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Full text of "Youth's keepsake : a New-Year, Christmas and birth-day present, for both sexes : with engravings"

Cfje library 

of ttje 

tHntoersittp of J^ortfj Carolina 




©fjisi 6oofe toauS presented 

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NO RTH CAROLINA 
School of Library 
Science 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2013 



http://archive.org/details/youthskeepsakeneOOunse 




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- 



iv 



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 



vi 



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 



7 



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 



s 



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. 



9 



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 



10 



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 



12 



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. 



13 



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 him 7 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/' 



14 



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. 



15 



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 



16 



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. 



17 



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 

3 



IS 



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. 



19 



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," 



20 



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. 



21 



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, — 



22 



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 " Wandering 1 
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* 



23 



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 



24 



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 ! 



25 



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, 

4 



26 



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. 



27 



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 w 7 ith 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- 
ing 1 , bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate 



28 



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. 



29 



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 



30 



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. 



31 



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 ! 



32 



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. 



33 



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, w T as 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 



34 



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. 



35 



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. 



36 



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, an 7 content, 

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

An' guid to a' below. 

R. 



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. 



38 



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. 



39 



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." 



40 



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. 



41 



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. 

6 



42 



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. 



43 



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 



44 



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. 



45 



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, 



46 



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. 



47 



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- 



48 



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 !" 



7 



50 



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. 



51 



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. 



52 



THE MORNING SONG. 



By Allan Cunningham. 



I. 

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 ! 



54 



ANECDOTES, 

OF 

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. 



55 



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. 



56 



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. 



57 



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, 

8 



58 



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. 



59 



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. 



62 



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. 



63 



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 



64 



A LITTLE BOY J S 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. 



65 



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 

9 



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. 



67 



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 



68 



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. 



69 



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. 



71 



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 ! 



72 



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. 



73 



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- 

10 



74 



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. 



75 



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 



76 



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 



77 



" 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 



78 



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. 



79 



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." 



80 



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. 



81 



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." 



82 



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. 



86 



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. 



87 



" 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 



88 



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. 



89 



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- 

11 



90 



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. 



91 



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. 



94 



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 



96 



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. 



97 



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 
arraj r ed in cloaks and trowsers, of blue cloth, which had been 
purchased at Montreal, and as they sate behind their hus- 

12 



93 



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. 



99 



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!" 



112 



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 



114 



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 



118 



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, " L if 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- 



120 



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," 

li 



122 



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, w T hich 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 w r as 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 T 1 

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.' " 



15 



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 

16 



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 w r ill 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 

19 



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 

20 



194 



PASS OF THE GREEN MOUNTAINS. 



the flax ; we shall move soon to our comfortable dwelling 1 , 
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 P 1 

"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 
e ven 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. 



I. 

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. 

v. 

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 

21 



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? 



6 



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.