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Title: Peter Parley's Annual, 1855: A Christmas and New Year's Present for Young People
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
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1855 ***
PETER PARLEY’S ANNUAL.
[Illustration: _The death of Cardinal Wolsey._]
[Illustration:
PETER PARLEY’S
ANNUAL
1855
NEW YORK
EVANS & DICKERSON.
697 BROADWAY
]
PETER
PARLEY’s ANNUAL.
A Christmas and New Year’s Present
FOR
YOUNG PEOPLE.
NEW YORK:
EVANS AND DICKERSON, 697, BROADWAY.
MDCCCLV.
Contents.
PROSE.
PAGE
An Adventure with a Bear 92
A few words about the Egyptians, Ancient and Modern 142
” ” Soluble Glass 221
A Mysterious Adventure 135
A Touch with the Brigands 19
A Visit to the Royal Polytechnic Institution 205
Boiling Springs 224
Cardinal Wolsey 83
Christmas Day at the Diggings 200
Exploits in the Desert 9
Glastonbury Abbey, with the Story of King Arthur 217
Gustavus Vasa 30
Jack and Jill 243
Juvenile Day at the Hall 171
Manufacture of Ropes 188
Oranges and Lemons; or, the Bells of St. Clement’s 71
Passage of the Desert 212
San Rosalia 196
Sledging 7
Something about Boiling Springs 224
” ” the Chinese 116
Something more about the Chinese 234
” about Lighthouses 97
” ” the Old Abbeys and Castles of England 61
” ” Ships and Shipping 178
” ” the Turkish Provinces 55
Story of the American Sea Serpent 227
Story of an Anchorite 1
The Boy Bachelor; or, Something about Cardinal Wolsey 83
The Two Middies; or, a Fearful Encounter with a Shark 259
The Town Pump: a Story of the Cow with an Iron Tail 34
The Youthful Nelson 42
The Old Abbeys and Castles of England 104
The Queen at Spithead: Review of the Fleet 110
The Rain; or, the Child, the Fairy, and the Magic Bird 156
The Regimental Goat 153
POETRY.
The Electric Telegraph 169
The Owl 202
The Sailor’s Grave 5
The Willow Tree 152
Preface.
[Illustration]
Holiday faces! Aye, they are bright, shining, and beautiful as dewdrops
glistening in the morning’s splendour—stars sparkling in a clear
midnight sky—flowers lit up by the summer’s sun. It makes the heart
of poor old PETER PARLEY glad when he sees them—whether they belong
to young or old, to rich or to poor, it is one of my chief delights.
I do assure you, my young friends, that a good deal of my _parleying_
has to do with HOLIDAY FACES. I see them again and again, year after
year, and they make me feel young again; and, like the old rustic of
the Suffolk poet, Bloomfield, I am often ready to jump with joy when I
see the cabs and coaches, post-chaises and omnibuses, crowded, inside
and outside, with school children, going home for the Holidays. Old as
I am growing, I still feel that I belong to the order of light hearts
and merry looks—to the heraldry of smiling faces—and my escutcheon is
charged with “nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.”
Hurrah, then, for the Holidays, say I! Be cheerful, my young
friends—not more for the sake of being merry, than for the sake of
being serious again at the proper time. Unbend the bow and loosen the
string, that both string and bow may have more force when again brought
into action! Make the air ring then, I say, with the Holiday Cheer
of Merry Christmas time! Sing, and skip, and dance, and play, like
“lambkins by the hill side,” and let love reign in all your hearts, a
perpetual sunshine, from year to year, and from youth to age, until you
are as old as your ever sincere
And Affectionate Friend,
_Peter Parley_.
Story of an Anchorite.
Among the many celebrated ruins of Abbeys in Ireland, is that of Foune,
or Fowne, in the county of Westmeath, Leinster. This Abbey is situated
on the north-side of the hill or rising ground, which interposes
between it and Lough Larne. It was a Priory of Canons, built by St.
Fechin, about the year 630. For although the oldest and most authentic
Irish records were written between the tenth and twelfth centuries, yet
some of them go back, with some consistency, as far as the Christian
era; but there is no evidence that the Irish had the use of letters
before the middle of the fifth century, when Christianity and Christian
literature were introduced by St. Patrick. The new faith did not
flourish till a century later, when St. Columba erected monasteries.
The Abbey presents a large pile of simple, unadorned masonry. The
chapel is still in a tolerable state of preservation, so is also the
chapel tower. The valley in which this Abbey is placed must, in the
time of its prosperity, have been a delightful retreat. The outline is
still good, and nothing is wanting but a little more wood to render it
an attractive spot in modern days.
The town is said to have been, anciently, a University of Literature,
and the name signifies in the Irish tongue, “the Town of Books:” and
the above-mentioned lake (Lough Larne) “the Lake of Learning.” This
town was not only the mart of learning, but of devotion—there being
in it the ruins of no less than three parish churches; and here lived
a famous anchorite, of whom Sir Henry Piers—who wrote an amusing
description of the county of Westmeath—gives the following account:—
[Illustration]
“This religious person, in his extremity, maketh a vow never to go
out of his doors all his life-time, and accordingly here he remains
pent up all his days; every day he sayeth mass in the chapel, which
also is part of, nay, almost all his dwelling-house—for there are no
more houses, but a very small castle, wherein a tall man can hardly
stretch himself at length if he be laid down on the floor, nor is there
any passage into the castle but through the chapel. He hath servants
that attend him at his call in an out-house, but none lieth within the
church but himself. He is said, by the natives—who hold him in great
veneration for his sanctity—every day to dig, or rather scrape—for
he useth no other tools but his nails—a portion of his grave, being
esteemed of so great holiness—as if purity and sanctity were entailed
on his cell; he is certainly visited by those of the Romish religion
who aim at being esteemed more devout than the ordinary amongst them.
“Every visitant, at his departure, leaveth his offering, or as they
phrase it, ‘devotion,’ on his altar; but he relieth not on this only
for a maintenance, but hath those to bring him in the devotions of
those whose piety is not so fervent as to invite them to do the office
in person; these are called his ‘proctors,’ who range all the counties
in Ireland to beg for him, whom they call the ‘holy man in the stone.’
Corn, geese, turkeys, hens, sheep, money, and whatnot, nothing comes
amiss, and nowhere do they fail altogether, but something is had,
insomuch, that if his ‘proctors’ deal truthfully, nay, if they return
him but a tenth part of what is given for him, he may doubtless fare as
well as any priest of them all. The only recreation this poor prisoner
is capable of, is, to walk on his terrace, built over the cell where he
lies, if he may be said to walk, who cannot in one time stretch forth
his legs four times.”
Such, my young friends, is the story of an Anchorite. It is well for us
that we live in times when such nonsense is not tolerated. An attempt
was made, some years ago, by a poor half-witted creature, called the
“Shottisham Angel,” to revive this kind of imposture among credulous
persons, but timely exposure frustrated the attempt.
[Illustration]
The Sailor’s Grave.
Dark flew the scud along the wave,
The booming thunders rolled on high;
“All hands aloft, the storm to brave”—
At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry.
On deck sprung every soul apace,
But one—bereft of human joy—
Within a hammock’s narrow space
Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.”
Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail,
The first was he of all the crew
On deck to spring—to trim the sail—
To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew.
Now “fever dire” had seized a form
Which nature cast in happiest mould;
The bell struck midnight through the storm,
The last—the death-knell tale is told.
“Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear,
“Before my spirit mounts the skies—
Are there no friends or messmates near
To close, with looks of love, my eyes?”
All hands aloft—loud blows the wind,
Surrounding billows loudly roar;
He gave one sigh, and sank resigned
To hope, and think, and love no more.
The morning sun in glory rose,
The gale was hushed, and still’d the wave;
The sea boy found his last repose,
And in the ocean’s breast a grave.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Royal Sledges at Windsor_]
Sledging.
Sledging is a very pretty pastime in cold weather, and in Poland,
Russia, Holland, and other northern countries, it is the regular mode
of travelling during the long frosts that annually prevail in those
regions. A couple of rein-deer yoked to a sledge can travel more than a
hundred miles in a day, with a load of half-a-ton.
In fine weather, on a good snowy road, there is something delightfully
exhilirating in sledge travelling, snugly enveloped in furs, whilst
“The vault is blue,
Without a cloud, and white without a speck.”
The traveller glides swiftly over the level snow, enlivened by the
tinkling of a sonorous bell attached to an arch that rises off the head
of the centre horse; for sometimes three horses abreast are used in
sledges, and cheered or soothed, as his mood may be, by the wild yet
plaintive song of the driver.
The traveller is laid in the sledge like a child in his cradle. He
holds the rein or puller, which is fastened to the deer’s or horse’s
head, on his right thumb. When the driver is ready to start, he shakes
the rein, and the animal springs forward with great speed. He directs
his course by the rein and by the voice; he sings to him as he goes
along; speaks kindly to him—and cheers him on his way. He never strikes
or hurts him, for he loves the animal too much to be cruel to him.
The Laplanders, Russians, Poles, and other nations are thus enabled
to travel in winter, by night and by day, when the whole country far
and wide is entirely covered by snow, and scarcely a hut or tree is to
be seen, and they travel from one part of the country to another with
great speed. In the Royal Palace of Sweden is a portrait of a rein-deer
which is described as having travelled with despatches eight hundred
miles in forty-eight hours.
It was a very pretty thing to see our beloved Queen and family
“sledging,” because it shows that the Queen has courage, and a love of
amusement; and should this winter be a cold one, Peter Parley hopes to
see Her Majesty again in her sledge.
[Illustration]
Exploits in the Desert.
The deserts of Southern Africa are immense and formidable, rarely trod
by the foot of civilised man. They present features the most wild, and
at times, the most sublime that can be imagined; but man has a great
knack of destroying the grand, and blotting out the wonderful. South
Africa, in its central parts, abounds in features well calculated to
inspire grand ideas, and to call forth all the powers of the mind in
heroic exploits among the wild beasts of the desert. Here roam, in all
their native freedom, bisons, blesboks, and springboks in millions; and
among them prowls the lion, in all his fierce dignity of bearing, with
his attendant the jackall, who follows and precedes his footsteps. The
blesbok is one of the true antelopes, and is as large as a fallow deer,
and all its motions and paces are full of grace and elegance; these
have also a pecularity of manner (whence their name), of jumping up
into the air, like so many fleas, when they first dart off into rapid
motion; thus they scour the vast plains in myriads, and may be seen for
miles, as if the whole desert was endowed with motion.
[Illustration]
The springboks, which, in equal numbers, frequent the same immense
plains, make away in every direction over the wildest part of the
country, sometimes with flying bounds (beautifully exhibiting the
long, snowy white hair, with which their backs are adorned), and at
others, walking carelessly and slowly out of the hunter’s way, scarcely
deigning to look at him. Black bisons also cover the entire length and
breadth of this wild country, and may be seen in herds, averaging from
fifty to sixty, wheeling about in endless circles, and performing the
most extraordinary variety of intricate evolutions round the hunter
on every side. While he is riding round to take a shot at some of the
herd in front of him, other herds are charging down right and left;
and having described a number of circular movements, they take up
positions upon the very ground across which the hunter rode only a few
minutes before. Throughout the greater part of the plains frequented by
blesboks, numbers of sun-baked hills, or mounds of clay, formed by the
white ants, occur, the average height of which are from three to four
feet. These ant-hills are generally distant from each other from about
one to three hundred yards, and are of great service to the hunter, as
he can conceal himself from observation behind them, when he advances
to the attack.
[Illustration]
It was amid these scenes that, a few years ago, Gordon Cumming
luxuriated as a hunter, and noble and not a few, are the trophies of
this modern Nimrod—as may be seen at the Exhibition of his Game, in
the Museum, near Hyde Park. Overpowered with the sports of the gun
and the chase, he had laid down for a brief repose behind one of the
ant-hills already alluded to; but he had not slept long before he was
aroused by a strange, multitudinous pattering of feet. On raising his
head, he saw to his utmost horror, on every side, nothing but savage
wild dogs, chattering and growling. On his right and on his left, stood
two lines of these ferocious-looking animals, cocking their ears and
stretching their necks to have a look at him; while two large apes,
with which there were at the least forty more, kept dashing backwards
and forwards within a few yards of him, chattering and growling with
the most extraordinary volubility. He expected no other fate than to be
instantly torn to pieces and consumed; his blood seemed to run cold,
and his hair bristled on his head. However, he had presence of mind to
consider that the human voice and a determined bearing might overawe
them; and, accordingly, springing to his feet, he stepped on one of the
ant-hills, and drawing himself to his full height, he waved his coarse
blanket with both hands, at the same time addressing the assembly in
a loud and solemn manner. This had the desired effect: the wild dogs
removed to a more respectful distance, barking at him the while. Upon
this, he snatched up his rifle and began loading, but before this was
accomplished, the entire troops had pushed away, and did not return.
“The next night,” this enterprising traveller says, “was a memorable
one, as being the first on which he had the satisfaction of hearing the
majestic thunder of the lion’s roar.” There was no one near to tell him
that this was the roar of a lion; but he seemed to know by instinct
that it could be nothing else. This roar consists, at times, of a low,
deep moaning, repeated five or six times, ending in faintly audible
sighs; at other times, he startles the forest with loud, deep-toned,
solemn roars, repeated five or six times, in quick succession, each
increasing in loudness, to the third or fourth, when his voice dies
away in five or six low, muffled sounds, very much resembling distant
thunder. At times, a troop may be heard roaring in concert, one
assuming the lead, and two, three, or four more regularly taking up
their parts, like persons singing a catch; but on no occasion are their
voices heard to such perfection as when two or three strange troops
of lions approach a fountain to drink at the same time. When this
occurs every member of each troop sounds a bold roar of defiance at the
opposite parties; and when one roars all roar together, and each seems
to vie with his comrades in the intensity and power of his voice. As a
general rule, lions roar during the night; but in distant and secluded
situations, they may be heard roaring as late as nine o’clock in the
morning. It often happens that, when two male lions meet at a fountain,
a terrific combat ensues, which not unfrequently ends in the death of
one of them.
[Illustration]
The habits of the lion are strictly nocturnal. During the day, he lies
concealed beneath the shade of some low, bushy tree, or wide-spreading
bush, either in the level forest or on the mountain side. He is also
partial to lofty reeds, or fields of long, rank, yellow grass. From
these haunts he sallies forth when the sun goes down, and commences
his nightly prowl. When he is successful in his beat and has secured
his prey, he does not roar much that night, unless some rash intruders
approach him, when the case will be very different.
Lions are most active and daring during dark and stormy nights. Mr.
Cumming noticed a fact with regard to their hour of drinking, which
is worthy of record. They seem unwilling to visit the fountain during
good moonlight. Thus, when the moon rose early, lions deferred their
hour of watering until late in the morning; and when the moon rose
late, they drank at a very early hour in the night. When a thirsty lion
comes to the water, he stretches out his massive arms, lies down on his
breast to drink, and makes a loud, lapping noise in drinking, not to
be mistaken; he continues lapping up the water a long while, and four
or five times during the process he pauses for half a minute, as if to
take breath. One thing conspicuous about them is their eyes, which, in
a dark night, glow like two balls of fire.
Having determined upon a lion hunt, Captain Cumming, with a few
riders, dashed on to the immense plain. As he proceeded, thousands
upon thousands of blesboks darkened the ground. “After a ride of some
miles, the lion’s roar was heard, and we soon discovered a dead wild
bull, newly killed by a lion, and half eaten. His large and striking
foot-prints were deeply marked in the sand. We felt convinced the lion
was somewhere near us, but before we could track him out, the night
came on, and the most furious thunder-storm I ever knew. The most
vivid flashes of lightning followed one another in quick succession,
accompanied by terrific peals of thunder, and the sky was black as
pitch. The whole plain was soon a sheet of water. About midnight,
however, we heard the lion roar, about a mile off. We then rose, and
saddled our horses. We rode forward towards the lion’s feasting-place.
As the light broke upon us, we slackened our pace, and rode slowly up
the middle of the vast level plain towards the carcase of the wild
beast, with large herds of springbok, blesbok, and quaggas on every
side. Suddenly I observed a number of vultures seated on the plain,
about a quarter of a mile a-head of us, and close behind them stood a
huge lioness, eating a blesbok she had just killed. She was assisted in
her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her
in the most friendly and confidential manner. Directing my followers’
attention to the spot, I remarked, ‘I see the lion!’ to which they
replied, ‘Whar! whar! yah, Almagty, dat is he!’—and instantly wheeling
about their horses, they were about to fly. At the same moment the
lioness moved off at a rapid pace. I was determined to have a shot at
her. The first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to
be lost. Spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to
follow, I flew across the plain, and soon gained upon her. This was to
me,” says the bold hunter, “a joyful moment, and I at once made up my
mind that she or I should die.
[Illustration]
“The lioness was a full-grown beast, and the bare and level nature
of the plain added to her imposing appearance. Finding that I gained
upon her, she reduced her pace from a canter to a trot, carrying her
tail slackened behind her, and slewed a little to one side. I shouted
loud to her to halt, as I wished to speak with her; upon which she
suddenly pulled up, and got upon her haunches like a dog, with her back
towards me, not even deigning to look round. She then appeared to say
to herself, ‘Does that fellow know who he’s after?’ Having thus sat
for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet,
and facing about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her
tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth and growling fiercely.
She next made a short run forward, making a loud rumbling noise like
thunder. This she did to intimidate me, and to show her ‘monkey’ was
up. My Hottentots now came on, and we all three dismounted, and drawing
our rifles from our holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up to
the nipples, and put on our caps. While this was doing, the lioness sat
up, and showed evident signs of uneasiness. She looked first at us,
and then behind her, as if to see if the coast was clear; after which
she made a short run towards us, uttering her deep-drawn, murderous
growl. Having secured the three horses to one another by the reins, we
led them on, as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a
broadside. My men, as yet, had been steady, but they were in a precious
‘stew,’ their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness, and I had a
painful feeling that I could place no reliance on them.
