out as it would ;
being so absorbed in the responsibilities of my station from
that time to the close of the war, that 1 remained, and am to
this day ignorant of the final eventuation ; nor have I now
the smallest facility in ascertaining, having long since lost
the memoranda of the names, dates, &c.

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

159

When my relation was ended, the table, which by the way,
had served, rather to support the elbows of my listening asso-
ciates, than in its legitimate capacity, was removed, and I
was about making another draft upon my memory for some
other topic for our entertainment. My new friend, however, in-
terrupted my ruminations by remarking that my story corres-
ponded well with the history of a person with whom he was
acquainted, and that if I pleased, he would relate his friend's
adventures. He began precisely where I had ceased, and I
very soon delightedly discovered that accident was about to
reveal the sequel of this, perhaps, the most romantic incident
with which I was identified.

The person before spoken of as having been first liberated
from British durance, on his enlargement, repaired to his
home, and within two or three days was appointed master of
a gun boat, and boldly hoisted sail upon that very water
where so recently he had been made captive. A challenge
was made, as was often the case, on private account, by the
Canadian cruisers in these small, craft, to the little American
flotilla to which our brave commander was attached. The
offer was accepted, and the hostile parties were soon seen
stretching for the scene of combat. The keen eye of our pre-
sent hero soon discovered in the enemy's line the identical
bottom, which, together with his own personal liberty, the

160

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

unceremonious adversary had so lately appropriated to him-
self. That sight, and the consequent reflections, probably
decided the fate of the action, by inspiring an invincible re-
solution that no opposition could withstand ; the several
crews soon caught the ardour, and to meet, and conquer was
a moment's work. The schooner was re-captured by our hero
and carried in triumph back to the port from which she had
sailed when laden with supplies for McDonough's fleet.

A few days subsequent to the rencontre, the lieutenant
who had been exchanged for the owner of the now re-captured
vessel, arrived at Isleau Noix. According to the stipulation,
the American was immediately provided with a passport be-
yond the British line; and the gold, which was to have re-
deemed his vessel, honourably given into his possession; as
the fortune of war had, already as above stated, re-taken the
prize from the captor s hands. He returned safely to the
bosom of his family, and joining in partnership with his
friend in further adventure and speculation in the way he
had before attempted, amassed in a few years a very consider-
able competence, and then retired to enjoy the fruits of his
turmoil, at a pleasant estate not far from this ; his two daugh-
ters, in the mean time, having been united in wedlock to the
two sons of his friend, whose fortunes had been so closely
linked with his own. The little fellow, his son, the second

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

161

figure in the engraving, some two or three years since ob-
tained a lieutenancy in the navy, and is now in the Mediter-
ranean station.

My impatience to see the interesting family, and look
again upon the sisters whom last I left weeping upon the
dreary shore, was now wrought to such intensity, that I would
willingly have started instantly in search, though the night
was lowering and far on the wane ; but, as reason and nature
dictated, we all retired to rest, my kind host agreeing to guide
me in the morning to his friend's abode.

With the first d awnings of Aurora I rose and equipped for
the visit; my companion for the journey, aware of my ex-
citement, had our horses in readiness, and before the early
birds were stirring, we were well upon the road. At a dis-
tance of about seven miles, we halted at the place of destina-
tion ; a spacious, neat establishment, where industry and easy
competence were unitedly apparent. The family were seated
at the morning repast, my friend taking me by the arm,
walked in, and accosted them with familiar salutation, ob-
served to the old gentleman at the head of the table, " This
is the friend to whom we are indebted for our unexpected de-
liverance when prisoners at Isle an Noix." At this announce-
ment a most pleasurable astonishment, for a moment, pre-
vented all utterance, myself being as much confounded at
17

162

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE.

finding my noble entertainer a party, as the others were at
the sudden appearance of one so long a subject of most grate-
ful remembrance. .After a welcome, the fervency of which
a thousand times repaid my service, I was made acquainted
with the several members of the family. The eldest daugh-
ter, now the happy wife of the old gentleman's son, and re-
sident, with her husband, under his roof, recognized my fea-
tures and voice, and vividly described the occasion of our
former interview.

In order to a more complete demonstration of their heart-
felt happiness, the two old associates resolved on a meeting
of all their families and kindred at the mansion of my host,
where we returned the same afternoon. Here 1 was welcomed
by the second daughter, who at the scene on the border of
the lake, was quite an infant ; now, the mother of the intelli-
gent little one, to whose good nature we owed our present
mutual gratification. Though married, she was domiciliated
with her parents; her husband being captain of a whale
ship, and now at sea. She then explained to me that her fa-
ther had enjoined upon herself and mother not to divulge the
secret of their identification with my lake adventure, until he
should be prepared to give me the complete and pleasureable
surprise consummated in the morning.

When the festivities were over; and I was about pursuing

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE. 163

my journey, my venerable friend, with tears for my depart-
ure, and joy for the opportunity of returning what he called
my own, put into my hands the deeds of a small estate he
had purchased with the sum I had advanced for the redemp-
tion of his vessel, but which vessel, as before mentioned, the
fortune of war had thrown into his friend's possession. Feel-
ing no desire for the re-acquisition of what I had once cheer-
fully bestowed, I begged he would apportion it to his three
amiable children, and accept in addition, my draft for a trifle,
to be given to his grandson, when he came of age, as a me-
mento of his kindness to a stranger, and that stranger's ap-
preciation of a virtuous disposition and a noble heart.

R .

164

" THE STREAM'S NOT DEEP LLERENA. »

The morning sun is smiling now,
And glances o'er the sparkling brook;
And see, the rippling waters flow,
O'er the smooth stones — dear sister, look!

See then I've raised a pretty bower,
So nicely sheltered from the sun :
And many a vine and many a flower,
Along the turf I've trained to run.

The violet there beside the stream,
And there the lily stands alone:
And see how beautiful the wave,
Ripples around yon mossy stone.

Dear sister come, a wild flower wreath,
And garlands have been made for you :
And I have gathered from the heath,
The blue-bell bathed in morning dew.

Oh, cross with me, and all the morn
We'll wander by the shelving shore.
Come — fear me not — my arm is strong,
And I will lead thee safely o'er. R.

H.Corhcuid Dd.

LLEREM CROSSING T IVK BROOK,

165

THE BIRDS AND THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT.

By Miss Jewsbury.