“‘Now then for it—neck or nothing! she is within sixty yards of us,
and she keeps advancing.’ We turned the horses’ tails to her. I knelt
on one side, and taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. The ball
cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder;
upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and, in the twinkling
of an eye, she was in the midst of us. She sprung upon Colesberg, one
of my men, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her
horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on the haunch, and was
most hideous. I was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the
least degree nervous, having, fortunately, great confidence in my own
shooting; and when the lioness sprang upon my man, I stood out from the
horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should
give me of a clear shot. This she quickly did, for seemingly, satisfied
with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted Colesberg, and slewing
her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me.
Taking one step to the left, I pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and,
in another second, the lioness lay stretched upon the plain a lifeless
corpse.
“We now skinned the lioness, and cut off her head; and, having placed
our trophies on our horses, we made for the camp. Before we had
proceeded a hundred yards from the carcass, upwards of sixty vultures,
whom the lioness had often fed, were feasting on her remains. We
led poor Colesberg slowly home, where, having washed his wounds and
carefully stitched them together, I ordered the cold water cure to be
adopted. Under this treatment the wounds rapidly healed, and he soon
recovered. When the shades of evening set in, terror seemed to have
taken possession of the minds of my followers; and they swore that the
mate of the lioness, on finding her bones, would follow in our spoer,
and revenge her death. Under these circumstances, they refused to
remain about the waggons or in the tent after the sun went down; and
having cut down the rafters and cupboards of the house for fuel, they
kindled a large fire in the kitchen, where they took up their quarters
for the night.”
A Touch with the Brigands.
It is now several years ago since the author of this “little episode
in his life” was travelling in Spain. “I was,” says he, “on the road
between Madrid and Bayonne, where the road was rugged, the mountains
high, the rivers loose, and the people poor. There were a good many
passengers in the rumbling old coach—six within, and ten or twelve on
the outside, behind-side, and fore-side of the vehicle. My companions
were—a French opera-singer; an old clergyman, who had returned from
Rome through Spain, after having embraced the Catholic faith; a French
clown, named Moliere, who was, in Paris, said to be equal to one Joe
Grimaldi (of facetious memory); an old lady, with her lap-dog and a
monkey in a box, attended by her servant, companion, and myself; so
that the carriage was almost as infinite in variety as Noah’s Ark, only
on a smaller scale.
“The other passengers I could tell but little of. Some, however, were
Frenchmen, and others either Italian or Spanish; but there was one
who struck my attention by the rotundity of his person, who seemed
to have been formed much upon the principle of apple-dumplings or a
humming-top. This gentleman, broad, round, thick, and lumpy, was a
taciturn Dutchman.
“Now, in the part of Spain to which I have alluded, there is a set
of people (Knights of the Moor, as Falstaff calls them), who make
the mercurial art of robbery a profession—who pass for the most
_cavalleros_ (gentleman-like) men. They are the padrones of old
Castille. These brigands had, in the most polite manner imaginable,
attacked several pleasure and business parties, with great benefit to
themselves and discomfiture to their victims. The government, which
in these countries, do everything, but nothing well, had our coach
escorted by cavalry, as far as Baitroget; also certain stages between
Arendo and Burgos. But when we got into one of the most cut-throat
looking places, about three leagues from Orendo, at the cut-throat
time in September of about eight in the evening, when the gloaming was
fully set, and the moon had risen with a sickly, comsumptive aspect,
our ‘John,’ or rather the head postillion was suddenly stopped short;
a chain was immediately entangled in the wheel, the traces were cut,
and both the postillions were pulled off their horses and thrown on
the ground by a couple of surly, well-dressed brigands; while four
others, two on each side, came to the carriage, and called upon the
conductor and the people in the char-a-banc, as well as those in the
coach, and those above, to come down and be robbed in a quiet way. One
of the brigands had a hand-lantern, which he thrust into the ”interior“
of our vehicle. The old lady with her lap-dog gave a most piercing
shriek, as did her waiting-woman, while the dog barked so furiously,
that the brigand seemed excessively savage, and gave the yelping cur
such a blow with the lantern, that it knocked the light out, and we
were in a moderate degree of darkness. In a few moments, however, we
felt the rough hands of two of the brigands, who pulled us out of the
coach, and told us to lay down on our faces; the French opera-dancer
appealed to their feelings as gentlemen, not to injure female delicacy,
and to preserve the old lady, her waiting-woman, and herself from any
unnecessary violence. The clown made a sudden summersault over the
heads of the brigands, which astonished them to such a degree, that
they thought they had come in contact with the Prince of Evil himself;
while the Dutchman from the roof laid groaning and trembling all over
like a jelly, and imploring for mercy. The other travellers were put
_hors de combat_ without ceremony, and the whole group presented as
pretty a picture of still life as can well be imagined.
“The driver and postillions had their hands bound behind with strong
cords; these necessary precautions were soon exercised on us. The
clown’s hands were tied—and so were his legs; and in addition to
tying the hands of the old lady and her maid, a couple of gags were
obliged to be put into their mouths to prevent their ‘sweet voices’
from disturbing the harmony of the scene. The captain of the band,
a fine handsome fellow, with beard enough to stuff a sofa, called
upon us, in very bad Castillian, to declare what money we had, and
where it was—adding, that if we did not tell the truth, we should be
cut-throated or burned. He interrogated us with all the acuteness of
Mr. Pegler, (one of the best detectives, and also one of the best of
men), frequently changing his tone and accent. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Whence
do you come?’ ‘Where are you going?’ were questions put to us, and if
we had the misfortune to belong to any place near the haunts of the
brigands, or had happened to know the person of any of them, we should
have been inevitably assassinated. In fact, a poor postillion was so
served only three months before by these very identical brigands,
because he happened to be acquainted with one of them.
“They inquired of us whether we were Englishmen, or Americans, for
if we had been the former, we should have been completely stripped.
The Spanish lower order of people imagine that the clothes of the
English and Americans are stitched with gold thread. The lady with
the lap-dog, and her maid, unwittingly said they were English, and
I, scorning to tell a lie, even in such a case, said that I was from
Middlesex, which the chief brigand, whose geography was something like
that of the pope, seemed to think an outlandish place, somewhere in
the extreme corner of the earth. All these necessary preliminaries
being gone through, the picturesque gentlemen began plundering the
coach, throwing down and breaking, or ripping open with their long
knives, all the boxes, trunks, bags, and packages. Knowing that they
could not get at mine without a great deal of trouble, I looked up
and told them that I would open my trunk and give them all the money
it contained, if they would unbind my hands, for they had drawn the
cord so tight that I was in great pain. They consented, and brought
my trunk to me. The money they found in it did not satisfy them. They
left me in the hands of one of their band, a young man not more than
twenty years of age, who continued to search my trunk, while an older
and fiercer brigand watched my looks with his carbine levelled at me.
The young man, although he made use of the coarsest oaths and other
expressions, which beautifully illustrates the fact, that every variety
of human speech can be adapted to blaspheme the ”good God who made
us,“ was not so savage as the rest, and this was evidently his first
expedition. He carried neither carbine nor sword, and the only weapon
he had was a Catalonian knife stuck in his belt. Everything he saw in
my trunk caused him surprise and wonder. He asked me to tell him the
age of each. On finding some rosaries, he exclaimed—‘Ah, you are a
priest!’ I told him no, but had bought the rosaries at a fair at Madrid
as curiosities. He, however, with great devotion kissed the crosses
suspended to them with other emblems, but finding they were of silver,
he broke the stones, letting them all fall to the ground. He carefully
picked them up, and again kissed each bead and emblem, but at the
same time renewed his oaths at his awkwardness. He secured these, and
everything else he thought valuable, between his shirt and his skin,
but my clothes and linen he put into a large sack, which appeared to
be the common receptacle. I had also some small knives and daggers.
He asked what I did with them. I told him they had been sold to me as
having been worn by the Manolas of Spain under their garters. At this
he laughed, and throwing two of them to the ground to me, he put the
rest into his private magazine.
“I hoped to make something of my grand brigand, but while I was talking
to him the captain came up suddenly, and struck me with violence on
the back of the neck with the butt-end of his carbine, saying, in a
furious tone, ‘You are looking in his face that you might be able to
recognise him!’ He then seized me by the right arm, while another took
my left, and they again bound them behind my back. In my bad Spanish,
I assured them I was a foreigner from the remote county of Middlesex;
but they would not have cared had I been Joseph Hume himself, and
threw me down like a sheep tied fast together ready for the slaughter,
upon the body of the Hollander, who roared out loudly, and shook most
convulsively all over, imploring the brigands not to kill him, for
that he had several bills to take up on the 10th proximo at Amsterdam;
beside which he had a wife, six children, and two sisters-in-law
dependent upon him for support, and an aged mother and two children of
a deceased brother. One of the brigands laughed at hearing all this,
although he could not understand it in High-Dutch; but I, who knew a
little of the language, ventured to translate it for him, which made
the chief brigand laugh ten times more. Taking one of the crucifixes
found on me he held it before his eyes, and told him to be at once a
Catholic, and he would spare his life. ‘Kiss the cross,’ he said ‘or
I will cut your throat!’ This was a plain and simple proposition, and
the method of its solution freely given. However, much to the honour
and glory of the Dutchman, he resolutely refused to do any such thing,
and told the brigand that ‘he might kill him if he liked, and that God
would take care of all those dependent upon him;’ and when the cross
was again presented to his lips, the burly Dutchman turned himself
right over on his side, and the ground on which he lay being upon a
slight declivity, he began to roll, and his descent being accelerated
as he moved downwards, he in a few seconds obtained such a velocity,
as to roll down the incline with a rapidity most wonderful—the brigands
pausing in their work at so strange a sight, and laughing immoderately.
“The next work of our friends was upon the French opera-dancer,
and the old lady and her female companion, who had all been passed
at the first movement, and who lay groaning, weeping, sobbing, and
rolling about in the utmost trepidation. The dancing lady had fainted
two or three times, and finding no one to attend upon her, had come
to again of her own accord, till at last, upon one of the brigands
approaching her, she went off in apparently a dead swoon. But these
kind of things were nothing in the eyes of the bravos, who proceeded
to strip her of her outward silk, and to rifle her of all her secret
treasures, which had been stowed away in various parts of her inner
dress. These consisted of various sums of money, stitched amid wadding
and padding, trinkets, love-tokens, charms, bank-notes, &c.; but the
brigands were particularly amazed when, upon turning madam over,
they found a long, hard roll behind the lady, which was, ostensibly,
a padding-machine made to keep the dress from falling down, and for
making it to display itself with grace and dignity rearwards; this
was manufactured entirely of Napoleons and French bank-notes, the
former making up the more substantial part of the article alluded to,
and the latter lining the outstanding portion. The fun and frolic of
the brigands at this discovery were immense; they joked, they leaped,
they danced, they swore, and committed many wild pranks in the joy of
their discovery, and falling upon the old maid and her waiting-woman
in the same way, they proceeded to unroll them both, as carefully
as Professor Owen would an Egyptian mummy, but not finding the same
treasures, they cursed and swore in the most vociferous manner, giving
the old lady many a good cuff, and behaving to her companion with the
same rough ceremony. At this time others of the brigands were knocking
the carriage to pieces, and having fallen upon the box containing the
monkey, with a blow demolished its upper postern, and in a moment—in
less than the twinkling of an eve—out popped the imprisoned monkey,
who, immediately leaping on to the shoulder of the nearest brigand,
took hold of him by the ear, which it bit in two, and flying from
his shoulder to the next, made a laceration of the second brigand’s
nose, who, finding himself thus suddenly attacked by what was not very
discernable in the moon-light, threw himself down, roaring out his
‘Aves,’ thinking that an imp of the Prince of Darkness was suddenly
upon him. In vain did the other brigands make slashes and stabs at the
monkey, who ran upon the shoulders of the next one, between the legs
of another, up the back of a third, down the breast of a fourth, and
kept the whole in perpetual alarm, till at last the poor wretch, having
had one or two unlucky knocks, made his escape to some distance, where
he sat chattering defiance, and picking up some stones, threatened to
throw them at his pursuers.
“The trunks, boxes, bales, and packages, having by this time been
thoroughly ransacked, the next object of the brigands was to burn the
carriage, in the hope of obtaining, by this means, all the concealed
treasures it contained in its various hiding places which are so
difficult to find out. Accordingly, straw, stubble, and dried boughs
were procured, and a quantity being placed underneath the old vehicle,
it was very soon under the horrifying process, and the flames rose
up bravely, throwing a broad red light on the surrounding scenery,
and the ungagged ladies uttered many loud screams and interjections.
The brigands set themselves quietly down by the fire, and watched
the progress of the flames upon each part of the burning carriage,
having the satisfaction to see several pieces of gold, in the shape of
Napoleons, fly out as the parts separated, which they snatched eagerly
from the fire with their daggers, and often burnt their fingers to
secure. Just as the blaze was at its proudest height, and the brigands
were at the full point of triumph, a tremendous discharge of musketry
was heard close behind, and three of the robbers fell wounded. The
others sprang up, levelled their carbines, and fired in the direction
of the noise. Another rapid but irregular discharge, then an immediate
onslaught, for, by the light of the moon which then broke out rather
brightly, was seen coming onwards some twenty armed cavaliers, who
rushed upon the brigands, sword in one hand and pistol in the other,
and immediately a most furious combat between the two parties took
place. The brigands fought desperately, and their assailants bravely.
The three women screamed lustily. I looked on quietly, as did the
Dutchman who had rolled to the bottom of the slope. In less than
half-an-hour, five of the brigands had been shot down, the rest had
dispersed; in the meantime, the carriage had been carefully consumed,
and the cavaliers stood victors over five dead brigands, eight bound
men, and three bound women. Of course the bound were soon unbound, and
then we discovered to whom we had been indebted for our delivery.
[Illustration]
“And this was to no less a person than our clown. He had been bound
hand and foot at the first, but having, by virtue of his profession,
been enabled to walk on his back without any aid from his legs, he had
shuffled or wriggled himself off, in the confusion, to a considerable
distance without being observed, and when sufficiently away from the
daggers of his enemies, managed to get clear of his bandages, and
running off in the direction we had left, had the good luck to come
up with our escort, which had halted at a kind of halfway-house below
us and the nearest town, for the purpose of watering their horses
and _come_-ing themselves; and being somewhat overtaken with the
delectable comforts of the hostlery, had stayed much longer than their
commission gave them licence to do. Here our clown found them, and they
immediately gave chase and came up in the ‘nick of time’ described.
“As soon as the whole of our party could be collected together, we were
put one behind each of the cavaliers, and picking up our scattered
matters, and robbing the dead bodies of the fallen brigands of that
which belonged to us, we all proceeded back to the small village of
Orguillas, about half a league from where we had been stopped, and here
we were all shown into the ‘venta’ of the village, which consisted of
little more than a kitchen with four bare walls, where we laid down,
like so many pigs, among the straw till the morning, when we were taken
before the Alcade, who gravely heard our depositions, took them down,
examined our cavaliers, and told us for our especial benefit that we
must find our way back to Madrid as we could. So getting away from the
village, and plenty of straw in, then we set off as quickly as bad
horses, bad drivers, and bad roads would allow us, and reached the
chief city of Spain in the most deplorable plight imaginable. So ended
my acquaintance with Spanish Brigands.”
[Illustration]
Gustavus Vasa.
There is nothing which delights me more, my young friends, than to
tell you tales of the Great and Good; and among many, who are truly
great and good in the pages of history, few stand more pleasingly
prominent than Gustavus I., King of Sweden. He was one of those great
men whom nature so seldom produces, and who appears to have been
endowed by her with every quality becoming a sovereign. His handsome
countenance and noble bearing prepossessed all persons in his favour;
his artless eloquence was irresistible; his conceptions were bold, and
his indomitable spirit brought them to a happy issue. He was intrepid
and yet prudent, full of courtesy in a rude age, and as virtuous as the
leader of a party can be.
[Illustration]
When the tyrant, Christian II. of Denmark, sought to make himself
master of the throne of Sweden, Gustavus resolved to save his country
from the oppressor; but the execution of his plans was interrupted, as
Christian seized his person and kept him prisoner at Copenhagen, as a
hostage, with five other heroic Swedes. When at last, in 1519, he heard
of the success of Christian, who had nearly completed the subjugation
of Sweden, he resolved, although still immured in a loathsome dungeon,
to deliver his country. Gustavus escaped to Lubeck, but soon found that
the Danes were after him, which obliged him to assume the habit and
manners of a peasant. In this disguise he travelled on foot among the
plains and mountains as a fugitive, and frequently walked fifty miles
in a day, from place to place, to elude his pursuers. When he became
familiar with his disguise, and the rude language of the peasantry,
he became very bold. He passed several times through the Danish army;
when that army was looking out for him, by its scouts, in every
direction, he passed through the midst of it in a waggon of hay, and
proceeded to an old family castle at Sudermania. He dispatched letters
to his friends in the hope of arousing them to the recovery of their
liberties; but, meeting with little success among the great, he next
tried the peasantry. He visited their villages by night, harangued them
at their festive assemblies, but without effect—as they uniformly told
him it was in vain for them to attempt to better their condition, for
peasants they were and peasants they must remain.
Gustavus next determined to try the miners of Delacarlia. He penetrated
the mountains of that remote province, and was obliged, for a scanty
subsistence, to enter himself as a common labourer at a mine. Here he
worked within the dark caverns of the earth; but the fineness of his
linen soon led some of his fellow labourers to suspect that he was more
than what he seemed.