" What a miserable world this is!1' exclaimed Karoun the
beggar, as he sat one day at the gates of the city of Bagdat ;
H Were I to make it over again, I could exceedingly mend
it ! My world should contain no kings, and certainly no cadis
— every one should do that which was right in his own eyes —
it should be possible to get money without working for it —
and knowledge without learning. Allah ! what a miserable
world is this. Of what use are the tribes of children, forever
interrupting one with their noisy play? — Without doubt, we
should be well rid of some thousands ; — and their mothers, —
why are women such tender, delicate creatures % In my
world, they should be as strong as horses, and dig, and plant,
and go to battle, like their husbands. Then, with regard to
gold, and silver, and precious stones, there should either be
plenty for every one, or else none at all, — the same of palaces
—the same of fine horses and rich clothes. As to diseases

166

THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT.

and misfortunes,— I would abolish them altogether, just as I
would do away with poisons, precipices, storms, earthquakes,
and whatever else tends to shorten life. Oh, what a beauti-
ful world I would make of this ! However, I feel inclined for
a nap, at present, so I will remove to yonder grove for the be-
nefit of the shade."

The self-complacent beggar accordingly stretched himself
beneath a large plane tree, and presently fell into a sound
slumber; in which slumber he was visited with the folio wing
dream. — He fancied himself exactly where he was, lying un-
der a plane tree, but he also fancied he heard a most extra-
ordinary noise proceed from the branches. He further fan-
cied that, on lifting up his eyes to discover the cause, he
found the plane tree filled with birds of all nations, and oc-
cupied, according to their ability, in screaming, singing,
whistling, and chattering. They were more vociferous than
all the beggars of Bagdat, and grievously annoyed our friend
Karoun. By and by the plane tree became quiet, the birds
ranged themselves on the boughs, in companies according to
their kind,— and the beggar discovered that it was a " Par-
liament of Birds," met to deliberate on the state of the fea-
thered world. The golden eagle sat aloft in silent majesty ;
and a venerable horned owl opened the business of the
meeting, by entreating the members to conduct the debate

THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT.

167

with decorum, and bear in mind that wisdom was never con-
fined to the birds of one generation. He was followed by a
superb red-and-green parrot, who scratched his head, and
spoke as follows.

" I conceive that, for many ages, birds have been grossly ill
used by nature ; and I hail the meeting of the present assem-
bly, as a proof that the rights and the privileges of all who
have claws and beaks are about to be better understood. I
do not speak for myself. My fate makes me the associate
of man, and the favourite of ladies ; I am fed with dainties,
and observe all that passes in dining and drawing rooms —
for myself I have little reason to complain — I speak as a pa-
triot ; — why should not all birds have the privileges of par-
rots ! Is it not gross partiality, that we alone should have gilt
cages %

The speaker ceased amidst tremendous applause. A crow
spoke next.

"I agree with the parrot," said he, "in blaming nature;
but I disagree with him, as to his mode of charging her with
injustice. The evil lies deeper. There ought to be no gil^
cages; no fine plumage ; no sweet voices amongst us. Why
is one kind of bird to be exalted over another ? and yet this
will ever be the case whilst these vain and useless distinc-
tions remain in force.

168

THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT.

" Why am I to serve the farmer, by clearing his fields of
grubs and worms, and be considered a lowlived bird because
I am only useful ; whilst the nightingale is to be followed by
admiration, because she — sings ! Why does not man write
poetry about me ? What is the nightingale but a bird like
myself? is not she" —

Here the crow was called to order, and a very beautiful
dove spoke next.

"I do not complain," said she, "of what the preceding
orators have complained ; my complaint is, that distinction
does not make amends for conscious weakness. What sig-
nify my delicate plumage and tender note, while I want the
eagle's wing, and the hawk's eye?"

Here the owl attempted to speak next, but was prevented
by a magpie.

"My case," said that chatterer, "is harder still; my plu-
mage is beautiful, but no one wrill own it ; — I talk, but no
one will listen to me ;— I am a persecuted bird — an envied
genius."

Here the magpie was interrupted by a sparrow.
" Why am I to be shot for a dumpling any more than the
red-breast V '

" And why," said the lark, "Am I to be roasted any more
than the nightingale?"

THE BEGGAR OF BAG0AT.

169

u Why are we to be preyed upon by kites and hawks ?" said
all the little birds in chorus.

" Let us rebel," said the tomtits.

u Let us be kites and hawks ourselves,55 said the jenny-
wrens.

" Let us leave man to pick up his own caterpillars/7 said
the sparrows; "the world will come to an end without us!1'

"It will! it will!" screamed all the birds that were pre-
cisely of the least consequence.

At this point, at once of the dream and the debate, Karoun
fancied that he was called upon for his opinion, and that he
thus addressed the congress of birds : — -

" With the exception of the eagle and the owl, who, to do
them justice, are sensible, well behaved bipeds, you are a set
of foolish, insolent, half-witted creatures, not worthy of wear-
ing feathers. Listen now to reason ; and since birds cannot
blush, hide your heads under your wings for shame.

" In the first place, Mr. Parrot, if every bird is to live in a
gilt cage, and hang up in a drawing room, pray where is man
to live himself?

" In the second place, I ask Mr. Crow, whether he clears
the farmers' fields of worms from love to the farmer, or from
desire of a good meal?

" Thirdly, if any of you, after a reasonable enjoyment of
18

170

THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAT,

life, object to being killed to feed man, why, I ask, may not
the grubs and flies also object to being killed, in order to feed
you?

" Fourthly, if you were all of one kind — all eagles or all
kites — would there not be ten times more fighting amongst
you than there is ? and what, I ask, must you all live upon ?

"Fifthly, if you object to dying altogether, and yet con-
tinue to treble your numbers every year, how, I ask, is the
world to hold you all 1 As for you," continued the beggar^
turning in great wrath towards the sparrows, the chaffinches,
the larks, the wrens, and all who resembled them, " who is
it that steals man's corn — eats man's cherries — pecks man's
peas ? Little, mischievous, prating varlets as you are, your
lives are forfeited fifty times before they are taken !

" Lastly, I entreat you all, from the eagle down to the tom-
tit, to look away from your own individual interests, to the inte-
rests of the world, of which you form but a small portion. I
do assure you, my friends, it is infinitely better, on the whole}
that you should differ from each other, just as you do ; — that
some should be s rong, some weak, some beautiful, some ugly ;
some wear fine coats, and some plain ones. And now be-
gone, every one of you. — Disperse, I say ! — and instead of
wishing to amend nature, try to mend your own manners."

Straightway there was a great whirring of wings in the

THE BEGGAR OP BAGDAT.

171

air, occasioned by the breaking up of the bird parliament ;
and in a few minutes all was silent- It was now Karoun' s
turn to be reproved.

" Presumptuous mortal!" said an awful voice. Karoun
started — and behold, he saw in his dream, a majestic form
by his side, clothed with wings and shining garments. —
" Presumptuous mortal!" continued the Genius, "thou hast
had no pity on the folly of the birds, and yet thine own is far
greater. Thou mend the world ! Thy mending would be its
destruction ! Were there no disease and no misfortune, how
oould man exercise the virtues which fit him to enjoy Para-
dise ? As to death, is it other than a blessing to the righteous ?
And if thou art wicked, is it not thine own fault ? Next, if
all possessed riches, who must work ? And if no one had
riches, who must pay for that work? Also, if everyone were
wise, who must learn ? And if every one were ignorant, who
must teach % Again, if all had leisure, and there were no law
or cadi, thou thinkest the world would be happier ; — no such
thing ! where there are two battles, there would be twenty;
where there are five robberies there would be fifty; and for
one lazy, discontented vagabond like thyself, there would be
a thousand ! Get up, Karoun, and go about thy business ;
and instead of wishing to mend the world, try to mend thine
own manners,"

172

THE BEGGAR OF BAG DAT.

Thus saying, the Genius vanished, and Karoun immedi-
ately awoke. After musing* awhile, on his strange dream,
he returned to the city of Bagdat much wiser than he had
left it. It is but fair to say, that he immediately gave up his
profession as a beggar, and hiring himself to a fisherman, be-
came a much more respectable and contented personage
than he had ever heen before.

173

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

By William Howitt.

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, " Now for a frolic ! now for a leap !
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase !
I'll make a commotion in every place !"
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters ; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about ;
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field, it went blust'ring and humming.
And the cattle all wonder' d whatever was coming;
It pluck' d by their tails the grave, matronly cows,
And toss'd the colt's manes all about their brows,
'Till offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turn'd their backs, and stood sullenly mute.

174

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and nutter his dirty rags :
'Twas so bold, that it fear'd not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roar'd, and cried gaily, " Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow !"
And it made them bow without more ado,
And crack' d their great branches through and through.

Then it rush'd like a monster on cottage and farm,

Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm ;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm :

There were dames with their 'kerchiefs tied over their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps :

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese scream' d aloud,

And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd :

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had pass'd on, and had met, in a lane,
With a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain ;

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

175

For it toss'd him and twirl' d him, then pass'd, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

There was a poor man, hoar j and old,
Cutting the heath on the open wold ;
The strokes of his bill were faint and few,
Ere this frolicsome wind upon him blew ;
But behind him, before him, about him it came,
And the breath seenr d gone from his feeble frame ;
So he sat him down, with a muttering tone,'
Saying, " Plague on the wind ! was the like ever known ?
But now-a-days every wind that blows,
Tells one how weak an old man grows !"

But away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.
But lo ! it was night, and it sank to rest,
On the sea-bird's rock, in the gleaming west,
Laughing, to think in its fearful fun,
How little of mischief it had done.

176

THE STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS ;

OR,

TO OBLIGE QUICKLY IS TO OBLIGE TWICE.

By Miss Jewsbury.

" To-day is come, brother/' said little Julia, " now lend
me what you promised."

"Dear child," replied her brother, "don't tease so; you
see how busy I am."

"But you said, Charles 53

" Yes, I know what I said : I said, that some day or other
I would lend you my large cup and ball."

" Some day will never come!" said Julia, disconsolately.

"My dear," replied her brother Charles, with a very im-
portant air, "you should choose good times for reminding
people of their promises. You always come when I am busy,

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS.

177

or when I am going out, or when, in fact, it is not convenient
to attend to you."

"You were doing nothing when I asked, yesterday, bro-
ther."

" No : but I was just going to do something very particu-
lar."

u And to-day — oh, you are not busy now ! do, dear Charles
lend me the pretty cup and ball ; I will take such great care
of it."

" Why, Julia, I would fetch it you directly, but really the
string is broken ; and papa wants me to walk with him, so 1*
cannot stop to fasten on a fresh string ; — but without joking^
Julia, you shall have it to-morrow."

Charles went to walk with his papa, and Julia to solace
herself with her own playthings. She was not an ill
tempered child; but she felt exceedingly disappointed, and
almost inclined to think her brother ill natured. Ill natured
he was not, but he was thoughtless. He loved his sister af-
fectionately ; but he was apt at times to love his own ease
and pleasure better. When the next day came, and Julia
again made her request, a conversation very like the preced-
ing again took place. Charles made fresh excuses and pro-
mises, and Julia experienced a fresh disappointment.

Neither of the children was aware that their mamma had

178

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS;

heard and observed all that had passed. This had, however,
been the case ; and as she did not wish her little girl to get
a habit of desiring what belonged to another, she purchased
a cup and ball, which she gave Julia for her own ; and told
her, at the same time, why she did so.

u Oh, mamma !" exclaimed Charles, who was standing by
at the time, " I am very sorry, — not sorry, I mean, that poor
Julia has got what she so much wished, but sorry that I have
seemed so ill natured. Mamma, I will give Julia my barrel
organ to make amends."

" There is no occasion for that, my dear," replied his mam.
rna ; " Julia does not require any present, to be convinced that
you did not mean to be ill natured ; and it is better that you
should feel a little mortified, and not, by a sudden act of ge-
nerosity, purchase back, as it were, your own good opinion,
and perhaps commit the same fault again to-morrow. To
oblige quickly, my dear boy, is to oblige twice."
" Mamma, I will try to remember that."
" Do so, my love; and in order to assist your memory, I
will tell you a story, or more properly, perhaps, a fable."

Julia was not above five years old ; and Charles, though
much taller and stronger, was not more than two years older
than his sister ; so their mamma's/a^w was very short and
simple. Here it is, just as she told it them.

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS.

179

" In a certain dove-cote there once lived two pigeons, re-
markable for being very pretty, and very fond of each other.
The name of the one was Whitethroat, and the name of the
other was Speckledwings. They were of the kind called
carrier-pigeons — pigeons trained to carry letters from place
to place."

"Oh, how we should like to have one, mamma!"

" Very likely ; but, until you can both write, one would be
of no use ; and even then, I think, the post will carry your
letters better, — however, let me go on with my tale. It hap-
pened one summer, that Whitethroat, the youngest of the
birds, fell sick, and could not fly with even a little note to
the next town, which was only two miles off. Speckled-
wings was exceedingly sorry, and was continually wishing
that he could do or get any thing to make his dear White-
throat better. One morning, as he was going out as usual,
the sick bird told him that she had just fancied that she could
like a ripe, fresh ear of corn, gathered from a particular field
that lay near the town to which they were in the habit of
going.

" 1 1 will be sure and bring it,' said Speckledwings ; 1 it shall
be the finest ear of corn in the whole field ; and if it were fifty
miles further, I would fetch it you.'