By the advice of a friend, at whose house he concealed himself,
Gustavus repaired to Mira, where an annual feast of the peasantry was
held. There, as his last resource, he displayed with so much mature
eloquence and energy the miseries of his country and the tyranny of
Christian, that the assembly instantly determined to take up arms and
adopt him as their leader. While their hearts were overflowing with an
ardent patriotism, Gustavus led them against the governor’s Castle,
which they stormed, and took or destroyed the whole garrison. Success
increased his forces; multitudes were eager to enlist under the banner
of the conquering hero, Gustavus. At the head of his little army, he
overran the neighbouring provinces—defeated the Archbishop of Upsala,
and advanced to Stockholm. Christian, who had in vain attempted to stop
the progress of Gustavus, by the threat of massacreing his mother
and sisters, at length put the dreadful menace into execution. This
cruel deed only animated Gustavus to a bloody revenge, and warmed more
fiercely the blood of his devoted followers.
Gustavus now went forward only to triumph, and, having overcome all
opposition, he assembled the states of Sweden at Wadstena, where
he received the title of Administrator of the Kingdom, and in 1523
they proclaimed him King. He then set himself zealously to work in
the reformation of the abuses both of Church and State. The Lutheran
religion began to gain ground; the Scriptures were preached; the lazy
drones of the church were shorn of their wealth, and compelled to do
their duty; and, while the Danes were completely expelled from Sweden,
Gustavus conquered all the internal treacherous enemies of Freedom.
Although Sweden was a “limited monarchy,” so great a faith had the
people in the justice and love of freedom which Gustavus possessed,
that they granted him almost unlimited powers, and this power he never
used in the least, but for the good of his country. He perfected the
legislation, softened manners, encouraged industry and learning, and
extended commerce. After a glorious reign of thirty-seven years, he
died in 1560, at the age of seventy, leaving behind him a character,
which the brave boys of England may love and venerate.
[Illustration]
The Town Pump.
A STORY OF THE COW WITH AN IRON TAIL.
Noon by the Town Clock; noon, by the shadow of the blessed sun on the
dial face, on the face of the Town Pump. High, hot, scorching, melting,
smelting noon. Noon, by the thermometer at eighty-two degrees; noon, by
the whirr of the dragon-fly,[A] and the quivering haze over the meadow;
noon, by heat without and heat within, and by every melting moment.
Come, then, my younkers, fresh from school, where you have been turning
over dictionaries and spelling, with sweaty fingers—come and take
another lesson. Come and shake hands with the Town Pump!
[A] The dragon-fly _rests_ at noontide, and flies most actively towards
sundown.
[Illustration]
How do you do, my young gentlemen? Take hold of my iron hand. Welcome
to you all; I am not above shaking hands with the meanest of you,
although I am a public character. Some people have dignified me with
the name of Town Treasurer; and not an improper title either, as I am
the guardian of the best treasure the Town has: whoever has a draught
upon me will be sure to get it honoured, which cannot be said of every
Treasurer. The Overseers of the Town ought to make me their Chairman,
since I have the best interests of the Town’s people at heart. I am at
the head of the Fire Department, and one of the Physicians of the Board
of Health. I ought to be dubbed High Constable also, as I am the best
Justice of the Peace; for whosoever taketh my cool advice will seldom
fall into black eyes or bloody noses: and, in this my magisterial
capacity, I think myself as useful as a dozen policemen at least. To
speak within bounds, I am the chief person in the Municipality; a
Mayor in my own right; and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to
my brother officers, by the cool, steady, downright-and-upright motion
of my arm in the cause of sobriety and virtue, and by the copious and
impartial discharge of my duty. Summer and winter few seek my aid in
vain; for all day long I am sure to be found at my post, ready to
welcome all comers with a pure and delightful glass, sparkling like the
diamond, or the light of gladness in a good man’s eye.
Let me be the Cup-bearer to the State; for I ought to be, by virtue of
the iron goblet chained round my waist, and I can sing, with swanging
jingle—
“Let’s quaff the goblet full and bright,
And see it in the soul’s best light!—”
and be a water-Anacreon. I am the wisdom that crieth out in the
streets, “Will no man regard me?” Yes; I am sure some will. Here is
the _aqua vitæ_, the pure blood of the earth, the distilled juices
of heaven. Walk up, gentlemen and children! walk up! Here is the
true elixir of life, the _primum mobile_ of existence—the spring of
springiness in the joints—the fountain of Diana herself—chaste, pure,
and holy! Come and taste the unadulterated ale of Father Adam! Here you
can have it pure, or mixed with sunshine, or bubbling with cheerful
looks—all without stint—by the hogshead or single glass; and all for
love, and nothing to pay! The only untaxed article in the kingdom;
think of that! Walk up! walk up! friends and neighbours, and help
yourselves.
It would be a pity if this outcry should draw no customers. Here they
come, scores of them. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, and away again!
You, my friend, will need another cupfull to wash the dust off your
mustaches—the new English invention. I see you have been inhaling the
dust of a cotton-mill, and this will wash it all down, not leaving one
single particle sticking to the palate, as the “jolly fat ale” does.
Come on you, also, Mr. Traveller; you have walked half a score miles
to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns and stopped
at the running brooks and well-curbs; otherwise, betwixt heat without
and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted like
a lump of butter in a frying-pan. Drink, friend, and be thankful,
and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench the
fever of last night’s potations at the “Pig and Whistle.” Welcome,
most rubicund sir, with your rosy gills, round paunch, and pimpled
nose; I am very glad to see you here, sir! You and I have been great
strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious
for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath become a little
less potent. Mercy on you, man, the water absolutely _hisses_ down
your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam in the miniature
“tophet” which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me,
on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, gin
palace, or dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for a
swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time for a long while, you
know the flavour of cold water. Good bye! and remember, whenever you
are thirsty, that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next?
O, my little friend, just let loose from school; you would clear your
throat with a sup of the pure and lovely? Take it, and may your heart
and throat be never scorched by a fiercer thirst than now. There, my
dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this good-looking
gentleman, with a countenance fair and ruddy, and cheerful as the sun
in May. It is Stephen Grovely, a friend to water, and to peace, and
to vegetable food, and a good friend beside. He takes a sup as if he
could make a supper of it, and sleep like moonshine on the placid deep.
Who is that coming by, with a sneer and a laugh at Mr. Grovely? He is
an oldish kind of gentleman, and treads very lightly on the stones,
saving his poor old toes with a stick, and stopping for breath every
minute or so. How he pants and wheezes, and what strange winces and
contortions are on his face at every movement! How do you find yourself
this morning, sir? I hope you had a comfortable night—no nightmares,
groanings, fearful dreams, or kickings about in your sleep. “You be
hanged!” says the old man. “Thank you, sir, for your good wishes.” I
only say:—Go and draw one cork, tip the decanter, pour out the ‘rosy
red,’ the ‘golden saffron,’ the ‘purple blue;’ but, when your great toe
shall set you a-roaring, don’t say it is the Town Pump.“ If gentlemen
love the pleasant titilation of the gout, and won’t take advice, ’tis
all one to the Town Pump. Ah, ah! Old Lion, PETER PARLEY’S old dog,
sixteen years old this very day! Come and celebrate your nativity.
Well done, old boy, with your two fore-legs on the cistern, and your
hind-legs erect; loll out your red tongue, while I pump you a draught.
Well may you wag your old tail as thanks, and walk away satisfied, and,
old as you are, gambol about refreshed. Lion, Lion! your worship never
had the gout, so do not bark at that poor old gentleman who hobbles by
you, looking so sour and woeful.
Are you all satisfied? then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and be
thankful; and while the spout has a moment’s leisure, I will delight
the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity,
beneath the darksome shadow of venerable boughs a spring bubbled out
of the leaf-strewn earth, on the very spot where you now behold me
on the sunny pavement. The water was bright and clear, and seemed
as precious as liquid diamonds. Amid the grove—for it was a sacred
one—Druid-seers celebrated their mystic rites, and, with the pure,
undulterated stream, allayed the fiery thirst of feverish lips, and
cured diseases. Here they assembled in high delight at Christmas time,
and while snow covered all the earth, was kept open by their prayers
the then only bubbling spring. But the Druids passed away, and in their
place, ages after, were seen, yet still in the same white robes, holy
priests of Christ, sanctifying the sacred spot. The spring bubbled as
before: but now it had the power to heal—pilgrims flocked to it from
all parts—the pious St. Columb had sanctified it. It worked miracles
on the diseased. The halt, the maimed, the sick came to it and were
healed. Free rose the spring; but it was no longer a free offering to
the poor, the sick, and the wretched. A price was set upon it. Those
that thirsted for the water had to pay before they got any;—as the pay
was increased the miracles were more wonderful, till at last, over
the once free and natural spring a stupendous building arose, with
its flying buttresses high in air; its spandrils within, and their
corbels capped with the faces of the condemned; its lofty pinnacle
studded with angels, and every coign of vantage speaking the mysteries
of a faith which was obliterated by its grotesque ornaments; yet, age
after age, the miraculous waters flowed. At last, the sacred fane
decayed, and holy men were no more seen; broken pillars and scattered
mouldings bestrewed the place; and the grass, and the rank plants of
summer, and the briar, and the burdock, and the tansy were the only
guardians of the spot; yet, still the spring bubbled forth, and threw
its bright gems of brilliance to the light of heaven; and solitary
men would come and moralise over its site, with tears as deep as its
own gushings. At last the fountain was broken up; the ruins of the
old abbey were cleared away; place was given to the levelling hand of
time; a hostlery arose near to the place whereon the fountain stood,
a part of which occupied the very spot. Still, however, the spring
bubbled forth by fits and starts,—its waters sometimes clear, sometimes
turbid. It was turned into a tank or pool; and while horses slackened
their thirst, their masters increased theirs by the strong waters of
the inn; and there were carousals, and debaucheries, and strifes,
and murders upon a place which had once been considered holy. Fire
came during an intoxicating season—the season when peace on earth and
good-will towards man was proclaimed. The hostlery was burnt down—the
pure spring was smothered—and its very site, after a lapse of years,
forgotten. At last foundations were dug—a new town sprang up over the
old—a church and market-house took the place of the old abbey—and a
Temperance Hotel that of the Inn. The old spring bubbled up again, in
delight, at the improved prospect. But it now lay on the earth, yet
higher on Sabbath-days. Whenever a baby was to be baptised, the sexton
came and filled his basin, and placed it on the font in the baptistry
of the church: and hither, too, came the pious deacon of the chapel,
with his rude basin of delf, for the same holy purpose. Thus, one
generation after another was consecrated to heaven by its waters, and
cast their waning shadows into its crystal bosom. But in course of time
another change took place; a greedy bricklayer of a churchwarden, who
wanted a job out of the parish, proposed to build over the spring; and
cartloads of bricks and high mountains of mortar incased it on every
side. The spring was effectually brick-bound, and upon it arose the
Town Pump, with its spout and handle of iron, and a gas-light above it,
and a stone cistern below, on which appeared, in all the emblazoning
of municipal grandeur—“Erected in 1848: Job Trick and Giles Keen,
Churchwardens.” Then let us drink the health of these worthy gentlemen,
and success to their better motives. Drink then again, my friends, to
the cause of Temperance; drink to the cause of peace all the world
over; drink to the cause of righteousness; to that of pure religion,
drawn from the fountain-head of Him who called himself the “Living
Water.” Pump away, while you have life, in the cause of Truth! Pump
away, my lads, for all that thirst! Let our Town Pump be our Physician,
our Town Councillor, our Keeper of the Peace, and our best resource
when we are sick, sad, or thirsty.
[Illustration]
The Youthful Nelson.
[Illustration: NELSON’S SCHOOL-HOUSE.]
Lord Nelson, our great Naval Commander, was, in his youth, remarkable
for his disinterestedness and intrepidity. Among his school-fellows,
he was always the first to do a noble thing; and, whenever he
thoughtlessly joined others in doing a foolish one, he never shrank
from the responsibility; but, instead of trying to shift the blame upon
others, was always ready to take it upon himself. On one occasion,
while at school, upon an approaching Fifth of November, the Rev. Mr.
Jones, with whom Nelson went to school, at North Walsham, strictly
prohibited any of the scholars from leaving the house or grounds, to
go in search of what is called “Plunder;” that is, wood, sticks, and
loose stubble, with which bonfires are generally constructed, and the
getting of which sometimes plays sad havoc with hedges, railings,
and the like. This was, indeed, a sad misfortune to the school-boys,
who always feel that the best part of the fun of a Fifth of November
is the prowling about for forage; and a glorious thing it has ever
been and ever will be, to see boys bearing their boughs of trees,
roots of trees, stumplings and hedgelings, into the grand square of
the play-ground, with almost military honors. The shouting, the warm
hands and hearts, the cheerful faces, the mad pranks, and the thousand
laughable incidents which occur, give to these sports a charm unknown
to any other youthful frolics. Nelson was not a boy to relinquish this
old custom; and therefore, when before going to bed on the Fourth
of November, the Reverend Dominie pronounced the interdiction, and
solemnly warned the school-boys not to attempt any wild freaks on that
day of brimstone-matches and fire-works, Nelson’s blood rose into his
face, and he said, loudly—
“I hope you don’t include me, Sir.”
“Not include you, Sir?” replied the indignant Clergyman. “Indeed I do
include you, Sir! and positively insist upon your keeping with the
other boys in the school-room, and not to leave the play-ground.”
“I can’t answer for myself, Sir,” replied Nelson; “and you can’t answer
for the boys, I am sure. Such a thing was never heard of since the days
of James the First.”
“I do positively enjoin the strictest obedience to my commands,” said
the Master, “and positively forbid any one from leaving the school
premises to-morrow,” and, with a severe look at Nelson, the Master
ordered the boys to bed on the instant.
The lads of the school, in number about forty, were domiciled in one
large bed-room. As soon as the doors were shut and the lights out,
little Nelson leaped out of bed, and whispered, loud enough to be heard
by all—
“Who is for a sky-lark?”
“I—I—I—I—I—I am,” responded a dozen voices; and, in the same moment,
as many lads leaped out of their beds, and were jumping about the
dormitory in their long bedgowns.
“It is bright moonlight,” said Nelson.
“What a beautiful night for a ramble,” said little Eugene Harris, the
schoolmaster’s nephew.
“What a beautiful night for ‘plunder’ for a bonfire,” rejoined Nelson;
and thereupon all the boys leaped out of bed, and ran to the windows.
“’Tis too soon yet,” said Nelson; “it is but nine o’clock: let us wait
till twelve and then sally out, and get as much fire-wood into the
play-ground as will reach to the level of the old Clock-house, and set
fire to it in the morning, and begin our day as we are wont to end it,”
cried Nelson. “In the meantime put on your clothes, and get ready for a
start.”
The boys did as they were told; for, although Nelson was smaller than
many, and younger than most, he had obtained such an influence over his
schoolfellows, that every one seemed quite ready to do his bidding.
They knew that they could depend upon him; that, if he got them into a
scrape, he would, somehow or other, contrive to bring them off again
with honor, although he suffered in their stead. Thus, the boys made
themselves ready for the enterprise; and Nelson began by tying the
sheets and blankets together, by which the boys were to descend from
the bed-room to the ground; and long before midnight all was ready for
the exploit.
The moon, which had been shining brilliantly, had, however, now
become obscured by darkened, dismal clouds, and the wind began to
howl fearfully. Some of the boys were disturbed at this state of the
elements, and ventured to suggest a postponement of the enterprise.
“The more the danger the greater the fun,” cried Nelson; “besides
which, the less likely are we to be seen or heard—
‘So, let the wind blow;
Our ship rocks so.’
The wilder the night, the frisker we will be.“ He then opened the
window, and let down the first knotted set of blankets; and, calling
on all those who had got any spirit for a good thing to follow him, he
descended by the said blankets into the shrubbery underneath.
Most of the boys followed; but a portion of the younger branches were
too timid to descend, and kept a good look-out at the windows. In
the meantime, Nelson mustered his followers in three divisions—ten
in each—placing a captain to each “corps.” He then directed them to
proceed in three several directions, and to capture all that was
burnable, and bring it to a grand rendezvous, underneath the great
clump of trees at the further end of the shrubbery contiguous to the
play-ground.
[Illustration: “PLUNDER.”]
Noble and exciting was the work of that dreary night. The wind blew,
and the rain came; but, nothing daunted, the little heroes went long
distances for their “plunder;” and, like bees in search of honey and
wax, went and returned with all the delight and joy imaginable. Young
Nelson was here and there, and everywhere; now guiding, now directing,
now cautioning, and now cheering his little army. At last, by the time
morning dawned—which was not very early at that time of the year—such a
tremendous lot of matters were brought together as had never been known
on any former occasion. It filled all the back avenue of the shrubbery,
and there seemed almost enough of material to set a town on fire.
Nelson, who beheld this accumulation of igneous matter, felt his heart
beat with joy; and a thought suddenly seized him of bringing the whole
into the play-ground, and of setting fire to it, to begin the day. This
idea was no sooner communicated to his playmates than it was eagerly
adopted; and, in less than half-an-hour, bushes, straw, branches of
trees, blocks of wood, tarred palings, and a variety of odd things,
such as it would be puzzling to describe, were piled up in the centre
of the play-ground to the height of twenty feet, and with a base equal
to it, so as to form a most noble pyramid.
The day was breaking; and, just as the full light broke upon the pile,
worthy of a Sardanapalus, all the merry workers felt proud of their
labours. Some capered, some danced, some almost shrieked with joy; and
Nelson, beholding the excitement, could not refrain, in the true spirit
of a sailor that was to be, from crying out, at the top of his voice—
“Three cheers for an old Guy! Hurrah for a bonfire!”
Three cheers were immediately given, shrill and loud as the wild
war-whoops of so many ferocious Indians. Again, and again—for, once
begun, the youngsters seemed as if they could never leave off, and the
welkin rang with the noise.