" So saying, off he flew. Oh, dear me ! what a sad thing

180

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS.

it is to have a short memory, or to be very careless, or to be
fond of play at the wrong time ! Speckledwings delivered
the letter tied to his wing, and set off home again, fully de-
termined to remember his promise. But, just before he
reached the corn-field, he fell in with a flock of neighbouring
pigeons, and he could not resist their invitation to take a
flight in an opposite direction ; which flight lasted so long
that he had only time to fly home before it grew quite dusk.
Whitethroat had been expecting him a very long time, and
felt sadly disappointed when he came without her ear of corn ;
but poor Speckledwings seemed so ashamed of himself, that
she could not find in her heart to blame him ; and even the
next morning, she only said, 1 Dear Speckledwings, please
don't forget me to-day.7

" 1 Trust me, my dear Whitethroat; I am positive I shall
not disappoint you this time.'

"Well; and this time Speckledwings really had alighted
in the field, and was just preparing to pluck a beautiful ear
of corn, when, as ill fortune would have it, up comes a prat-
ing magpie.

" L And have you heard the news V cried he, as soon as he
caught sight of the pigeon.

" { What nrws V said Speckledwings.

"l Bless me!' cried the magpie, in a very consequential

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS.

181

manner ; 1 why, you know really nothing of polite life, how-
ever, come with me out of the hearing of those vulgar spar-
rows, and, as you are a particular friend, I will let you into
the secret."

" Flattery and curiosity together quite overcame Speckled-
wings ; and, forgetting poor Whitethroat, he flew away to
listen to the magpie's tale. It was a very long one ; and
afterwards our pigeon could not resist the temptation of re-
peating it to a crow ; so the long and the short of the matter
is, that he went home again without his errand.

" Speckledwings felt excessively troubled, particularly as
Whitethroat seemed rather worse ; and he declared and vow-
ed, that if he forgot again, he would pull his wings off for
grief. To show, however, what comes of boasting and
promising, he did forget again ; and Whitethroat really be-
gan to doubt his love for her.

" On the fourth day Speckledwings made the only amends
in his power; he would speak to no bird, join in no play, so
anxious was he to atone for his former neglect. After mak-
ing his usual visit to the town, he flew straight back to the
field, plucked the very finest ear of corn he could discover,
and made haste home with it to Whitethroat. Whitethroat
thanked him for it ; ' but oh ! Speckledwings,' said she,
1 waiting and expecting sadly spoil the flavour of any thing.

182

STORY OF THE TWO PIGEONS.

I am much obliged to you to-day, but I should have been still
more obliged the first day.' 91

" And did Whitethroat get better?"'

" Yes, love ; and Speckledwings never again forgot to
bring her an ear of corn every day, till she was able to go
out herself"

183

THE PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

"The fam'ly all sit beside the fire,
But, oh ! a seat is empty now." — Crabbe.

Bennington, the former capital of Vermont, and one of
the oldest towns in the state, was so named from Benning
Wentworth, one of its most enterprising first settlers. It is
situated in the south-western part of Vermont, on a large
branch of the river Hoosac, which flows between the town
and the Green Mountains, from which the settlements are
distant but a few miles.

Bennington is divided into three parts ; the parishes of the
hill and valley, which however have very little real separation,
and a considerable village which lies more immediately on
the river, and is called familiarly by the inhabitants, Algiers.
This, however, it must be owned, is an opprobrious appella-
tion, endured rather than acknowledged by the residents
there, but who, to say the truth, were in general, some years
ago, not much distinguished either for the social or domestic
virtues.

I spent a year in Bennington when quite a child, and the

184

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

recollections of that period are preserved with a vivid distinct*
ness, which often causes the past to appear but the memory
of yesterday. It was my delight to escape from my home,
which was in the highest and most populous part of the town,
and wander away quite alone, through grove, over field, and
meadow, to the river before named ; and many is the time I
have adventurously, in the dry season, crossed on the stones
that were hardly above the lessening, but rapid current — and
many, and many an hour have I sat on the bank watching
the swift waters when the freshets were up after the rains,
and fancying that, with my little strength, I might victo-
riously contend with the water, and bring from the opposite
bank the beautiful blue flowers rhodora canadensis to twine
with the violets and anemones, which I could gather without
crossing the stream. I had always a love for the wild
scenery of nature — and had a strange enjoyment in spending
whole hours alone in wandering through the woods, or climb-
ing rocky heights, that I should now hesitate in attempting
to surmount. I had then neither brothers nor sisters — I was
at home without any companion, and my predilection for so-
litary pleasures increased in proportion as I was thrown
wholly on my own resources for amusements ; that these were
not always well chosen I am now very sensible — but I feel
that my situation then has given a character to my more ma-

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

185

ture years. I acquired an independence and determination
which have been invaluable to me ; and indeed I trace many
of my governing- principles to that one year which most per-
sons would have decided to be wholly lost to me for all good
purposes ; — for 1, though then ten years of age, never thought
of study, and doubt if I twice opened a book for the whole
twelve months. There were then no good schools in the vi-
cinity, and I was suffered to remain at home in the anticipa-
tion of being soon sent to a distant seminary, where it was
hoped all deficiencies would be well supplied.

I now feel it to have been a great loss that so long a pe-
riod was passed without any knowledge of books or effort at
self-improvement, and my following studies were in propor-
tion difficult of attainment. But I am too prolix, and must
proceed to the recital of a tale that was to me full of lively
interest.

One warm day in June, I left home, directing my way to
my favorite resort by the river ; — these excursions were too
frequent to occasion any surprise in the family, and, indeed,
a day's absence would hardly have afforded a source of alarm
or solicitude.

I had not been long near my favourite bowering tree, be-
fore I espied on the opposite bank a beautiful flower, which
was no sooner seen than, in fancy, made my own. The

186

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

river was not at that time low enough for me to find all the
crossing stones, and I spent an hour in unsuccessful attempts
to gain a safe and easy passage ; — at last, weary of my la-
bour, I determined to venture where I knew the bed was most
shallow, and trust to my strength to resist the current.

It seems that I counted too rashly on my skill and power,
for I had just reached the midway stream when I found my-
self yielding to the impulse of the eddy round a large rock ; —
for a few moments I struggled against the waters, but all
was vain ; and the last thing I remember was, a feeling that
I should drown, what trouble I should occasion my friends,
and how wrong I had done to enter the river.

When I recovered my senses I was laying on a low bed, in
a hut humbly furnished.

An aged woman, and a man of middle years, were rub-
bing my limbs, and a person, the sister of my preserver, was
attempting to force something within my lips. The labourer
had seen me borne down by the current, and plunging into
the water, brought me out just in time to save my life.

I cannot describe my emotion : — my various feelings at
last found relief in a violent flood of tears ; when I could
speak I told my preservers, in reply to their interrogations,
who I was, and how I came to attempt crossing the river ;
and I remember the old woman exclaimed, " silly child ! —

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

187

and just to pick a flower." They carried me home when I
was sufficiently recovered, and wheie of course, I received
the admonition which my rashness deserved, and a command
not to attempt the ford again, which, I believe, after the ex-
perience of that day, I should really have felt little disposi-
tion to do.