Its effects had not been anticipated; and the cheering had scarcely
subsided, when up flew a window, and in the centre of it appeared the
head of the Reverend Doctor. In a moment the boys vanished, as if by
instinct; and, rushing round the gable end of the premises, regained
their bed-chamber by the same means they had escaped from it. Not so,
however, with their leader. He only hid himself behind the laurels and
evergreens; feeling it a point of honor not to leave the post of danger
till the very last. At the same time, the Dominie kept vociferously
shouting from his chamber-window—
“You wicked boys! you shall all of you smart for this! I will flog
every one of you who have dared to disobey my orders; and, as to a
bonfire, you shall never have one as long as I live.” So saying, he
disappeared from the window, with the intention of coming down to the
court-yard; and ringing furiously at the bell to awaken the servants,
and calling loudly for John and Richard, the groom and gardener, he
made the best of his way down stairs.
In the interim, Nelson, who had heard the threat, fearing that
after all he and his companions would be deprived of the fun,
frolic, and glory of a bonfire, determined to be beforehand with the
Magister,—crept slyly into the stable, where he knew a tinder-box
and matches were always kept, speedily struck a light and, as quick
as light itself, ran to the immense pile, and set fire to it. In a
few seconds all was in a blaze; and as the flames rose up, and thick
volumes of smoke on every side, and the whole atmosphere became
illuminated, the Dominie appeared with his servants, male and female,
at the back-door. He, indeed, wore a look of most odd consternation,
while a sly laugh peeped from the peering eyes of the groom and
gardener, and twinkled out of the corners of the mouths of the cook
and housemaid. Nelson had mounted a fine old Scotch fir-tree a short
distance off, to observe the fun—and rare fun it was—for the Reverend
Doctor took to pulling the fire to pieces; and in so doing set fire
to the thatched roof of the cow-house, which required the united aid
of John and Richard to extinguish. All was hubbub and confusion; no
one knew exactly what to do—and one ran one way and one another. The
stable-boy, a sly rogue, thought he could not do better than run for
the parish-engine; but the flames rose so high and furiously, that they
threatened, long before the parish-engine arrived, to make up their
minds to burn themselves out, with “all the honors.” By this time the
boys had all dressed themselves, and came to the scene of conflagration
as meek and astonished as if they knew nothing whatever about it. The
Master was in a furious fever, and had under his arm his very best
strapping-cane, determined to use it woefully so soon as the fire was
got under. At last, the great blaze slackened; sundry crackings and
bangings were heard. Now the upper parts fell in, and made a great
dust and smoke—then again it blazed out for a few brief moments with
redoubled fury, at which the young gentlemen could not refrain from
testifying their infinite approbation, to the extreme mortification
of their Master. The engine at last arrived to play on the expiring
embers; and, in the language of that part of the country, the fire was
“_douted_.”
But “after pleasure cometh pain,” as the old round-hand copy used to
preach. The period of retribution walked quietly forth. It was not yet
the hour of breakfast, and the first thing the enraged Dominie did
was to issue a mandate for the stoppage of the breakfast supplies,
till the bold, daring, impudent, disobedient authors of the freak
were discovered, and brought to condign punishment. The whole of the
boys were speedily mustered, (to be soon peppered) and brought into
the school-room, where they stood trembling for their fate. Fierce
with rage—his pig-tail bristling with indignation—the Master, with
cane under arm, and with a frown on his face, appeared at his desk.
Forty boys stood before him, uncertain of their coming tortures, and
Nelson foremost among them. “I demand,” said the Master, in a voice of
thunder, “who it is that has dared to brave my authority; and I promise
free pardon and a holiday to those who will——”
“Betray their companions?” said Nelson.
This was a flash of lightning on a touch-hole of powder, and
immediately made the Master spring from his desk, and taking hold of
Nelson by the collar, brought him into the middle of the school.
“You are one of them!” said the enraged Clerical, “and unless you
immediately tell me who are the guilty parties in this exploit, I will
strip the skin from your shoulders.”
“The skinning of an eel is a difficult job,” said Nelson—“but as to who
did the deed, I can inform you at once. It was I.”
“Yes, I know it was you—for you are the mover of all such harum-scarum
exploits; but who were your abettors and instigators?”
“I instigated myself,” said Nelson.
“No doubt, no doubt—but I will know who your companions were, and I’ll
warrant this cane shall bring it out of you.”
“Try it,” said Nelson.
Exasperated by this cool impudence, the Master applied the cane
vigorously to the young hero’s shoulders, who stood the process with
much about the same indifference as a gate-post. At the end of the
caning, Nelson said, mildly—
“Stop and take breath, Sir—you will hurt your constitution.”
This was too much for human endurance, and the Master gave it to Master
Nelson again, with a hearty good will, and only ceased when the cane
split into two. Nelson, standing as obdurate as before, said—
“I think that tree will bear no more good fruit, and ought to be
cast into the fire. But Sir, let me tell you, had that cane been
a crab-stick, and had that crab-stick been knobbled all over, and
had each of those knobs had a sharp spike on it, it would not have
made me dishonourably betray my companions. I am quite ready to bear
this, and as much more, for their sakes. Thirty were with me, and
ten were not—you cannot thrash the real heroes, because you cannot
tell which they are; but give me twenty times my share, and I shall
be thankful—I am the ring leader of the affair, and ought to be
punished. I instigated thirty Spartans to the noble work of keeping
up Guy Faux Day—I am proud of it.—A bonfire on the Fifth of November
is a chartered right of school-boys, and we only say, ‘_Pro aris et
focis_.’ Do not be unmerciful to us, good Sir—you were once a boy—and
how many ‘bonfires’ may you not have had—and how many ‘Guys’ may you
not have dressed? Do look over this offence, if it be one, and we’ll
all do double tasks for the next month, and say you are a good master,
as you always have been.”
This pertinent, but noble speech, found an echo in the breast of the
good old Clergyman, for he was, notwithstanding this somewhat stringent
prohibiting, a kind old man at heart. He could not conceal his
emotion—and hid his face behind his desk, under the pretence of having
dropped his key. Presently, after a short season of cool reflection, he
descended from the rostrum, and coming among the boys, thus addressed
them:—
“My boys,” he said, “obedience to my orders is not only a duty to me,
but to yourselves—you are not old enough to know at all times what
is really good for you. Nor is it proper at all times that I should
give you reasons for my conduct. It ought to be enough, that when I
lay down a rule you should have good faith in my intentions, and you
ought to be well aware that I would in no way restrict your enjoyments
but for some good reason. By your conduct you have not only disobeyed
my commands, but you have probably inflicted a very serious wound in
the breast of one who is a stranger in this place, deserves all the
rights of hospitality, and of Christian charity. Our new neighbour
here, Sir Thomas Alton, is a Roman Catholic; his gardens adjoin ours.
As a school, our doings must be a sufficient nuisance to him. He only
came amongst us last Michaelmas, and yet he gave you peaches by the
hat-full, and nectarines by scores. He is a Roman Catholic, as I said
before, and it was not for us to poke a ‘Guy Faux’ or a ‘bonfire’ under
his nose—we should not have liked it ourselves—and there is nothing
like the religion that teaches us to do as we would be done by. The
first duty we owe to a neighbour is to be charitable to his opinions;
if they are not the same as ours, that is the very reason why we should
act the more forbearingly and lovingly towards him. But, by your
conduct, you have thwarted all my good intentions, defeated my charity,
and spoiled my love.”
“If we had known this,” said Nelson, “we would not have touched a
billet or a faggot for the world.”
“Would that I had informed you of it,” replied the Master; “and from
the circumstance I may also learn a lesson: That it is wiser to teach
by appeals to reason and to conscience, than to expect much from a
blind obedience. Boys are, indeed, but men of a smaller growth. Yet
still, if you love me, and have faith in me, you will obey me without
asking the reason.”
“We will do anything,” said Nelson, “to show our love to Sir Thomas.”
“You can do nothing, Sir,” replied the Master. “You will probably have
inflicted a wound which I shall find some difficulty in healing.”
“Not in the least, my dear Sir,” said a voice, in an Irish accent, from
the door, which stood partly open. “By my faith, I think the boys are
all heroes; and if they want a Guy, if they will come up to the Hall, I
will be a Guy myself, and we will have a good fire, and roasted apples,
and roasted chesnuts, and sure we will _roast_ one another; which is a
vast deal better than so much _basting_. So come along my lads, and
take me for your Guy Faux.”
Three cheers simultaneously burst forth at this speech. The Doctor
was overcome with agreeable emotion. Nelson ran to kiss the hand of
Sir Thomas; and after mutual congratulations, the boys had a cheerful
breakfast, and made the merriest day at the Hall that they ever before
enjoyed, by the most grotesque Guy on the most splendid bonfire.
[Illustration]
Something about the Turkish Provinces.
War, my young friends, is a fiendish sport. It has been said it is a
game that, if their subjects were wise, kings could not play at. Its
object is—killing on a large scale; mowing down men as if they were
fields of corn, and with as little compunction; bringing bristling
bayonets, grape and canister-shot, red-hot balls, explosive bombs,
and volleys of bullets upon poor humanity; and blowing up into the
air, or down into the deep, thousands of poor unfortunate fellows who,
perhaps, know no more about the quarrel that produced the war, than
so many unhatched chickens. Truly, to read history, one might suppose
that the human race, during the last four thousand years at least,
must have been a little insane; there seems so little reason for all
the bombardments, assaults, battles, and massacres, which have taken
place. Well, we thought ourselves getting wiser; the boys and girls
that had read “Peter Parley’s Annual” fifteen years ago, had become men
and women; and education had made great strides. The drill-sergeant of
the German despots was drafted into our schools; and Chelsea children
were taught to read by military discipline, with a view to their being
made friends of humanity, and lovers of peace. The European kings and
potentates were a Holy Alliance of loving brothers, and had pretended
that the Christian religion should be their future guide. They said
this, after they had received several and sundry sound drubbings from
the great Napoleon; and, while rubbing their shoulders and sides, after
one cudgelling they had received—and deservedly received, too—said,
they would be very good boys. But, as soon as the danger was past,
and they had got a little over their various mishaps, they began to
lie, rob, cheat, and filch, not only from each other, but from their
next-door neighbours, like so many wolves or foxes. At last, one savage
old Bear, more savage and more powerful than the rest, makes a grab at
a Turkey; whereupon the Turkey, instead of falling a victim, like a
goose, blew up his purple nose like a windy sun-rise, and puffed out
his feathers, and stretched forth his wings, and came towards the old
Bear like a game-cock, and called upon the British Lion and the French
Eagle to back him. “But what is all this about?” my young friends
inquire. Take a map, and look at it. Find out the Black Sea; and you
will see on its northern coast, the Russian Empire stretches down
towards the south; and, to the west, you will see certain provinces
which belong to Turkey, the principal of which is Moldavia. It is
the most northern province of Turkey. It is bounded on the east by
Bessarabia—a province which formed part of Turkey until 1812, when it
was given up to the great Russian Bear; on the south is Wallachia; and
on the west and north, by the provinces of the Austrian Empire. The
province forms a compact territory, about 200 miles in length, and 120
in breadth.
Moldavia formed part of the Byzantine or Eastern Empire, and suffered
greatly from the incursions of the rude hordes which infested Europe
in the middle ages. When the Turks conquered Constantinople from the
Greek Emperors, Moldavia by a timely submission, obtained favourable
treatment from the Sultan; and had its own laws, liberties, and
religion secured. Thus it remained for two centuries: at length the
Czar of Russia directed his attention to this province; but was unable
to lay hold of it at that time. What he will do now remains to be seen.
Although Moldavia forms a part of the Turkish dominions, the Moldavians
are not Mahommedans. They profess the religion of the Greek Church—a
superstitious and corrupt form of Christianity professed also by the
Russians. Persons who have not received baptism by the rites of this
Church are not deemed Christians; the misguided people dwell upon rites
and ceremonies, oblations, offerings, prayers to images, severity
of discipline; and the heaviest crimes are settled by confession
and absolution of the Priest. Reading and the perusal of the Holy
Scriptures are almost wholly unknown; and though we might at first be
glad that the Moldavians were not Mahommedans, yet, when we consider
the iniquities of the creed they follow, it would perhaps be better if
they were.
The Moldavians believe in all sorts of witchcraft, in apparitions of
the dead, in ghosts and in miracles performed by the images of saints.
In illness they place an image near them, and when they recover, they
attribute the recovery to the efficacy of the image alone. No prayers
or thanksgiving are offered up either to the Deity or to the Saviour;
but to the Virgin and a prodigious number of Saints.
The principal food of the peasantry consists of a kind of dough, called
_mamma linga_, made of the flour of Indian wheat, sometimes mixed
with milk. The season of Lent is usually kept by them with vigorous
severity, and for the first two or three days after its termination,
they sparingly indulge themselves with a little meat; but many of them
are too poor to obtain this indulgence, and content themselves with a
few eggs only.
The dress of these people bears some resemblance to that of the
Dacians, in the time of the Romans; and has probably suffered but
little change for centuries. Their feet are covered with sandals
made of goat skin. They wear a kind of loose pantaloon, which is
fastened to the waist by a light leathern belt, and closes from the
knee downwards. The upper part of the dress is composed of a light
waistcoat, and a short jacket over it, of coarse cotton stuff; in
winter they add a white sheep-skin, which is hung over the shoulders in
the manner of the hussar’s pelisse. The hair is twisted round the back
of the head, and covered with a cap, usually of sheep-skin. The women
are generally clothed from the neck to the ancles in a long gown of
light-coloured cheap cotton, made high at the waist, which they cover
on holiday occasions with a shorter dress, buttoned from the neck to
the waist, and ornamented with one or two rows of beads. Under ordinary
circumstances the poorer classes go barefoot, and have no covering for
the head, except a handkerchief.
Almost every village has a small church or chapel belonging to it,
and one or two priests who act as curates. The ecclesiastics of their
order are chosen from amongst the ordinary peasants, from which they
are only distinguished by an immense beard. They lead the same sort of
life, and follow their usual labour, when not engaged in the exercise
of their clerical functions; but they are exempted from taxes. The
generality of them can neither read nor write. They learn the formula
of the services by rote, and if a book is seen in their chapels, it is
more for ornament than use.
The towns and seaports of Moldavia partake of that mixed European
character that results from the intercourse between merchants, dealers,
&c. The peasants’ huts are all built of the same size and style; the
walls are of clay, and the roofs thatched with straw, neither of
which is calculated to protect the inmates from the inclemencies of
bad weather. The ground-floors are, however, occupied as long as the
weather will permit; and in the winter the inmates retire to cells
underground, easily kept warm by a little fire made of dung, roots, and
some branches of trees, which, at the same time, serves for cooking
their scanty food. Each family, however numerous, sleeps in one of
these subterranean habitations, the beds being formed of coarse woollen
rags.
Perhaps the most extraordinary feature in the structure of Moldavian
society is the vast number of gipsies residing therein. Their bodily
constitution is strong, and they are so hardened by constant exposure
to the cold weather, that they appear fit for any labour or fatigue;
but their natural aversion to a life of industry is, in general, so
great, that they prefer all the miseries of indigence to the enjoyment
of comforts that are to be reaped by persevering exertion.
Both men and women are finely formed, but are exceedingly dirty in
their habits and appearance. They acknowledge no particular religion;
nor do they think of following the precepts of any, unless compelled.
Their chief occupation, in their vagrant life, is the making of iron
tools, baskets, and other cheap articles. They attend wine-houses
and taverns, and are sometimes called to the houses of noblemen when
a concert is to be given; as many of them play rudely on various
concert instruments. When the public works are to be constructed, the
Government gipsies, who are acquainted with masonry, are called in to
assist the labourers, receiving food and no wages, and are, in other
respects, treated like cattle.
I have, for the present, confined myself principally to the humbler
classes of the Moldavians. I shall, in my next _prattle_, inform my
young readers of the Wallachians, and of the country of Wallachia,
which the Great Russian Bear wants to steal.
[Illustration]
Something about the Old Abbeys and Castles of England.
[Illustration]
We give in the above engraving a view of the rains of an Old Monastery,
and as it suggests a train of ideas, pertaining to bye-gone ages, I
must give my young friends the benefit of them.
What about Monasteries? I should like to hear something about them—for
wherever we travel we come to ruins of some kind or other, most of
which are of Old Castles, or Old Monasteries, and therefore I should
like to know more about them. This is what many of my young readers
would say, and upon this “would say”—I join issue.
Monasteries are buildings to which people retired when they were
tired of the world, or when they were unfortunate, or when they
were wicked—and sometimes when they were good. The inclination to a
monastic life arose with the corruptions of society, and with the
dangers in which every body shared in the strifes, feuds, and wars of
the dark ages. Those well-disposed persons who found it difficult to
resist the corruptions of the times, sought in solitude a protection
against temptation; and that fondness for contemplation, so curious
in Eastern parts of the world, gave rise to the most ancient oriental
philosophy, and also to that peculiar sanctity to which those who
retired from the world often attained. To this was added the opinion,
that, transgressions may be best atoned for by abstinence from all the
pleasures of life, and from all society with men. And thus, according
to an early notion popular througout the East, the Deity might be
appeased. Anchorites, hermits, recluses, and monks are therefore found
in the anti-christian times of Asiatic antiquity, and are also still
prevalent in India and other parts of the Orient.