I was often allowed to visit my kind friends at " the hut,"
as it was there called : in England such an abode would be
designated " a cottage :" in Scotland it might have served
as the original of one of Arthur Austin's (alias, Wilson's)
shealings."

It was built on a hill of considerable elevation, just in one
of those little sheltered spots which we so often see in our coun-
try, overhung by high granite rocks, and shaded and con-
cealed still more by several large trees, which had resolutely
thrust their strong roots between the fissures, and subsisted in
the accumulated soil washed down by the rains.

The mother of this family often entertained me, as she sat
at her spinning wheel, with strange old stories of events that
had passed in her younger days ; and I, with an inquisitive-
ness that would have exhausted the good humour of any less
patient spirit than that of old Hester, asked a thousand ques-
tions, which she, in her good nature, never declined answering.
But she would spin and talk — talk and spin without tiring

188

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

the live-long day, and thankful was she, I do believe, to win
so eager a listener to her stories of 11 olden time."

Her husband had been a soldier in our memorable revolu-
tion, and had fought under General Starke in the famous
battle of Bennington, where he had signalized himself by a
steady bravery, which gained him promotion, and the confi-
dence of his officers.

" Yes, yes," said old Hester, kindling as she spoke of the
heroic valour of those times, " men were men then, and did
not shrink from peril and hardship as if they were mere babies ;
— no, nor did they run away like some of their descendants
in the last war, shame be to them, and leave their houses to
be burnt to the ground, and their families to leave their own
homes to build up new dwellings ; no, they fought like brave
spirits, and though many fell in the good cause, their wives
and their mothers could cherish their memory, and think on
them with pride and love.

"Many is the tear that I have shed, little one," she would
continue, " but none for shame. I wept for the sufferings of
my country, not for her cowardice : — no, thank heaven, none
of mine were at the taking of Bladensburgh, and the burning
of Washington."

Hester never spoke, as she never felt, cooly on this topic,
and I do think she would, with all her unyielding prejudices,

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

189

have sooner received and entertained half a score of the Bri-
tish soldiery, than one of those who fled from our capital in
the time of its danger and need. Indeed, she could never be
persuaded to give much^credit to those who really deserved
praise on that occasion.

M And did your husband die in the wars ?" said I, one day
to my aged friend. " No," answered Hester, " rny trial was
harder than that ; though to have lost him any way would
have been grief enough, it would have been easier to have
known that he was spent in defending his country, than that
he past away as he did."

" Oh, do tell me about it, if you can," said I, with childish
eagerness, "tell me how you lost him."

" Well, then," said Hester, "it is about thirty years since
I followed Abraham to the grave.

" After the war he built a small house on the side of the
mountain yonder, just by the road that leads across to Brat-
tleborough : it was then a bad way, and was called through
the country { the Pass of the Green Mountains.'

" We lived there for some years in peace and comfort, sup-
ported by our united industry, contented with little, and happy
in our three children. Richard, who saved you from drown-
ing in the river, was our oldest child, and a kind good boy
has he been all his life : then there was Margaret, who never

190

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

refused to work, though she liked play as well as any girl ;
and little Marcia, who was always full of laughter and frolic
— though she has grown up the steady woman you see her
now."

"But where is Margaret?" said I interrupting her. "I
have never seen her here."

" No, she is married, and lives at Albany : she is coming
to make us a visit next year, as soon as Richard gets his new
house finished ; for now," said she looking round, "the poor
thing would not have room to rest herself with her two chil-
dren ; — she has named them for her brother and sister, and
a good manager is she of them."

But now my interest returned to Abraham, and I asked
Hester to continue her first narrative.

" Well," said she, "we lived on the mountain several years,
as I was telling you, and had but little trouble, all things
considered, till the autumn of 18 — . The season came in
cold and early. The snow was deep on the earth in No-
vember, and it was not always safe to cross the mountain,
even in December. My husband had business which took
him often to Brattleborough ; and as the cold increased, I
began to dread his going from home, for many terrible acci-
dents had already happened to some who had attempted to
cross during the past season.

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

191

tl One day after a heavy fall of snow, I saw Abraham pre-
paring himself for going over. I remonstrated, but he said
that he must go, and that there was no danger, for the wea-
ther was moderating, and he should be home the next day by
dark.

" I saw him depart with a heavy heart, but I tried to hope
for the best, and busied myself about the house. I gave the
children work to keep them employed too, but they, poor
things, felt as I did about their father, and would go full often
to the window to see if the snow had ceased falling, or the
cold grew less.

" The hours wore away and the next day came. Abra-
ham could not be expected till dark, at earliest, and the wea-
ther was getting more and more severe, though snow no
longer fell. I kept my fears to myself as well as I could,
and the children often diverted my thoughts from abroad.
At last it was time for them to go to bed ; the two girls were
soon asleep, but Richard would not leave me. We sat by
the light of our pine knot fire, and hour after hour passed
away, yet he did not come for whom we so anxiously
watched. It was late at night when a loud knock at the
door roused every fear anew. I opened it; several men were
there, and one asked if this was the house of Abraham
Waldo. I said i yes — tell me, have you seen him?

192

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

"He left Brattleborough, said the tallest man, hesitatingly,
three hours before us, but the storm has been wild on the top
of the mountain, and now the cold is harder than I have
known for twenty winters ; saying these words the speaker
entered the kitchen. Come in, said I to the others, do not
stand there to perish.

" It seemed as if they could not move, and then I thought,
indeed, that my husband was dead, and that they were bear-
ing him home.

" It was even so — they entered with the cold and stiffened
body of Abraham, and laid it on the bed. He had perished
in the snows on the mountain. I was wild with grief; but
God mercifully gave me strength to bear the burden which
he had laid upon me, and in a few hours I was more com-
posed, recalled in part, perhaps, by the cries of my poor chil-
dren.

" It was very long before I could realize the extent of my
loss: — death had entered my dwelling when he was not
looked for, and taken away the support of our house. Oh,
often did I look at his vacant seat, and listen in vain to hear
his kind voice ; but I see that all things have been ordered
rightly ; and while I can never forget the husband of my
youth, I have great cause of thankfulness when I think on
the years of happiness which we had together, and I feel

THE WEEPING MOTHER.

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

193

glad that the joys which were then ours were never inter-
rupted by idle disputes or petty differences. My husband,
too, was a Christian ; and was prepared for his sudden end
by the good life he had led. I knew that it was well with
him, though I could not help mourning for myself and chil-
dren. One day, I shall never forget it, while I was overcome
with deep grief, and my Richard had been out trying to do
some little work, he entered and saw me weeping, and when
he found that for a long time I did not notice either him
or his sisters, he tried to rouse me by affectionate expres.
sions.

" 1 Mother, dear mother,' said he, entreatingly, 1 it is us,
your children; we will comfort you.'

" You do comfort me, said I, awakened to their plead-
ings, you do comfort me, and I will give you a better ex-
ample than I have done: you shall not see your kind
efforts to soothe me unregarded. I will no longer neglect
my duty.

" As for Richard, he has kept his word, — he was young
when his father died, but strong and active, and with the
help of our neighbours we have got along very well. Now
he is more than forty years old — we have a good farm, and
a house just finishing, and he never will cease to take care
of his old mother. Marcia keeps house for him, and I spin

194

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

the flax ; we shall move soon to our comfortable dwelling1,
for this, as you see, is falling away, and is too far gone for
repair."

Hester was silent ; her mind was relieved by speaking of
the past, even though to a child too young to appreciate all
she said ; but her story made a lasting impression, and I have
related it as one of the many instances of the power of re-
ligion to sustain the mind under affliction, — and, as another
of the beautiful examples of filial duty which have fallen
under my notice. No one can doubt the happiness of Ri-
chard:— all must admire his devotion to his bereaved
parent, and must feel that an affectionate chdd is surely
a blessing from heaven, even as he is blest in his love by
heaven.

I remember that I felt very thoughtful after Hester had
ended her conversation, and went home asking myself if I
were ever likely to be a comfort to my parents as Richard,
Margaret, and Marcia had been to theirs.

It may seem strange that Hester should have spoken so
freely to me, a child, or that her story should have made so
lasting an impression. The truth is, children remember every
thing that strikes their imagination, and are more touched
by affecting incidents than we ordinarily suppose. I had
also become a favourite with the Waldos, and they did not

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

195

always consider my age when they sought for me entertain-
ment or matters of interest.

The next year, early in March, I left Bennington. It
was a very cold day, and the roads were deep in snow ; rain
had fallen before the severity of the weather had increased,
and incrusted every thing in ice.

We began to ascend the mountain at four in the afternoon :
the roads were difficult and dangerous: we were all wrapt
in furs, but those imperfectly protected us from the now in-
tense cold. Our horses at last failed, while we were yet some
distance from the highest summit. Fear came upon all ; and
one of our companions, as we looked out on the dreary
scene, observed, as we pointed out a large, bare tree, that
stood just off the road, that near that place many persons
had perished at different times in the severe seasons ; " five
men," said he, " froze there several years ago, and they are
not the only ones who have lain them down there despairing,
never to rise." I thought of Abraham Waldo, and felt that
perhaps we too might, like him, and the unfortunate men
just spoken of, perish from cold on the mountain; — but Pro-
vidence ordered otherwise. Our horses were able to get on
as far as the first inn, and we arrived at Brattleborough a
few hours after in safety, though so chilled that we were
obliged to defer our further journey till milder weather

196

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

This found us in a few days, and we set forward rapidly for
our destination. I can never forget the day. It was one
of winter's most glorious scenes, the trees were all glit-
tering with ice: the whole country, far and wide, was wrapt
in snow, the dazzling whiteness of which was almost over-
powering to the sight ; but a poetic mind has described the
scene more brightly than can I, and I give you the abstract :
if you have known and admired winter scenery, you will*
with me, attest the truth and beauty of these lines ; —

" Look, the massy trunks
Are cased in the pure crystal ; the branch and twig
Shine in the lucid covering ; each light rod,
Nodding and twinkling in the stirring breeze^
Is studded with its glittering ice drops.

" O ! you might deem the spot

The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,

Deep in the womb of earth, where the gems grow,

And diamonds put forth radiant rods, and bud

With amethyst and topaz, and the place

Lit up most royally, with the pure beam

That dwells in them. Raise thine eye ;

Thou seest no cavern roof — no palace vault?

Here the blue sky — and the white drifting cloud

Look in. All, all is light,

Light without shade."

PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS.

197

And all was indeed light and brightness till we reached
our new home ; — but the novel and various scenes through
which I passed there, never obliterated from my memory
the story of Abraham Waldo, or " the Pass of the Green
Mountains."

198

EPITAPH EXTRAORDINARY.

[A clergyman who, till his recent decease, resided on his living in Wiltshire,
set apart a space in his orchard, where he buried the domestic animals that
had lived in his service. Against one of the firs which overshadow the
spot is placed the following inscription.]

There is a debt of gratitude we owe

To every vigilant and faithful slave ;
And therefore doth the master here bestow

'Upon his cats and dogs a common grave :

That so their bones inviolate may rest

In safe and undisturb'd repose together :
Nor e'er be made a prey to savage beast,

Nor blown about, the sport of winds and weather.

Let none with scorn this humble care survey ;

But recollect, proud man! that gift divine,
The gift of life, which once inform'd their clay,

From the same heavenly Fountain flow'd as thine.

W. C.

199

THE BEREAVED PARENT.

AN ENIGMA.

Start not amiable and compassionate children, when I
tell you that I am a despised and ill treated parent ! Not by
my own children: no, that pang is spared me, for they are
torn from me before they are sensible of a mother's love. But
the w^orld, the whole world, treats me with barbarous cruelty !

No sooner am I known to be a parent, than all my off-
spring are wrested from me.

Should I conceal myself in the deepest cave, or wander to
the uttermost parts of the sea, I am discovered, and robbed
of my treasures.

I can say of my children, with more truth than Cornelia,
the mother of the Gracchi, " These are my only jewels!" for
they are worthy of a crown ! Indeed, many of my offspring,
by their brilliant virtues, have added lustre to the most splen-
did diadems of the East ! They are fair, very fair ; and their
intrinsic worth is equal to their beauty. Mosl justly do they
serve as the standard of excellence, by which, all that is

200

THE BEREAVED PARENT.

good and beautiful are compared. Their chief merit, how-
ever, consists in the good impression I make of them in their
infancy, and their beauty is but " reflection caught from me P1

"Far be it from me to complain of my children's neglect.
They, poor things, never knew their parent ! but acutely do
I feel the base conduct of those who violently seize on my
offspring, and pay no debt of gratitude to me.

As I have before inferred, my children are placed in the
highest rank of society. They are much admired ; and
such is the folly to which fashion leads, they are imitated
even to their very defects. Although they give pleasure to
others, yet, strange to say, they know not what true happi-
ness is. Sometimes they are clothed in gold, and adorned
with rubies, — often are they imprisoned, though innocent, —
and frequently are they put in chains, though guilty of no
offence. They have been present at the most sumptuous feasts ;
and one of the finest of my family was drowned in a cup, in
tyrannical sport, at the luxuriant banquet of a noble Roman
and wicked Egyptian Empress !

Gentle Reader, what is my name 1

CHI!LiBHO©» .

201

CHILDHOOD.