Among the Christians, whose religion assumes a spiritural and solitary
nature among some,—a man used, as he thought, to elevate his soul
above the world by hiding himself in buildings of thick stone, with
little low doors and windows barely sufficient to let in the light
of Heaven. Monasteries were first founded in the deserts of Upper
Egypt, where Antony commonly called “the Great,” collected a number
of hermits, about the year 305. These, for the sake of enjoying the
benefit of retirement from the world in each other’s society, built
their huts close together, and performed their devotional exercises in
common. In the middle of the fourth century, Pachomius built a number
of houses at a small distance from each other, upon the island of
Tabenna, on the Nile, each of which was occupied by three or four monks
in cells, who were all under the superintendance of a Prior. These
Priories formed together the Cænobium, or Monastery—which was under the
care of a Superior, the Abbot (from Abbas father)—and the monks were
obliged to submit to uniform rules of life. Many of the monasteries
were strictly enclosed with high walls, so as to preserve the immates
from the temptations of the world around them; and to supply the
place of the solitude of deserts. Hence the name of Cloisters, from
Claustra, “inclosures.” The monks were soon after made to conform to
still more strict discipline, which, in many cases, consisted in the
most extreme mortification of the body. Stone beds, hair shirts, roots
to eat and water to drink; long kneelings, frequent prostrations,
severe whippings, and endless repetitions of prayers, were among the
more common ways of securing admission to the realms of bliss; thus
monasteries became the resort of all those who thought that heaven
was attainable by such methods. Similar establishments for females
were also instituted, called Nunneries, where women underwent complete
exclusion from the world and the severest mortifications, many of which
have been attempted to be revived in our own times, in connection with
the Church of England. The Nunneries were, in some instances, worse in
their effects than the monasteries; and it is a well-known fact that
the vilest means were taken to imprison young females in such places by
wicked relatives, who divided their fortunes with the priests, who shut
them in.
[Illustration]
Yet with all their abuses, many of the monasteries of the more
enlightened European States became the dwellings of piety, industry,
and temperance; and the refuge of learning, during the prevalence
of those frightful wars which desolated the world in the dark ages.
Yet, as the world became more settled, and as wealth began to abound,
the monasteries became the receptacles of every kind of iniquity
and luxury; and with it, the grossest immorality crept within their
walls—together with all the vices of the world; indeed, murders, with
other abominable crimes, were frequently committed in these dismal
dwellings. At last the Reformation arose. In this country, King Henry
VIII. seized upon the monastic revenues, and applied them to the
service of the State, and to himself. In various parts of Europe where
the Light of the Gospel penetrated, other kings or rulers imitated
our King Henry; and from these enormous revenues, institutions for
educational purposes were founded and supported. In Catholic countries
they retained their original constitution, till the eighteenth
century. From the influence of the spirit of the age they sunk in
public estimation—their whole system was exploded. Many monasteries
have become extinct, many others are with difficulty sustained; but
still, in the more benighted countries of Europe they exist, to the
great detriment of social progress, and will be only overthrown by the
advance of intelligence, and the spread of sound religious principles.
[Illustration]
One of the most famous of these institutions, in England, was St.
Mary’s Abbey, York. It was situated near the walls of York, and during
nearly five centuries maintained a very high rank among the religious
establishments of the North. Its origin, as given by its first Abbot,
is as follows:—Not long after the Norman conquest, Runifried, a pious
monk, fixed his cell at Whitby, with the hope of being there wholly
secluded from the world. His fame attracted round him a great number
of devout persons, among whom was Stephen, afterwards the Abbot. From
the Earl of Northumbria the monks obtained a grant of land; but when,
by their labours, they had cultivated and improved it, the Earl became
their persecutor, to induce them to relinquish what they had made
trebly valuable. They were also harassed by the frequent attacks of
pirates by sea, and robbers by land. Driven from their first place of
sojourn by these distresses, they obtained from the King permission
to repair for themselves the Monastery of Lashingham, then lying in
ruins, about twenty miles to the north-west of Whitby. Nevertheless,
in this solitude they found no rest; they were constantly subjected to
the assaults of robbers and the enmity of their former persecutors, and
also of the Archbishop of York, who claimed part of their domain. The
case was carried at last before the tribunal of the King in person, who
promised to see the monks righted; but the King dying, the claim of the
Archbishop was renewed, till William Rufus interfered and gave to the
Archbishop, in lieu of the disputed ground, a Church in York, dedicated
to St Stephen. Soon afterwards, this monarch visiting York, laid with
his own hand the first stone of a new and larger establishment than
that which the monks had hitherto possessed, and calling it after St.
Mary, made to it liberal grants and privileges.
This religious fraternity were Black Monks, of the Order of St.
Benedict. Their Abbot was little inferior to the Bishop of the
province, being mitred, and having a seat in Parliament, which entitled
him to the dignified appellation of “my lord.” His retinue was sumptous
whenever he travelled abroad, and he possessed two country seats in
the neighbourhood of York, and a house in London, near Paul’s Wharf.
He had also a spacious park well stocked with game. This sumptousness
engendered jealousy among the people of the City of York, who on
several occasions burned parts of the abbey, and slew the monks. Simon,
the Abbot, could not appease the tumult, except upon paying a hundred
pounds as a peace offering to the enraged party. Afterwards, an
enormous wall was built to defend the abbey from these depredations,
which effctually prevented such disasters, till the time of the
dissolution of monasteries, of which I have spoken.
[Illustration]
At this time there were, in the house, fifty monks, including the
abbot, the prior, and one sub-prior, with a revenue of £2,091 4s. 7d.
per annum, equal to £20,000 of our money, which was a pretty good sum
for the support of fifty monks.
The mitred abbeys, at the dissolution, were for the most part granted
by the King to noble or wealthy families, in consideration of service
or exchange of lands, or for the payment of money; and the harvest was
a rich one that the King reaped by this plundering of the monks. Soon
after the dissolution, an order was issued by the Crown, to level the
Abbey, and erect, with due alacrity, a palace for the residence of the
Lords President of the North: thus its splendid architecture was cut up
piecemeal. Some beautiful remains were, notwithstanding, still left;
and, upon the formation of a Philosophical Society, in 1822, the site
of St. Mary’s Abbey was chosen as a proper situation for the erection
of a Botanic Garden. It was the spot on which the front of the palace
had formerly stood, and which had previously been occupied by the
range of buildings and apartments of the monastery. The first opening
of the ground discovered antiquarian treasures, that even Keet, the
great antiquarian, would have rejoiced at. Not mere heaps of mutilated
stones were there, but whole portions of the walls of the monastery; of
spacious and elegant door ways; of columns of various forms, rising to
the height of five or six feet, standing, as they had been, before the
dissolution of the monastery, intersected by massive foundations of the
palace. Not an hour passed without bringing to light some long-buried
specimens of the art and fancy of the monastic sculptor.
In travelling over a country, my young friends will frequently meet
with similar buildings to those I have attempted to describe—and I
would only observe, that antiquities are a most interesting study.
The spirit of times gone by live in the midst of monastic ruins—and
from such we may trace the deeds of our forefathers, and enter into
familiar conversation with them. Nor must we deem our progenitors
entirely unworthy our regard and veneration; for, notwithstanding the
barbarous ages in which they lived—notwithstanding the ignorance that
surrounded them—and notwithstanding their superstition and bigotry—they
have left us a rich inheritance; and our own times teem with the
glories, the virtues, and sterling worth of the past.
[Illustration]
Oranges and Lemons, or the Bells of St. Clement’s.
What a beautiful thing is Memory! It is like the softened sounds of
receding music; it is like the long track of silvery spray which a ship
leaves on the divided waters. Twilight is the air’s remembrance of the
sun. In the olden time, there were some who thought that in childhood
we had recollections of Heaven; and, probably, this little world of
ours will be a memory to us when we have left it for ever. It is a
happy thing that we can drink again some of the sweetness of a by-gone
joy; and very useful, though not so pleasant, that we can recall our
past errors and follies, and, by steeping them in regret and shame,
turn them into lessons of duty.
Pietro Limoncelo was a poor foreigner from the sunny shores of the
Mediteranean. While yet a youth, the political troubles of his country
had obliged him to leave his home among the fruits and sunbeams,
and to find a refuge in London, where he earned a poor living as a
journeyman-tailor. He lodged in a garret, in a court branching off
from the Strand, near the church of St. Clement Danes. What a change
for him! He who had lived near an orange grove, who had basked in
the sunshine of the South, or under the shade of purple vines, or
beneath the trees where “orange lamps in a green light,” glimmered
with a golden beauty—he to become the tenant of a poor room in a dingy
thoroughfare, amidst gloom and discomfort, and the hard life of English
poverty—it was a sad change, indeed. If such changes happen to any
of us, we must keep up our hearts, by remembering that no gloom or
darkness can obscure the vision of the Supreme, and that the beams of
his blessedness may penetrate even into the dreariest places.
Pietro had not been regularly apprenticed to a tailor: it could not
be said of him that he had _learned_ the trade; but he had picked up
a little knowledge of it from time to time, and practice improved
him. What he did was done pretty well, but he was not ranked as a
first-class workman; consequently, the only department in which
he could get employment was that in which is called the “Slop”—a
department in which goods are got up, common in quality and low in
price, for the accommodation of humble customers. There was not much
opportunity here of earning handsome wages; it was a bare living, and
nothing more.
One evening he was sitting cross-legged on his board, bending wearily
over some work that had just come in from his employers, the great
Tailoring firm of Push, Puff, Poetry, Placard, and Company. He had
lately felt very unwell, and unable to work with his usual energy;
he had been obliged more than once to cut off three or four from his
wonted number of labour hours. Less work brought, as a consequence,
less pay; and so the cupboard got bare, and matters became very
desperate indeed with the poor Tailor. He had just put the last stitch
to a couple of waistcoats which were lying on the board beside him,
when a mixed feeling of hunger, pain and weakness, brought this sad
thought into his mind:—“Might I not, without crime, raise a little
money on one of these waistcoats, to give my sinking body its needful
nourishment? I would make restitution as soon as my health returned.”
Conscience grew very uneasy at this thought, and interrupted it several
times with “No! no! no!” but want and pain were so loud in their
clamours that these “noes” were overwhelmed. Pietro determined to go
out and see if half-a-crown could not be borrowed, for a day or two, on
one of the waistcoats; he was rising from his board for the purpose,
when a giddy faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit down
again. “Ah! I see how it is,” said he; “I am too weak to move to night;
I must lie down and rest; I must put it off till to-morrow. Meanwhile,
I’ll sleep upon it.”
* * * * *
At the counter of that Pawnbroker’s shop, where three gilt balls
hang over the door, and where brushed-up clothes of all kinds for
men, women, and children dangle, from pegs in back rooms and gloomy
passages, there stands a wretched man, with sallow cheeks, wild-looking
eyes, and long streaming hair. He has just pledged a waistcoat, and
with the money in his hand is leaving the shop, when he hears a
rustling sound from above. Looking up, he sees a pale, serious face
looking down upon him. It has an airy, spiritual look, and seems to
be floating in the air on misty wings; and then, with a low, solemn,
whispering voice it sings these words:—
“Toll! Toll!
When a wandering soul
Forsaketh the truthful and fair:
Its days are unblest,
Its nights are unrest,
In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair.
Toll! Toll!”
Immediately a strong wind stirred through the belfry of St. Clement’s,
and the Bell gave out one long, funereal tone.
The bewildered man leaves the shop and wanders into the street, not
knowing whither. He had intended to buy some bread, and tea and sugar;
but, in the remorse of his mind, and with those words ringing in his
ears, hunger, and thirst, and faintness were all forgotten. He tramps
backwards and forwards in the streets, like a sleep-walker in a wild
dream.
“Hollo!” says a voice, “what’s the matter with you? you don’t look over
cheerful this evening. Why, if you was to go into a dairy, you’d turn
the milk sour! Step in here, man, and take a thimble-full to cheer your
spirits! It will do you good. Come! I’ll stand treat to-night, and you
shall do the same for me to-morrow.”
A door that swung upon its hinges admitted the two men into a
glittering-looking temple, where many lights were shining with great
brilliancy. Sparkling glasses and polished vessels of pewter increased
by reflection the brightness of the light, and made the place look gay.
There was the hum of many voices. In one corner the ringing of loud,
coarse laughter—in another, the mutterings of rising quarrel; here a
song, there an oath, and everywhere that sad mingling of misery and
merriment which are to be found in those scenes of sensuality.
“Now, young lady with the pretty curls, a couple of glasses here for
me and my friend! Here’s a furrener, you see. I aint got no prejudice
against a furrener. I says to him, ‘Aint you a man and a brother?’ Fine
sentiment that, Miss! When I was at school, at the Parochial College
of St. Calves and Leather Breeches, I put that ‘ere sentiment into my
Christmas piece, and it were very much admired. Come, mate! your glass
is standing! Drink up! Here’s towards you! Hollo! music above stairs,
eh? ‘Sons of Harmony! Grand Meeting Night! Glorious Apollo! Bacchus,
God of Wine! Marble Halls! Alice Grey! Never mention Her! Nix my Dolly!
Buffalo Gals!’ Well, if that aint a mixtur! Two more glasses, Miss!
Drink up, mate!”
The wretched “mate,” thus appealed to drinks up his glass and feels
inspirited—his cheek glows—his blood flows merrily through his
veins—and he is just beginning to forget that pale face in the air and
the solemn singing. He goes to the doorway for a moment, and looks up
into the misty night. Just then the Bells of St. Clement’s chime—a
fluttering, like wings is heard, and then a solemn whispering.
“The phantom voice! The phantom voice, again!” cries the wretched man;
and he runs from the place with the quickness of desperate fear. But
the voice follows, and it sings:—
“Hark! the spirit of the Bells
Upon St. Clement’s Tower,
Groans at every deed that tells
Of Evil’s guilty power.
Struggle, strife!
And feverish life—
Struggle, strife, and din;
Night bells chiming,
Souls declining
Into deeps of sin.”
“Why, where are you running to? What the deuce is the matter with
you?” said the man left behind in the gin-temple, who had followed and
overtaken the frightened runaway. “You’re not going to get rid of me in
this fashion to-night, I can tell you. I have got a little job for you
to lend a hand in. Follow me!” and he takes him by the arm.
They go on down a street towards the river, and in a dark bye-place,
under a gateway, they meet two other men, with crape-masks on their
faces and iron instruments in their hands.
“Jim!” said one of the disguised men, “is that you?”
“All right!”
“Who have you got there?”
“A new friend of yours and mine. It’s all right with him, too. He has
been to ‘my Uncle’s,’ and another shop since then. He’s regularly in
for it, now.”
“Let him come with us to-night, then; we want a hand outside to watch,
and help to carry. There’s good booty to-night at that house yonder, in
the left-hand corner. They have been borrowing plate to-day, against a
grand wedding there to-morrow morning.”
The men skulked forward to the house named, and one with his iron
instrument broke a shutter, then opened a window, and crept in. Others
followed, and the wretched new accomplice is left outside to take what
they shall hand out to him. The night is calm and still, with a few
cold, glimmering stars above, and darkness all around. The wretched man
paces up and down the dark gateway at the side of the house, trembling
at the remembrance of those songs in the air. It is now twelve o’clock,
and from all the belfries in the Strand, iron tongues proclaim it in
solemn tones. The man’s quick ear plainly distinquishes St. Clement’s
among them; and, as he listens with fear, the pale face hovers over him
once more, resting on its misty wings—
“Tis midnight, and St. Clement’s chime
Counts the wicked hours of crime.”
He will hear no more. With hands raised to his head, and pressed tight
against his ears, he runs with all the strength and fleetness of
fevered madness and despair. Away! away!—from street to street! Away
from his guilty confederates—from the sound of St. Clement’s bells—from
the ghostly look and the fearful singing. Away! if it were possible,
from himself—away from the world!
He had reached a street in the neighbourhood of the Park, when he came
to a house where a juvenile party was just breaking up. Some little
boys and girls, rather sleepy and weary, and well wrapped up against
the night air, were being lifted into coaches; while others, a little
older, were jumping in of their own accord, in a manner so fresh and
vigorous, that one would have supposed they were going to a party
instead of coming from one. In particular, there was one very fine
boy, with a beautiful eye sparkling beneath a bold, open brow. He came
dancing down the steps of the doorway, his pockets full of fruit, and
a bright orange in his hand. He appeared to be thinking of one of the
games he had played that evening, for he was singing to himself—
“Oranges and Lemons!
Say the bells of St. Clement’s;”
and turning round to a playmate, he said, “Ah, Charley, my side pulled
the strongest, you know.” Into the coach he jumped almost at one bound.
As he did so, the orange in his hand fell from him and rolled far away
down the street with a swift motion: and as the beautiful fruit went
round and round on the smooth pavement, the light of the lamps above
gleamed on its golden rind. It catches the eye of the poor fevered man.
The mere words, “Oranges and Lemons;” the sight of the beautiful fruit
of his native land—the merry voice, the innocent brow, the happy smile
of the child that had dropped it, came upon him like a spell,—he sinks
down, and a vision floats upon his brain.
The scene is in southern Europe, where the blue Mediterranean rolls
from the straits of Gibraltar to the Syrian shores. There was the
murmuring of tranquil, silvery waves—the soft breathing of the
winds—the gushes of sweet music and joy from many a grove on the shore,
and many a green cleft in the hills; and one voice above the rest, in
a tone of earnest and tender entreaty, rose in the warm skies as if a
spirit were singing there. And this was its song:—
“Remember thine early days—
The orange grove, the vine-clad hill;
The river where the sunbeams play—
The evening calm and still.
“Remember thine early days—
Thy mother’s smile, thy sister’s song;
Thy childhood’s little hymns of praise,
Which kept the heart from wrong.”
Then did the air and the ocean break out into a tender joy; and the
spirit of the man rode on the waves of sweet sound along the whole
course of the Mediterranean into the sunny Adriatic, and among
the rocks of the Ægean. And voices came from the Capes of Sicily,
whispering that God the Beautiful expected his children to be Beautiful
too—beautiful in spirit, in thoughts, affections, and desires. And a
like strain floated over the Grecian Isles, and told the enraptured
listener, what a spirit of love it was which had poured out the beauty
of Heaven on the hills and plains and valleys of the world; and it bid
him believe that He who had cherished the grass and the flower through
the dews of night and the chill of winter, did also intend a kindness
to the soul, in pouring on it the dews of sorrow.
And the man wept, and mingled his feeble voice with nature’s, and they
worshipped together, and said—“Our Father! Hallowed be thy name!”
* * * * *
“Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is
subsiding; he will do very well now.”
This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals,
as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling
the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself
slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air.
“Why! who—who am I?”
“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to
ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro
Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.”
“How came I here?”
“You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found
lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were
instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days
insensible.”
“Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.”
“Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever
have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of
dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone
down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day:
would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.”
“I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro.
“Haven’t you? If I remember rightly, I heard some one asking to see you
only a minute ago. It is a little girl that I have seen carrying milk
about somewhere in the Strand.”
“Oh! To be sure, I remember her well. How curious that she should think
of me! It is very kind. But she is a good girl; she looks as if she had
a gentle heart. I should like her to come up, Doctor.”
“Well, if you will not keep her too long, and not talk too much, she
shall come.”
The Doctor turned away, and in a few minutes the little milk-girl was
at the patient’s bed-side.
“Well, Mr. Moncello, I’ve come to see you. I would have come before,
only they told me you were too bad to know any one. Aunty sends a kind
message, and says, If you will make haste and get better, I am to bring
you a glass of new milk every day for a fortnight—real milk, sweet and
new—that isn’t to be got every day in London, I can tell you.”
The patient lifted the hand of the little girl to his lips, and thanked
her with his eyes.
“My little maid,” he said after a pause, “I must not keep you long, nor
talk much; but just a few words I should like to say. You came from the
country, did you not?”
“Yes!”
“And was it very beautiful there?”
“Oh very! My dear mother’s cottage was in the middle of a garden, and
honeysuckle grew over the porch, and birds built under the eaves. I
have heard the cuckoo sing there in the spring, and the nightingale,
too, in the evening.”
“_Remember thine early days!_” said the patient with trembling fervour.
“My child! you are a good girl; I think you must have had a good
mother.”
“My mother!” said the child, bursting into tears. “Oh she was good
indeed! Oh! how she prayed for me the night that she died! I shall
never forget it, never!”
Again the patient broke out, “_Remember thine early days!_ But go now
my dear. Thank you, thank you kindly for coming. Heaven bless you!”
Pietro Limoncello recovered in due time, and returned to his poor
trade. The visions of his illness strengthened his integrity; heavenly
hopes grew out of the roots of heavenly memories. Thoughts of the
loveliness in other lands upraised his heart to Him whose voice is
gone out unto _all_ lands; and he felt that God would be ever present
to such as trusted, and waited patiently for him. Wherever the mind and
heart are devoted to duty and to Heaven, there hovers the Guardian of
Souls, with outstretched wings. Yes! even in the din of the Strand, in
a wretched garret, at a tailor’s board, God the all-beautiful is there.
[Illustration]
The Boy Bachelor, or something about Cardinal Wolsey.
Four hundred years ago, the Papal power was so great in Europe,
that the whole of the countries of which it was composed formed, in
reality, but one general state; for by whatever names the provinces
of Christendom were distinguished—empires, kingdoms, or republics—the
people and their rulers alike acknowledged themselves subjects to the
Pope. Royalty did homage to superstition, and mankind were bound in
chains which they could not break. Man surrendered his reason, and gave
up both body and soul to the power of the clergy, who exercised it for
their own advantage, without any regard to truth, justice, or humanity.
This state of things favoured opportunities for bold and resolute minds
to exalt themselves to greatness, and it was the boast of the Church
then, as now, that the meanest member might rise to the highest office,
which consequently offered a strong temptation to those of superior
talents and attainments to attempt great things. Many persons arose
to eminence in the church at this period, but among all none were so
conspicuous as Thomas Wolsey.
Wolsey was born at Ipswich, in Suffolk, in the month of March, 1471.
His father is reported to have been a butcher, but this is not quite
certain; it appears, however, that he possessed some property, and that
“Thomas,” possessed much talent, and he was consequently sent to Oxford
at the age of fifteen, when he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts,
which procured him the designation of the “Boy Bachelor.” Few so young,
with all the advantages of rank and influence, attained in that age
academical honors—his great progress in philosophy and other learning,
having early procured for him a fellowship at Magdalen College. He was
also appointed master of the school, and entrused with the education
of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset. The proficiency which these
two young men made under his tuition, procured him the Rectory of
Lymington, in Somersetshire, and afterwards he was appointed one of the
Chaplains to King Henry VII.
Soon after this appointment he was favourably noticed by Fox, Bishop of
Winchester, who about that time held the Privy Seal, and Thomas Lovell,
then Chancellor of the Exchequer, who thought his uncommon capacity
might be useful in state affairs; and, accordingly, while the treaty of
marriage was pending between the King and Margaret, Dowager of Savoy,
they proposed him as a fit person to be sent to her father, the Emperor
Maximilian, on that business. His Majesty, Henry VII, had not before
particularly noticed Wolsey, but after conversing with him, he was
so satisfied with his qualifications, that he commanded him to be in
readiness for the Embassy.
The Court was then at Richmond, from which Wolsey proceeded with
his dispatches to London, where he arrived at four o’clock in the
afternoon; he had a boat waiting, and in less than three hours was
at Gravesend. With post horses he got next morning to Dover, reached
Calais in the course the afternoon; and arrived the same night at the
Imperial Court. The Emperor, informed that an extraordinary ambassador
had come from England, immediately admitted him; and the business
being agreeable, was quickly concluded. Wolsey then returned, and
reached Calais at the opening of the gates—found the passengers going
on board the vessel that brought him from England—embarked, and about
ten o’clock was landed at Dover. He reached Richmond the same night,
and after taking some repose, rose and met the King as he came from
his chamber to hear the morning-service. His Majesty suprised at
seeing him there, rebuked him for neglecting the orders with which
he was charged;—“May it please your Highness,” said Wolsey, “I have
been with the Emperor, and executed my commision to the satisfaction,
I trust, of your Grace,” he then knelt and presented Maximilian’s
letters. Dissembling the admiration which he felt at such unprecedented
expedition, the King inquired if he had received no orders by a
pursuivant who had been sent after him. Wolsey answered that he met the
messenger as he returned: but having preconceived the purpose for which
he was sent, he had presumed of his own accord to supply the defect in
his credentials, for which he solicited his Majesty’s pardon. Pleased
with this foresight, and gratified with the result of the negotiation,
the king readily forgave his temerity; and commanded him to attend the
Council in the afternoon. Wolsey, at the time appointed, reported the
business of his mission with so much clearness and propriety, that he
received the applause of all present; and when the Deanery of Lincoln
soon after became vacant, it was bestowed on him by his Majesty, who,
from the period of that embassy, continued to treat him with particular
favor.
Such, my young friends, was the commencement of the rise of this great
man; and from it we may learn a lesson of dispatch and assiduity well
to follow. I have not space here to relate to you the life of this
extraordinary man, but I can tell you that he rose from one place of
high trust to another, till he had almost reached the pinnacle of human
greatness. His table was surrounded by the wise and learned of the
age; the pomp and magnificence of his retinue surpassed that of the
king; he had attained the dignity of Cardinal, and was virtually at the
head of the Church in England; prime political minister, and the chief
judge of law and equity;—but all these high powers could not preserve
him from the fall that awaited him, and it was for him to furnish one
of the most striking instances of the instability of fortune, and the
ingratitude of his fellow men, which the whole compass of history
affords.
King Henry VIII had formed a desire to put away his first wife,
Katherine of Arragon, and to marry Anne Boleyn. Wolsey was struck
with alarm, and, it is said, fell on his knees before the King to
dissuade him from his wicked design. The duty he owed to religion and
to the church would not allow him to side with heresy, and therefore
he was put into, what is called, a false position between the King on
one side and the Pope on the other,—to both he was bound to act with
fidelity, the service of one was contrary to the interests of the
other—he was placed in a situation where his honesty had the effect
of making him equally offensive to both parties; there was no chance
for him whatever. Of course one so powerful and at the same time so
influential, had numerous enemies, and the ministers of Henry VIII were
his bitter foes; and articles of impeachment were drawn up against the
Cardinal, who was charged with superiority of talent, and surpassing
assiduity in business—with being eloquent in discourse—liberal and
lofty-minded. The main strength of his enemies lay in the House of
Lords, among the nobility, the prelates, and the abbots, and the bill
of impeachment passed this branch of the legislature, but in the
house of Commons, Thomas Cromwell, who had been devoted to Wolsey,
so manfully exposed, the absurdity of the charges, and so powerfully
vindicated the integrity of his old master, that the Commons, to their
immortal honor, threw out the bill as unworthy of investigation.
The impeachment having failed, the Cardinal was immediately indicted on
the 16th statute of Richard III, for having exercised his commission as
the Pope’s Legate without the King’s authority; one of the Judges was
sent to Ashur to to receive his answer to this shameless accusation, to
whom Wolsey replied in a proud and melancholy spirit. He objected to
give up York Palace as being the patrimony of the Church, but signified
his readiness to submit to the King’s power, ending his discourse by
directing the Judge to tell the King to remember that there is both a
heaven and a hell. With this answer the Judge returned to London.
Cromwell, who in the house of Commons had so ably defended him, acted
with such open and manly intrepidity in the cause of his deserted
master, that he won the esteem of all parties. Being on a visit of
consolation to him at Ashur, he took occasion to mention that no
provision had been made, for several of the servants had proved very
faithful, and had never forsaken him. “Alas” replied the Cardinal, “you
know that I have nothing to give them, nor to reward you.” Cromwell
however prevailed upon the Cardinal’s chaplain, who had been preferred
to rich benefices by his influence, to contribute a little money for
their relief, which he did.
The turmoil and the anxiety of the Cardinal’s mind so acted upon his
frame that he now fell grievously sick, and his life was despaired of.
Henry, being informed of his indisposition, inquired of one of the
court physicians what was the matter with the Cardinal. On hearing it
arose from indisposition, he struck the table violently with his hand,
exclaiming, “I would rather lose twenty thousand pounds than he should
die—make you haste, therefore, and endeavour to relieve him.” He then
took from his finger a ring chased, with a ruby, on which his own head
was engraved, and sent a gentlemen with it and many kindly assurances
to the Cardinal; and he ordered Anne Boleyn, who happened to be
present, to send also some token of her regard, which she subsequently
obeyed, giving the doctor a golden tablet from her side, and requested
him to deliver from her. Soon after, Wolsey was regularly pardoned and
replaced in the See of York, with a pension of a thousand marks per
annum; and Henry, unknown to the Privy Council, restored to him plate
and effects to the value of six thousand pounds. This attention of the
king revived the drooping spirits of the Cardinal, who went to reside
at Richmond, but his enemies ever active, prevailed upon Henry to send
him off to his diocese, and he was accordingly banished to York.
He commenced his journey to York about the end of Lent, his train
consisted of a hundred and sixty men and servants, and two wagons
loaded with the relics of his furniture. He travelled slowly onward,
walked in the procession of the monks to the cathedral at Peterboro’
on Palm Sunday, kept Maunday Thursday by washing the feet of the poor
and bestowing alms and blessings, he preached in the churches, judged
between contending parties, arguing peace, forbearance, and charity
among all men. As he drew towards York, a great multitude of people
congregated to see him arrive, among whom were the clergy of the
diocese, who welcomed him with the reverence due to his pontifical
dignity. As he had never been installed in the archepiscopal see, the
Cathedral was prepared for the ceremony, but, on the preceding Friday,
as he was sitting at dinner, the Earl of Northumberland accompanied
by a large retinue arrived at the castle, and arrested him for high
treason, and informed him that his orders were to convey him to London.
On his departure a great crowd assembled round the castle, and, as
he came out on his mule guarded, the people began to exclaim “God
save your Grace, and evil over-take them that have taken you from
us,” but the Cardinal was deaf to the voice of pity, he considered
his destruction at hand, and his constitution, impaired by age and
sorrow, gave way. One day, at dinner, he complained of a coldness
in his stomach, and was soon after seized with a violent dysentery,
which gradually reduced his strength. However, he obeyed the king’s
mandate—being anxious to prove his innocence before his accusers at
a proper Court, but his illness increased, and on the evening of the
third day of his return journey he approached Leicester. The appearance
of nature accorded with the condition of the prisoner, the end of the
year was drawing nigh, and the Cardinal beheld, for the last time, the
falling leaf and the setting sun.
When the cavalcade reached the monastery, the day was drawing to a
close, and, the abbot and the friars, apprised of his coming, waited
with torches at the gate to receive him. But the honors of the world
had ceased to afford him any pleasure; and, as he passed down the
stairs, he said to the brethren, “I am come to lay my bones among
ye!” Being supported into a chamber, he immediately went to bed, and
languished with increasing signs of dissolution all the next day. The
following morning, Cavendish, his usher and afterwards historian, as
he was watching near him, thought he perceived the symptoms of death.
The Cardinal noticing him, inquired the hour, and was told eight
o’clock. “That cannot be,” he replied, “for at eight clock you shall
lose your master. My time is at hand, and I must depart this world.”
Continuing to grow weaker and weaker, he fainted several times during
the day. About four o’clock the following morning he asked for some
refreshment, which having received, and made confession, Sir William
Kingston entered his room and inquired how he felt himself. “Sir,” said
Wolsey, “I tarry but the pleasure of God to render up my poor soul into
his hands.” He then gave sage and good counsel to Sir William, and
impressed upon him the duty of acting in all things with fidelity and
honesty towards God, and said, “had I served God as diligently as I
have done the King he would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”
“Farewell,” he continued, “I wish all good things to have success.
My time draws fast on. I may not continue with you. Forget not what
I have said, and when I am gone, call it often to mind.” Towards the
conclusion he began to falter, and linger in the articulation of his
words. At the end, his eyes became motionless, and his sight failed.
The Abbot was summoned to administer the extreme unction, and the
yeomen of the guard were called to see him die. As the clock struck
eight he expired.
The body, with the face uncovered, being laid out in pontifical
robes, the magistrates and inhabitants of Leicester were permitted
to see it, in order that they might certify the death. In the
evening it was removed into the church, but the funeral service was
protracted by unusual dirges and orisons, and it was past midnight
before the interment took place. Such was the end of this proud and
famous Cardinal; who, for a subject, had more of the pomp and glory
of this world than any man who ever lived—few have been thrown down
from so great a height with so few crimes. He cannot be reproached
with anything mean, vile, malicious, cruel, or vindictive. He was a
character of the most splendid class—superior as a statesman to any
of his contemporaries. He was haughty to the haughty—proud to the
proud. Stern and unbending to those who loved him not—but to those who
showed him respect, “sweet as summer!” All his undertakings showed the
foreseeing facilities of his genius. It was he who, more than any other
man, laid the foundation of those maxims of prudence, which, in our own
day, among all European States, restrict the domination of the Pope.
My young friends cannot do better than to study at large the history
of this justly celebrated man. They will find in it much to exalt
their minds and to touch their hearts, and they will rise from their
perusal of his memoir wiser and better children. Those wretched people
who like to contemplate the little blemishes of the most illustrious
characters, will see in the errors of Wolsey much to condemn. But more
generous minds will look upon them as “specks upon a sun,” whose rays
enlightened and benefited the world.
An Adventure with a Bear.
Bears are very funny fellows, sometimes, particularly the “Brown
Bears.” All Black Bears are savage; the White Bears are melancholy and
spiteful, but the Brown Bears give, at times, the oddest sport, and
make us laugh the most. I remember well, upon my travelling from Moscow
to St. Petersburgh, seeing some fun with one, and I can’t help telling
it to my young readers.
The road from Moscow to St. Petersburg is dreary enough; long wastes
of ground stretching far away—straight roads without hedges or
ditches—clumps of trees here and there—savage-looking dens, and as
savage-looking men—rude hovels not fit for pigs to stop in—women
not half so clean as the pigs in Mr. Bendall’s styes—and rough old
chaps, with beards so rough, hard, and bristly, that you might make
shoe-brushes of them. These are the characteristics of the Russian
peasantry, and when, therefore, we talk of bears, we talk of
gentlemen—polite, generous but determined, and not very ceremonious
gentlemen; of one of these it is my object to speak.
[Illustration]
I was, as I said, travelling from Moscow to St. Petersburgh. I had
with me my friend Bendall, as good a shot as ever hit a rabbit in a
sley, and as good a hunter as ever hunted a donkey on a cross-road.
We had travelled many miles over morass and heath, and through the
ugliest roads in Christendom. Sometimes we travelled for a whole day
without meeting with a house or hovel of any kind, and on the day that
the adventure took place I am about to describe, we had travelled till
night-fall without any probability of shelter for the night; so, at
last, thinking that we could do no better, we crept into a cave, with
the intention of passing the night there. We were rather surprised,
when we had stricken a light, to find a great lot of bones strewn
about, all of them picked very clean, and some of them very old; and,
as Bendall remarked, “we were in a Bear’s den”—his own parlor, drawing
room, kitchen, and cookery, and a very warm snug place it seemed, not
over nice as to smell, but quite sheltered from wind and tempest. So we
struck a light, lit a fire, and prepared to make ourselves comfortable
with one “sausage,” the only thing we had to munch that night. We put
it on the fire, and it had not long begun to grill and grizzle, before
something dark moved before the entrance of the cave. Bendall was after
it directly, with his gun cocked; and I held up a lighted brand to see
what would come next. It was a rough old Brown Bear, of very large
size, who seemed by no means pleased at our invasion of his domestic
hearth. He stood, with his nose poked out, savagely looking at us, as
much as to say: “what do you here, you blackguards?” Bendall seeing
this insolent speech in the bear’s eyes, pulled the trigger—flash—but
no bang—the gun missed fire! and, in a moment, the old brute, as if
he knew that he was likely to have all his own way, made a leap at me
with the agility of a young rabbit. I had only just time to pop the
fire-brand in his mouth—which made him howl for a moment—and then,
with redoubled savageness, he flew upon me, and embraced me with such
a hug, that I seemed to feel my ribs cracking, and all the breath
squeezing out of my body. I laid hold of the bear’s throat, and tried
to squeeze him and stop his breath; but his hair was so thick and
shaggy I could make but little impression upon him; and so he squeezed,
and I squeezed; now we rolled—now we tumbled—sometimes Parley was
up—sometimes Bear; and then we rolled over and over again. Poor Bendall
looked on with consternation; he had again primed his piece, but was
afraid to fire lest he should hit and settle me. At last we tumbled and
tumbled, till we both rolled into the fire. Upon this Bruin let go of
me, and leaped to a great distance, and began capering about in fine
style; the pain of the burnings being, no doubt, very teasing—I know
mine were. “Now is your time, Bendall,” said I. So Bendall would have
fired, but his gun again missed; upon which the old bear made towards
me again, pawing out with his fore feet, and standing on his hind
ones, while I, in the same attitude, waited his approach. But Bendall,
finding his gun of no use one way, determined to try its service in
another; and advancing boldly in front of me, dealt Bruin such a blow
with the butt-end, that he rolled him over like a Dutch-cheese. At
the same moment I whipped out my knife, and made a hole in the Bear’s
body; while Bendall gave him another topper “for luck”—and Bruin was
done for. The whole affair was most ludicrous, but almost too serious
a joke. It however ended by our having some of the bear’s haunch for
our supper. And I can tell you, my young friends, that bear’s haunch is
most delicious eating.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Something about Lighthouses.