In stern misfortune's hour,
When wildly blows the blast,
And gloomy shadows lour,
And every hope's o'ercast ;
Then sweet is childhood's smile
To the desponding heart;
Our griefs it can beguile,
And bid all care depart.

The fleecy clouds that gleam

Across the azure sky,

The silver murmuring stream

That ripples softly by,

Are beauteous ; but the smile

Of joyous infancy

Comes o'er the heart, the while,

Like sunset o'er the sea.

202

CHILDHOOD.

The wanderer cannot rest
Where e'er his footsteps roam,
Till childhood's happy glee
Welcomes the weary home.
O, could I feel once more
Its stainless parity,
I'd never leave life's shore,
To tempt ambition's sea.

203

THE BROKEN PITCHER.

By Richard Howitt.

Now, Harry, mother looks, to see
Why we do make this sad delay ;

And yet you will not speak to me,
Nor will you come for all I say.

ii.

I laughed — 't is true — and who would not?

To see you, with a rueful face,
Start up, and take that piece of pot,

And put it on the broken place !

rn.

And then to see how long you tried,
If that would make it whole, in vain j

I must have laughed, if I had died,
But did not mean to give you pain.

204

THE BROKEN PITCHER.

TV.

Though mother cry, "you clumsy youth !,J
And though she seem so very cross,

Yet, if you tell the simple truth,
She will not much regard the loss.

I'm very sorry, I am sure, —

And now would bear the blame for you ;
But father always says, though poor,

We nothing wrong must say or do.

VI.

For were I now to say I did it,

The conscious fib would flush my cheek;
And though my heart would not forbid it,

My face would still most truly speak.

VII.

Now, mother looks again, to see
Why thus we linger on the way ;

And still you will not speak to me,
Nor will you come for all I say !

205

DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT?

OR,

A WORD TO THE INJURED.

By Mrs. Hofland,

Consideration, like an angel came

And whiptthe offending Adam out of him. — Shakspeare,

" I wonder, Emma, that you can take so much pleasure
in playing with that kitten," said Hugh Pembroke to his sis-
ter : " though you are very young, and only a girl, I should
think that you might amuse yourself with better toys than a
cork, a string, and a cat."

"And /wonder that j^ou can think any toy comparable
to my pretty kitten. Twist and turn as she may, all her
motions are more graceful and agile than those of a stage-
dancer. And what a very funny look she has ! There is a
poet who says, somewhere,

'You who can smile, (to wisdom no disgrace)
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face,'

206

domestic chit-chat: or

I dare say he had gazed, like me, with pleasure, at a kitten's
droll looks, Hugh ; though, I suppose, he was not very young,
and certainly not a girlP

"Clever folks have foolish fancies, sometimes, but almost
every body dislikes cats, because they are treacherous, cun-
ning, deceitful things. Besides, they are very stupid ; you
cannot teach a cat any thing. Dogs, horses, and even pigs,
may be taught tricks of some kind, by which they evince
ability, or display affection, but a cat learns nothing, cares
for nobody. She is a handsome animal, I grant, and some-
times useful, but that does not prevent her from being hateful,
— a tetotum, at best, in her kittenhood, and a humming top for
the rest of life. Now, a dog is a noble animal, — brave, sin-
cere, sensible, and affectionate. I do love a dog dearly.'

Hugh spoke not only volubly, but loudly ; as if by the
sound, not less than the truth, of his assertions, he would si-
lence all opposition to his opinion ; and Emma, conscious
that she knew little on the subject of animals beyond her ad-
miration of pussy, could not immediately reply : but in a
short time, she discarded the favourite, and, addressing her
aunt, who was quietly seated at her work, inquired " if it
were not possible for a cat to be worth liking as well as a dog?n

" Very possible, my dear," replied Mrs. Annesley; "be-
cause many persons do like them as well"

A WORD TO THE INJURED.

207

" Many women, perhaps," said Hugh sullenly, " more espe-
cially old maids." A witch is always represented with a
black cat at her elbow."

" Do you class your papa's friend, Mr. H , among such

persons ?"

"Oh ! no ; he is a fine, lively, soldier-like kind of a man."

" Yet, when sitting at rest in his parlour, you will gene-
rally find him with a large old cat on his knee, which, during
breakfast, may be seen begging for toast beside him, as your
little terrier does ; a proof that cats may be taught as well as
dogs, though it is certain they are by no means equally intel-
ligent."

" I remember that, certainly," said Hugh, looking a little
ashamed, and half convinced, as he took a chair opposite to
his aunt, with an air that said he had been too hasty in his
judgment.

" If," continued his excellent relative, " we require from
animals qualities or talents which nature has denied them,
we prove ourselves either unreasonable or ignorant. We do
not expect a donkey to fetch and carry like a poodle, nor a
cow to crack nuts like a squirrel ; yet no one will refuse good
will towards two animals so singularly beneficial to man."

" That is very true; but I spoke of disposition, aunt. Now,
cats are — "

208

DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT J OR,

Hugh paused, and Mrs. Annesley waited in patience for
him to proceed ; but seeing he did not, she resumed her dis-
course.

" Cats are a very malign race. I never knew a vulgar
boy, nor one of a ferocious disposition, who did not calumni-
ate them, as an excuse for his own occasional cruelty towards
them."

Hugh was really a well informed boy, and of a good dis-
position ; and he was also particularly alive to his claims as
a gentleman ; these words, therefore, struck him as insulting
and unjust; and his cheek glowed with indignation, while
yet a deep sense of sorrow, from the consciousness of having
been the first aggressor, quivered his lip, and rendered him
agitated and fidgetty.

Hugh did not immediately answer ; but at length he said,
— " I do think, dear aunt, and I am convinced, with you, that
cats have been cruelly belied. I must say that old Tabby
does make a great piece of work whenever Mr. Holland comes
here, just as if she remembered being a kitten at his house,
going round and round his chair, purring so loud as to com-
pel him to notice her. I have remarked this frequently," said
Hugh.

" So have I ; and Tabby's kitten showed me just the same
kind of attention, when I called at Mrs. S.'s last week; though

A WORD TO THE INJURED.

209

I had entirely forgotten the circumstance of her going from
our house until reminded of it by her present mistress. The
most remarkable attachment, however, of which I have been
the object, was that of a very fine young cat, which was cru.
elly shot in the back by some young boys, misnamed gentle-
men. The poor creature was in the habit of jumping in at the
window, after returning from a course of visits which he paid
daily to his neighbours. On returning after his accident, he
mewed very pitifully; but, having no idea of his mishap, I
did not open the door, and of course he was compelled to jump
through the open window as usual. He did so, and sank at
my feet, bleeding and writhing in agony.*'
" How sorry you must have been, dear aunt !"
" Indeed I was, Hugh, and regretted particularly that I
had not attended to his plaintive cry ; for, though not given
to fondling animals, I trust I pity all their sufferings. Well,
I took poor Tom on my lap, examined his injuries, and
washed his bleeding wounds with warm milk and water, as
tenderly as I could ; yet I undoubtedly gave him much pain
which he bore heroically, and even tried to purr his thanks
f*>r my attention. For several weeks the wretched animal
suffered so much, that the entrance of a servant almost con-
vulsed him with terror lest he should touch him; yet never
was he called by your dear uncle or myself to have his wounds

210

DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT ; OR,

dressed, but he would instantly come, and, by a painful effort,
jump on our knees, and faintly purr his thanks. Surely this
indicated confidence and gratitude, in no slight degree, and
intelligence also."

" Undoubtedly. Pray what became of him ? was he any
of the cats I can remember ?"

" No, my dear, for you were a very little boy ; but Tom
was so fond of you, that he permitted you to stroke him even
when he had two shots as large as peas in his back. I wish
you had been as well able to defend him as you arc now ;
for, by keeping a sharp lookout, he might have been saved
from a second attack, which lost me an attached animal of
singular beauty and great utility."

"I wish I had been a great boy then; yes, that I do: I
would have taught those young scoundrels another lesson. I
can't conceive how they dared to touch any property of
ours."

" Especially a poor innocent cat that had suffered so
much," cried Emma, almost in tears.

" Probably they disliked cats, and despised women: igno-
rant persons are subject to prejudices."

Hugh's colour rose again; but he subdued his emotion,
being, indeed, truly grateful to the kind friend who at once
reproved and instructed him, yet spared his feelings, and

A WORD TO THE INJURED.

211

amused him by narratives which awakened his best emo-
tions. He, therefore, eagerly inquired " if she could give him
more anecdotes of cats."

" The late Dr. Jackson, of Hanover-square, had a very
large, beautiful cat, remarkable for its docility and affection
for its master, v/hich he called Tippoo, and which many of
his friends remember, I am certain. Daring the worthy phy-
sician's last illness, he was confined several months to his
bedroom, during which time Tippoo never left him more than
a few minutes; but constantly tried, by every endearment in
his power, to testify affection. When all was over, he still
kept his post, except at his usual time of descending for food ;
but from the time the corpse was removed, all energy forsook
him. He tasted nothing that could be offered, permitted no
one to caress him, and pined so rapidly that, in a fortnight,
Mrs. Jackson told me, his skin hung on a bag of bones ; and,
within three weeks, Tippoo died literally of grief for the loss
of his master."

Hugh breathed a deep sigh, and his aunt continued.

" During the last period of your absence, I had myself an
extraordinary, I might say, an affecting instance of recog-
nition in a cat. You remember old Bess, the tortoise-shell
cat?"

11 Oh yes, whenever she caught a rat, she brought it to

212

DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT J OR,

you, and laid it down by you, and would wait ever so long
for you."

" Yes, she paid me that compliment for years ; but last
winter she grew very old, and though loth to resign her place
on the rug, finally took up her abode in a basket on the
kitchen hearth, cook being very kind to her. Your uncle
frequently visited her there ; and she always testified great
pleasure on hearing his foot approach. One day he said to
me, 1 My dear, poor old Bess is dying : you had better go
and see her ; for she will never move again.'' Just as he
spoke the poor creature entered the room* and, though nearly
blind, made up to my seat as well as she was able; and, on
my taking her up, she tried, but in vain, to purr. Finding
her tremble all over, I carried her down to lay her in the
warm basket ; but the moment I had done so, she crawled
out to the beer cellar, where, in another instant, she was
stretched out dead : the poor thing had crept up to visit me
in her last agonies."

" She was the best tempered creature in the world. I al-
ways liked that cat myself, exceedingly. She had a great
deal of sense, too."

" The most remarkable circumstance I have ever known,
respecting cats, will conclude the subject: it is this: —

" The two Misses Walker, of Leeds, had a favourite tabby,

A WORD TO THE INJURED.

213

which more particularly attached itself to the elder, who kept
her bed a year or two. On the death of this lady, her sister
(who was also a confirmed invalid) removed to the house of
a relation above thirty miles distant, taking with her the cat
in question, which was, in the hurry of arrival, soon lost, to
her vexation you may be certain. About a fortnight after-
wards she received a letter from an old neighbour, informing
her that the cat was then in the area of her late habitation in
Park Square, and could not be allured thence, though in a
state of starvation.

I " On learning this, her own maid was sent to Leeds; and
the cat, recognizing her, crept out to her, and was reconveyed
to her mistress, though reduced to a skeleton. In a short time
she was quite happy in her new home, and seemed gratefully
to accept of her present mistress in lieu of the one to whom
she had hitherto belonged ; and when she too was taken, at-
tached herself to Mrs. Smith, the head of the family. How
a creature, never fifty yards out of the house, succeeded in
finding her way through varied roads in a populous country,
I cannot imagine ; but the fact is undeniable, and bespeaks
an instinct, as well as an affection, beyond what cats have
credit for possessing."

•l Dear aunt," said Hugh, " I am more obliged to you than
I can express, for taking the trouble of convincing me instead

214

DOMESTIC CHIT-CHAT.

of scolding me. I never will despise cats again, nor any
other creature : for they are all the works of the Almighty,
who has made nothing in vain : and I am determined that I
will study natural history, both in the works of that good
and great man, Baron Cuvier, and also in the subjects them-
selves, so far as I am able."

"And will you, then, love my kitten'?" said little Emma,
climbing on his knee.

"Most probably," replied Hugh, as he tenderly kissed her;
" for I do love the kittten's mistress dearly, (as well I may,)
though I was foolish enough to call her only a little girl.*

" I had forgotten that entirely, dear Hugh."

" I believe you, my love; but I shall neither forget nor for
give myself soon, I promise you."

215

LINES.

By Miss J. E, Roscoe.

Go forth when midnight winds are high,
And ask them whence they come ;

Who sent them raging thro' the sky,
And where is their far home !

Ask of the tempest, if its bound

Is flx'd in Heav'ns decree,
When storm arid thunders burst around

In awful revelry.

The winds may keep their midnight way,

Tile tempest know its power,
But trembling mortal, canst thou say

Where ends thy destined hour?

LINES.

Whence didst thou spring, and whither tend %

Is thine this atom world ?
What is thj being's aim and end,

On Time's swift pinion hurl'd?

Thou know' st not — no, thou may'st not know —

But read that glorious sky, —
Look up ! those million planets glow

With marks of Deity !

Yes, trace him there — exulting trace !

The soul that soars to God,
And follows the immortal race

Those shining stars have trod, —

Can never falter in its faith,

Can never bow to fears :
The conquest over Time and Death,

It reads in j>on bright spheres !

FINIS.

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Full text of "Youth's keepsake : a New-Year, Christmas and birth-day present, for both sexes : with engravings"

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