Lighthouses were in use with the ancients. The towers of Sestos and
Abydos, the Colossus of Rhodes, and the well-known tower in the island
of Pharos, off Alexandria, are examples. Suetonius also mentions a
lofty tower at Ostia, and another on the coast of Batavia, erected
for the purpose of guiding the mariners by night. In lighting a great
extent of coast, it becomes necessary to provide for the distribution
of lighthouses in such a manner, that they may be readily distinguished
from each other, and, at the same time, so disposed, as not to leave
vessels without some point by which to direct their course.
One of the most extraordinary lighthouses on our iron-bound coast,
stands on a reef of rocks called the Eddystone, in the English Channel,
about ten miles from the Land’s End, in Cornwall. It was erected by
Mr. Smeaton, in 1759, and still remains a lasting monument of his
scientific skill. It consists of four rooms, surmounted by a gallery
and lanthorn. The floors are of stone, flat on the surface, but concave
beneath, and are kept from pressing against the sides of the building,
by means of a chain which is let into the walls. The entire edifice is
about eighty feet in height, and yet, such is the immense power of the
wind in the neighbourhood of the rocks, that the waves are seen to
ascend like a cupola, considerably above the lanthorn at the top. The
appearance of this is truly wonderful and sublime.
[Illustration]
Another celebrated lighthouse is called the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which
stands on the coast of Scotland, near Arbroath, in Forfarshire. These
rocks have always been particularly dangerous for shipping, and when
the commerce of Scotland was very much less than at the time of the
erection of the lighthouse, it is said that the monks of the Abbey of
Arbroath erected a bell on the rock, which was rung by machinery during
the flowing and ebbing of the tide. About the year 1807, the present
noble specimen of what man can accomplish, was commenced. The work was
completed in 1811, under the direction of Mr. Stevenson, and reflects
the highest honor upon his professional skill. The difficulties that
had to be overcome were of the most embarassing description. At the
commencement of the work, in consequence of the short time the rock
was not covered with water, two or three hours were considered a good
tide’s work, and, frequently after a portion of the foundation had been
completed, a sudden storm would render it necessary to perform the same
labour twice over, and even oftener. On one occasion, Mr. Stevenson
and the men who were with him at work were exposed to great danger, in
consequence of the vessel that used to carry them from the rock having
broken from her moorings, and the tide at the same time commencing its
rise. They were, fortunately however, saved by a small boat, which
happened to bring Mr. Stevenson some papers relating to the lighthouse
at the time.
The form of the lighthouse is that of an immense pillar; the lower
courses of stones are trenailed and wedged together with oak timber,
to the height of upwards of forty feet, or throughout the solid part
of the building. At the stone staircase leading from the door to the
first floor, the walls are seven feet thick, and from this it gradually
decreases upwards. The stones of the walls of the several apartments
are connected at the ends with dove-tailed joints. The floors are
formed of long stones radiating from the centre, and set in such a
manner that the pressure of the floors upon the walls is perpendicular.
In the stranger’s room or library, the roof takes an arched form, but
the centre is cut only upon the interior end of the stones of the
cornice, the several stones of which it is composed being all laid upon
level beds.
In order to give a slight idea of the force this lighthouse has to
withstand, we may quote the following remarks from Mr. Stevenson. He
says:—“It is awfully grand, at the time of high water, to observe
the spray rising on the building, and even to be on the rock at low
water, when the waves are about to break. Being, in a manner, only a
few yards distant, they approach as if they were about to overwhelm us
altogether. But, now that we are accustomed to such scenes, we think
little of it. You will, perhaps, form a better idea of the force of
these gales, when I relate to you that, on the 15th of February, the
large piece of lead which was used as a tack weight of the balance
crane, weighing nearly five hundred pounds, was fairly lifted by the
sea and carried to the distance of six feet from the hole in which it
had laid since the month of August. It was found turned round, with the
ring-bolt downwards, and it was with great difficulty that four of us
could muster strength enough to move it.”
There are many other lighthouses upon our coast. That at the Land’s End
is a very fine one, as is that at Orford and Yarmouth Sound. Of late
years a new mode of building lighthouses has been in operation, and of
this I shall say a few words.
Perhaps no class of persons are exposed to greater dangers than seamen.
They have to contend, not only against the elements, when all around
them is a barren waste of waters, but, no sooner are they gladdened by
the sight of land, than their perils are increased to a much greater
extent. In the former case, the wind was, perhaps, the only danger they
might have to provide against, but approaching land they must take
care to avoid sunken rocks and sand-banks, which might be the cause
of their destruction. Upon rocks and the solid coasts, lighthouses
have been erected with comparative ease (as we have already stated),
but, upon sands, the erection of them is very difficult; and was,
till within these few years, considered to be almost insurmountable.
Floating lights, which are large lanthorns suspended in the rigging of
a vessel, or built up in the hull, are frequently used to illuminate
a sandy coast, full of shoals and sand-banks—but these are subject to
many inconveniences, by the pitching and rolling of the vessel—for
every now and then she is partially submerged in the trough of the sea,
covered with spray and drift; or, what is most to be dreaded, she is
liable to be blown away from her moorings—an accident productive of the
most disastrous consequences to life and property; for should such a
catastrophe happen, the ships sailing along a coast having nothing to
warn them of their danger, run upon the shoals or sand-banks, and are
frequently totally wrecked, and all traces of them lost, in the course
of a very few hours.
Such being the case, the attention of Engineers has for some time been
directed to the best means for overcoming this difficulty. The building
of a house upon a rock has ever been considered the proof of wisdom,
whilst the erection of it on the sands has been held the proof of
folly. But the advances of science prove that a house may be built even
upon the sands, when proper care is taken in its construction—and the
erection of lighthouses on this foundation is held to be a triumph in
engineering.
This remarkable result has been accomplished chiefly by means of
Mitchell’s screw mooring, which consists of an immense screw, very
similar to that of the corkscrew, with flat cutting spirals. It is a
spiral or screw round a cast-iron spindle, having a square head, upon
which a large key is placed (like the key of a watch), and the screw
is turned by enormous leverage, and it is then forced into the ground,
and can be carried to a great depth. This instrument was thought to
be applicable to the establishment of Lighthouses upon sands; and,
accordingly, a series of experiments was undertaken, and a lighthouse
was speedily erected on the verge of the Maplin Sand, situated at the
mouth of the Thames, about twenty miles below the Nore. The foundation
was formed of seven screw piles, six occupying the six angles of a
hexagon, and the seventh being placed in the centre. From each screw
proceeded a pile fifteen feet in length, at the upper end of which was
another screw for securing a wooden column. These columns were prepared
of Baltic timber: the one in the centre was fifty-six feet, and each of
the remainder forty-six feet in length, firmly bound together with iron
hoops, and coated with pitch.
The platform upon which the house stands is firmly secured round the
centre column, and to the heads of the outer columns by means of hollow
cast-iron capitals let down on the heads of the columns, and secured
with screw bolts. To give lateral strength to the building, round iron
angle traces were applied, by which means a resisting power, equal to
at least three-hundred-and-fifty tons is presented in every direction.
The platform upon which the house stands is twenty-seven feet in
diameter and nine feet high; it has an outside door and three windows,
and is divided into two apartments—one having a fire-place. The floor
is tiled, and the walls are ceiled, lathed, and stuccoed; access to the
platform is secured by means of a Jacob’s ladder to one of the columns.
From the summit of the house rises the lanthorn: it is twelve sided,
and is ten feet in feet in diameter and eight feet high. The light is
elevated about forty-six feet above low water level, and is bright,
steady, and uniform—ranging over an horizon of eight miles and visible
at the distance of ten miles from a coaster’s deck. During foggy
weather a bell is tolled by machinery. Tide time for vessels of twelve
feet draught is also denoted by signals.
This admirable and useful structure was erected in two of the shortest
day months of the year, during which time daylight did not occur at any
low water period; the workmen, therefore, had to depend upon torches
and moonlight; and what is quite as extraordinary, it can be taken down
and erected on another site in a month, should circumstances render it
necessary.
[Illustration]
The Old Abbeys and Castles of England.
[Illustration]
In a former chapter I mentioned something about Old Abbeys. I am now
about to say something concerning the Old Castles of England, for few
things are more interesting to young people than the stories connected
with them. There is scarcely any part of England but has ruins of old
castles; some of these ruins are very picturesque, and, when we look
at them, the mind is carried back to the times of superstition—of
religious bondage—of knighthood and chivalry—and of intestine war.
Happily, these times are gone for ever, and we now enjoy peace,
freedom, and religious happiness, such as ancient times never did, and
never could produce; and we ought to be grateful to Almighty God that
we live in such blessed times.
According to Dr. Johnson, a Castle is a strong house fortified, but
this gives little more information than the saying, according to law,
“Every man’s house is his castle.” A Castle, properly so called, is
a fortress or fortification of stone, surrounded by high and thick
walls of defence, with different walls and lines of circumvallation,
consisting of the Barbican, the Moat, the wall of the outer Ballium,
the outer Ballium, the Artificial Mount, the wall of the inner Ballium,
the inner Ballium, and the Keep or Dungeon.
The Barbican, was a watch-tower for the purpose of descrying the
approach of a distant enemy. It seems to have had no positive place,
except that it was always an outwork, and frequently advanced beyond
the ditch, to which it was joined by a draw-bridge, and formed the
entrance into the Castle.
The Ditch, which was also called the moat or fosse, was sometimes
filled with water, when any convenient stream could be turned into it,
at other times it was dry and deep, and, when this was the case, there
were subterranean passages underneath, by which the soldiers could pass
out and suddenly break ground into the open country, and astonish the
invading forces. This wall of the outer Ballium was within the Ditch on
the castle side. The wall was usually high, flanked with towers, and
had a parapet, embattled, crenellated, or garretted, for mounting it.
The outer Ballium was the space or ground within the outer wall. In
the Ballium were lodgings or barracks for the garrison and artificers,
wells for water, and sometimes a monastery. An artificial mound,
commanding the adjacent country, was often thrown up in the Ballium,
and from this the soldiers and archers would throw their missiles upon
the enemy.
The wall of the inner Ballium separated it from the outer Ballium. The
inner Ballinm was a second enclosed space or ground. When a castle
had an inner Ballium—which was not always the case—it contained the
buildings before-mentioned as being within the Ballium.
The Keep, or Dungeon, commonly, but not always, stood on an eminence in
the centre; sometimes it was, emphatically, called the Tower. It was
the Citadel, or last retreat of the garrison, and was generally a high,
square tower of four or five stories, having turrets at each angle,
with staircases in the turrets. The walls of these edifices were always
of an extraordinary thickness, which enabled them to exist longer
than other buildings; and they are now almost the only remains of our
ancient castles.
In the Keep or Dungeon, the Lord, or Governor, had his state-rooms,
which were little better than gloomy cells, with chinks or embrasures
diminishing inwards, from which arrows from long or cross-bows might
be discharged against besiegers. Some Keeps, especially those of small
castles, had not even these conveniences, but were solely lighted by a
small perforation at the top. The different stories were frequently
vaulted; sometimes they were only separated by joists. On the top of
the Keep, was usually a platform, with an embattled parapet, from
whence the Govenor could see and command the exterior works.
Castles were designed for residences as well as defence. According to
some writers, the ancient Britons had castles of stone; but they were
few in number, and either decayed or so much destroyed, through neglect
or invasions, that, at the time of the Norman Conquest, little more
than their ruins remained. The Conqueror erected and restored many
castles; and on the lands parcelled out to his followers they erected
castles all over the country. These edifices greatly multiplied in
turbulent and unsettled times; and, towards the reign of Stephen, they
amounted to the almost incredible number of eleven hundred and fifteen.
As the Feudal system strengthened, castles became the heads of
baronies. Each castle had a Manor, and the Castellain, Owner, or
Governor was the Lord of the Manor. Markets or fairs were held in
them to prevent frauds in the King’s duties or customs, and there his
laws were enforced, until the Lords usurped the regal power, not only
within their castles but the environs, and exercised civil and criminal
jurisdiction, coined money, and even seized forage and provisions for
the garrisons. Their oppressions grew so high, that, according to
William of Newbury, there were as many kings, or rather tyrants, as
lords of castles; and these lords of castles not only oppressed and
despoiled their weaker neighbours, but exercised even royal privileges.
Henry II., therefore, stipulated for the destruction of many of them,
and prevented the erection of others, except by royal license.
The materials with which castles were built varied according to the
places of their erection; but the manner of building seems to have
been pretty uniform. The outsides of the walls generally consisted
of stones near at hand; the insides were filled up with fragments of
stone, or sometimes chalk, and a large supply of fluid mortar. When
the Normans found the remains of an ancient building on a site which
suited them, they often added their out-work, thus having a mixed piece
of architecture of a Norman and Saxon Order, with, not unfrequently, a
quantity of Roman bricks.
According to Camden, who gives an account of the taking of Bedford
Castle, in his Britannia:—“The castle,” he says, “was taken by four
assaults. In the first was taken the Barbican; in the second the outer
bail (Ballium); at the third attack, the wall by the old tower was
thrown down by the miners, where, with great danger, they possessed
themselves of the inner bail through a chink; at the fourth assault,
the miners set fire to the tower, so that the smoke burst out, and the
tower itself was cloven to that degree as to show visibly some broad
chinks; whereupon the enemy surrendered.”
Castles in process of time, soon became of little use as fortresses;
the change in the art of war, brought about by the invention of
gunpowder, the influence of our navy, and the abolishment of the
feudal system, all tended to diminish the importance of these ancient
safeguards; and, with the progress of civilization and national
improvement, we trace the gradual change in the construction of
castles, till, by the admission of light and air, and some degree of
ornament, the harsh and gloomy features of the massive Norman pile
became softened down into the refined and comfortable aspect of the
castellated house in the reign of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth.
In the reign of Charles I., however, shortly before the civil war,
and probably with the prospects of the awful events which followed
in view, a commission was appointed to inquire into the state of the
ancient castles. Many of these, during the subsequent troubles, were
garrisoned and defended. Not a few were afterwards destroyed by order
of the parliament, and others were left to the ravages of time and the
weather. Some of these monuments of barbaric grandeur have been torn
down for the sake of the materials, or for the purpose of building on
the same site.
Although a view of the generality of these rugged fortresses—destined
chiefly for the purposes of war or defence—suggests to the imagination,
dungeons, chains, and a painful assemblage of horrors, yet some of them
were often the scenes of magnificence and hospitality, where, in the
days of chivalry, the wandering Knight or distressed Princess found
honourable reception, the holy Palmer repose for his wearied limbs, and
the poor and helpless men daily bread.
Having here given a general description of Castles, I shall, in a
future chapter, afford my young readers accounts of some particular
Castles, especially those which have historical incidents connected
with them.
The Queen of Spithead: Review of the Fleet.
[Illustration]
Peter Parley loves our good Queen, and delights to follow her in her
various “progresses”—for wherever she appears, light and happiness
beams around. The sun seems to welcome her wherever she goes, and
bright and fair are the days that belong to her. And one of the
brightest and fairest days, notwithstanding a little cloud or so that
appeared, was the day when Her Majesty, accompanied by the Prince—whom
every true Briton loves for his manly character, and for the good he
does to every one—proceeded to visit the British Fleet at Spithead. It
was delightful for old Peter to behold the Queen and the Prince, and
not less so to see the young Prince of Wales emulating the British Tar,
and looking like an embryo Nelson: and his heart beat with ardour at
the cheers of the sailors and the booming of the guns; and he wished
himself a young man again, and on board of a man-of-war, as he was
for many years of his early life. I believe that no one who has been
thoroughly soused in salt water ever ceases to love it, and although
poor old Peter has now only a pleasure-boat to skull and row and sail
about the Deben in, he still loves the sea-breeze and the sea-water,
and the smell of tar; and he likes to hear the whistle of the gale
in the shrouds, and the cry of the sea-gull, and the voice of the
curlew on the ooze; and he would sing with his poor old voice, like a
shattered clarionet of former days, “Rule Britannia,” and thank God
that he has lived to see the day when England exhibits to the world
that she is still able to “rule the waves.”
[Illustration: _The Queen at Spithead_]
The “review” was, indeed, a spirit-stirring sight. The eyes of half
London and the hearts of all England were there; and a wonderful
thing it was to look upon a fleet such as England never had
before, and the thick black cloud of coal-smoke resting upon the
horizon, or ascending to the skies in volumes, shewed the result
of the innumerable applications of the giant power of steam to the
purposes of navigation. Here stood arrayed the mighty force of
fourteen-thousand-four-hundred-and-twenty horse-power, concentrated
in the holds of the royal ships, impelling these mountain masses with
as much ease as some of my young readers would drag their little boat
across a puny pond.
The most remarkable fact, bearing on this point, was the celerity and
ease with which the Duke of Wellington, the greatest of all the ships,
the Agamemnon, and the Impèrieuse—each of them steam impelled—performed
their evolutions. The chase, when each ship put forth all her powers,
was just continued long enough to establish the superiority of these
ships. They are moved by screw-propellers, and all the steam machinery
in such large ships is placed beneath the water-line, and below the
reach of shot. The ships can steam at pleasure against wind and tide,
and thus, really and not metaphorically “rule the waves,” and a steam
fleet of eleven hundred guns, such as that we witnessed at Portsmouth,
would go far to rule the world.
The Queen, the Prince, and the Royal Family arrived in the “Victoria
and Albert” yacht, and a grand salute from all the ships was fired
in succession, and so quickly was it given, that from the firing of
the first gun to the booming of the last, not more than three minutes
elapsed. As Her Majesty approached the fleet, the Queen and Prince
Albert mounted the bridge of the yacht over the paddle-boxes, and with
the Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred—both attired as sailors, in
white duck trowsers and jackets—surveyed the scene before them with
much interest. Her Majesty then entered the royal barge, and with
the Prince, and the Royal Children, all went on board the “Duke of
Wellington,” as you see them represented in the engraving. The fleet
now steamed out to sea in double column. They formed into single line.
They then made a feigned attack upon the enemy. After firing a gun or
two of defiance, the three foremost ships resolutely advanced, upon
which the two divisions closed into one grand line, and upon the signal
gun of the “Duke of Wellington,” followed by the tremendous roar of her
whole broadside, rapidly discharged from stem to stern, the rattling
thunder ran along the line, traversing it as it were in a minute,
and again beginning at the other end; main and deck guns, eighteens,
thirty-twos, and sixty-fours, banging and thundering for nearly a
quarter of an hour without intermission. From the moment of the first
discharge, the clouds of white, choking smoke hid everything. The
mimic battle was kept up for some time, at last the enemy was supposed
to have been repulsed, so the heads of the vessels were put round, and
the whole squadron started off homewards at the best of each ship’s
speed, and the same thundering followed.
[Illustration]
A boat attack was next made, which was fully equal in interest to the
“sham fight of the ships,” and the whole day’s proceedings exhibited
“Old England” in her proudest glory; and thus terminated a spectacle,
which no other country in the world could produce but England, and
which well accords with English spirit and English sympathy.
[Illustration]
Something about the Chinese.
[Illustration]
The Chinese are, my young friends, a very wonderful people—quite unlike
the people in any other part of the world. They are very different in
their religion, laws, manners and customs; and were you to go and live
in China, you would be puzzled to know what to do, and how to act. My
friend, Mr. Welton, however, who has just sent over to his native place
a beautiful collection of Chinese curiosities, seems to know how to
get on very well; and from his letters, and the specimens of Chinese
literature, art, and manufactures, it will not be a very difficult
thing to obtain some slight knowledge of the Chinese.
China is the most populous country in the world; it is supposed to
contain at least two hundred and fifty millions of human beings. Of
these, more than two millions live in boats on the rivers, and a very
large number have been enrolled as soldiers. At the present moment,
China is undergoing a great revolution (of which I shall have something
to say before I have done), and the religion of Jesus Christ is making
progress. The end of this will probably be the opening of the whole
of the Chinese empire to European commerce, which will be of great
advantage to the whole world.
No country abounds like China in towns and cities, which in some of
the provinces are so thick and close to each other, that the whole
seems but one continued town swarming with inhabitants. Their roads are
generally crowded with passengers. Some cities are purely military, and
are inhabited by soldiers, of which there are said to be not less than
five millions in the empire.
The most wonderful things in China are the canals, especially the
Great Canal, as it is called, which is an uninterrupted communication
of nearly seven hundred miles of water, between Pekin and the great
central stream of the Yang-tse-Kiang. In connection with the rivers, it
opens a communication between Canton and Pekin, by means of a thousand
miles of navigation.
The Great Wall of China has always been considered one of the wonders
of the world. It was erected three hundred years before Christ. It
is in length one thousand miles, and it passes over hills, vallies,
rivers, and mountains which are in some places more than five thousand
feet high. Its height is thirty feet, and it is very broad. The towers,
which are at short distances from each other, are forty feet high. This
Wall is no longer of much use as a fortification, and is now regarded
more as a curiosity. The mass of materials used in its construction
would be sufficient to build a thick wall, six feet in height, all
round the globe. China is also famous for triumphal arches, erected to
the memory of their heroes; it is said that there are from six hundred
to seven hundred in the empire. It is customary for persons travelling
to pay their adoration at these arches, as well as at the tombs of
their ancestors, whom they regard with the greatest veneration.
[Illustration]
Most of the Chinese cities have large bells set up in their high
towers, by which notice is given of the different watches of the night.
The first watch is denoted by a single stroke; the second, by two; the
third, by three; and so on. Some of the Chinese bells are very large,
and weigh upwards of one hundred thousand pounds. Their clappers are of
wood and not of metal—the former being thought to give a softer sound.
The city of Pekin has been the fixed capital of China ever since
the expulsion of the Moguls; and, although situated on the Northern
confines of China Proper, it is central with regard to the whole
empire. It is surrounded by a wall, flanked with high towers, each
containing accommodation for a hundred men. Within this wall are the
Emperor’s palace and gardens. These are surrounded by another wall, the
enclosure being called the Sacred City. The two cities are not less
than twenty-five miles in circumference.
[Illustration]
The Imperial Palace is situated in the heart of the city, and has a
prodigious number of courts, squares, ponds, parks, and edifices. The
apartments are spacious and healthy, and the whole is adorned with
gardens, baths, and pleasure terraces. There, is, in the midst of one
of the principal gardens, an artificial lake of about a mile in extent,
surrounded by stately trees, and gorgeous temples, and fine statues.
The Great Hall of Audience is a lofty building, one hundred and thirty
feet long, and nearly of a square form. Its ceiling is of carved work,
garnished with green, and adorned with gilt dragons in bas-relief. The
pillars which support the roof are about seven feet in circumference,
and are embellished with raised works of fruits and flowers. The
pavement is covered with a rich carpet; the walls are polished white,
and without hangings, mirrors, or any kind of ornament. The throne
stands in the centre of the hall, and consists of a lofty alcove,
but has few ornaments or inscriptions; it, however, bears the words
“Reason’s glory,” the name assumed by the present Emperor.
[Illustration]
The Great Temple of the Chinese, or of Pekin, is a very curious
edifice—not merely on account of its riches and grandeur, but from its
being the scene of a very important ceremony, performed by the Emperor
every year, when the sun enters the winter solstice; hence it is termed
the Temple of the Sun. The temple stands about half-a-mile from the
east end of the city, and is surrounded by a wall nearly a mile in
circuit. Within this enclosure are reared several stately apartments,
amid groups of lofty trees, and in the centre a spacious round hall,
of a considerable height. The dome or roof is supported by eighty-two
columns, curiously painted with gold and azure, representing the sky.
At an upper part of the temple stands a very large vessel of brass, in
which perfumes are burned; and on each side of it stand the priests. To
this temple the Emperor repairs at the proper season, and, in a homely
garb, without gold, or jewels, or even the yellow garment that denotes
royalty—kneels down in adoration, and offers up his prayers for the
sins of the people, and prays the Divine Being to give happiness and
prosperity to the nation at large.
[Illustration]
In another temple, called the Temple of the Earth, which is without the
walls of the city, a ceremony is performed by every Emperor, on coming
to the throne, equally worthy of description. Immediately after the
coronation, the Emperor comes with regal pomp to this temple, which
stands on the west side of the city. As soon as he passes the walls of
the city, he divests himself of his imperial robes, and clothes himself
in the habit of a common ploughman; and in this humble guise proceeds,
with his numerous retinue, to a spot of ground kept for the purpose
within the compass of the temple. Here he finds a plough, gilt and
ornamented with gold, to which two oxen with golden horns are fastened,
and, taking the plough in his hand, he drives it to the extent of two
or three furrows. Whilst at this laborious exercise, the Empress,
attended by her ladies, prepares some plain dish for his dinner, and
brings it to him into his private apartment, in the most homely style,
and sits and eats with him.
This excellent custom is of Chinese origin, and of great antiquity. Its
design is to put the new monarch in mind that his revenue is owing to
the sweat and labour of his subjects, and that he ought to abstain from
all superfluous expenses, and ease them of all unnecessary burdens.
The Chinese are great lovers of festivals, and one of their principal
entertainments of this kind is celebrated during the eighth moon.
From sunset and the rising of the moon till midnight, every one walks
about with his relatives and friends in the streets, public places,
and gardens. In the preceding days they send to each other tarts and
cakes, called yua-pini, that is, cakes of the moon; they are round and
flat, and made to resemble that luminary. These cakes are eaten by
moonlight—the wealthy to the sound of melodious music, and the poor to
the din of drums, gongs, and other noisy instruments.
The engraving represents a dealer in confectionary of this kind;
the cakes are flat, and the hares, which are one of the chief of
their ornaments, are either sitting on their haunches, or lying down
eating. One of the cakes in the upper row is adorned with peacock’s
feathers, between which is placed a figure of the moon, on which is the
representation of a hare pounding rice.
[Illustration]
Fruit is sold by hawkers, and men who sit at a table in the open
air. The picture shows the way in which fruit is hawked in baskets,
suspended from the ends of a bamboo, which is borne on one shoulder.
The baskets of this trader are stocked with various kinds of fruit. The
melons, one of which is seen in the picture, are water-melons; there
are besides grapes, white and red figs, and peaches. This latter fruit
the Chinese regard as the emblem of immortality. In the abode of Hien
Gien, which is their paradise, they imagine a peach-tree, the fruit of
which secures all those who eat of it from death.
[Illustration]
The other Chinese fruits are apricots, cherries, lemons, and oranges,
which are grown in the gardens of the country people; they also eat
the young shoots of the fragrant ash, the flowers of the yulong, and
the soft shoots of the juicy-bamboo. The leaf which the itinerant
fruit-seller holds, is that of the “_nelumbriem_,” an aquatic plant,
the canes of which sometimes grow large enough for an umbrella. The
engraving represents a retail dealer in fruit, sitting at his stall,
in the shade of an ample umbrella made of rushes.
[Illustration]
The middle classes of the Chinese live upon pork, venison, and
shark-fins. Horse-flesh is eaten by the Tartars, and sold in the
markets with beef. Cats, too, are a favourite dish, and dogs are the
crowning delicacy of the cookery-book.
The Chinese towns swarm with hawkers of all sorts, and among the most
numerous are the flower-sellers. They carry their flowers about in two
flat baskets, suspended like a pair of scales from the two ends of a
bamboo. The flowers common to China are, many of them, now common with
us. The plant for which they have the strongest liking is the peony,
which they call “_moutein_.” It is also called the “king of flowers,”
and “pe-lean-king,” which means one hundred ounces of gold on account
of its beauty, and of the enormous price given for it by the curious.
[Illustration]
The Chinese, as I have said, eat cats and dogs. They also eat snakes
and vipers: the former for food, the latter for physic. The Chinese
are very dexterous in catching these animals, and they will also play
various tricks with them. It is no unusual thing to see a Chinaman put
a viper in his mouth, and ask a bye-stander to pull it out by its tail.
Here is a picture of a viper-seller; the board in his hand contains a
list of his reptiles.
[Illustration]
The engraving in the next page is the representation of a Chinese
barber. He goes from house to house, carrying with him his
instruments—a stool, a small furnace, water, razors, brushes. The
barbers are also ready to shampoo a customer, if the state of his
health require it. The mode of shampooing in China has been thus
described:—“First,” said my informant, “the shampooer placed me in a
large chair, and then began to beat me with both hands very fast, upon
all parts of my body. He next stretched out my arms and legs, and gave
them several sudden pulls; he then got my arm on his shoulder, and
hauled me sideways a good way off the chair, giving my head at the
same time a sudden switch or jerk, almost enough to pull my neck out
of joint. Next he beat with the ends of his fingers very softly and
very quickly, all over my body and legs, every now and then cracking
my fingers. Then he stroked my ears, temples, and eye-lashes. After
this he began to scrape, pick and syringe my ears, every now and then
working with an instrument close to them. The next things were my eyes,
into which several small instruments were thrust. He then proceeded
to paring, scraping, and cleansing the nails of my fingers and toes,
and then cutting my corns. For all this he only charged the sum of one
penny.”
[Illustration]
The Chinese are very fond of fishing, and although they are not so
scientific in throwing a line as Albert Smith, still they manage to get
the fish somehow—indeed fishing is very common in China. The waters of
the rivers contain a great number of fish unknown to us, one of which
is called the flour-fish, on account of its whiteness, and is very
delicious eating. The hoang-zy, or yellow fish, sometimes grows to such
a size, as to weigh 800 lbs.
[Illustration]
When a Chinaman goes fishing he takes with him his nets and lines: but
he has some other very ingenious methods of catching fish, especially
by the employment of the fishing-cormorant; and when he goes out for a
day’s sport, he usually takes with him ten or twelve of these birds,
either in light boats, or on bamboo rafts. The cormorant is taught to
pursue fish in the same manner as the falcon does game. The fishermen
beat the water strongly with one of their oars, which serves as a
signal to the birds, and they instantly plunge into the water, and
swallow in as many fish as they can get; they then repair immediately
to the boat, each conveying a large fish in the middle of its bill.
To prevent the small fish from passing into the stomach of the bird,
a ring is commonly put round its neck to confine its gullet, which is
long and capable of great expansion. To make it disgorge the fish which
it has swallowed, the fisherman holds the bird with its head downwards,
and strokes its head with his hand. Some are so well trained as to
have no occasion for the ring. They bring their prey honestly to their
master, and when they have caught as much he wants, he allows them to
fish for themselves.
[Illustration]
The Chinese are equally as expert in catching birds as in catching
fish. Their method of catching wild ducks is exceedingly curious and
very amusing. The sportsman covers his head with the half of a large
hollow gourd or dry calabash, in which he makes holes, to enable him
to see and breathe; he then walks naked into the water, or swims about
in such a manner that nothing is to be seen above the surface but
the gourd, which is attached to his head. The ducks, which have been
accustomed to the sight of the floating gourds, and to sport and dabble
among them, approach without mistrust; the man then pulls them under
water, breaks their necks to prevent their making a noise, and fastens
them to his girdle.
[Illustration]
Pedlars are common in China, and they travel without a licence. Here
is a picture of one of them. His stock consists of pieces of stuff,
ribands, purses, tobacco-pouches, and other small articles. He also
deals occasionally in a little opium and tobacco. The latter is very
dear in China, and the Chinese frequently mix with it opium, which
produces a delicious kind of intoxication. There are thousands of
professed opium-eaters in China, who ruin both mind and body by this
destructive habit; and Mr. Welton, a surgeon and missionary, to whom
the Chinese are greatly indebted for his services in this particular,
describes the effect of opium as most frightful.
The importation of opium commenced in the seventeenth century,
and since that time it has increased to an enormous extent. The
chief officers of the province of Canton suffered the drug (though
continually prohibited) to come into the country in large quantities,
by paying a bribe for each chest, and in 1825 the importation rose to
10,000 chests every year, which increased till nearly 30,000 chests
were disposed of annually.
I do not, however, wish to go into the opium question. I would rather
afford my young friends some more pictures of China. The countrymen
generally wear cloaks made of rice-straw. Their appearance is very
nearly the same as that of the Chinese husbandman, two thousand years
ago; for the fashions of China never change. The dress of the ladies
is always unalterable. The sempstresses or dressmakers trudge about
the streets, looking out for employment, until some one engages them.
They carry in their baskets various articles belonging to their
profession, and do not work as our poor creatures do, twenty out of the
twenty-four hours in the season, to elaborate the dress of some duchess
or countess, or that of Mrs. Beecher Stowe, the well-known advocate of
freedom among the blacks.
The dress of the Chinese lady is very rich, and not ungraceful. She
usually carries a pipe in one hand and a fan in the other, if the
latter be not carried by a servant. The ladies have often their fans
made so as not to close, whilst those of the gentlemen always close in
the same manner as those of our ladies; but the most distinguishing
mark of beauty among the Chinese ladies is their feet, which, to be
handsome, must be especially small, and resemble in some degree that of
the pettitoes of a little porker. The smallness of the foot is produced
by placing, during infancy, the foot in tight shoes or bandages, so
that it has no room to grow, what can have been the origin of this
strange custom it is not easy to conceive, but it has been supposed
to be one originating in a wish of the men, to keep the women from
gadding abroad.
[Illustration: CHINESE LADY. CHINESE NUN.]
Among many “female varieties” there are a number of female Benzes in
China, one of which is represented in the cut. They are a kind of Nun,
who take vows for a certain period. There are two classes of them,
one of which subjects themselves to stricter rules than the others.
About the year 1787, one of these Nuns, like Miss Sqirrel in the wilds
of Suffolk, set herself up for a goddess, and pretended to enlighten
all the nations by supernatural doings. Thousands flocked to her,
and becoming extremely rich, she erected a magnificent temple. The
Emperor, however, a sly old fox, having suffered her to acquire as much
wealth as he thought proper, at last ordered her to be executed, and
confiscated her wealth to his own coffers. In a future chapter I shall
afford my young friends some further particulars concerning the Chinese.
[Illustration]
A Mysterious Adventure.
One of the most curious Old Castles I was ever at, was that of Baden.
The word “Baden” is German, and signifies “bathing,” and it is here
that much bathing takes place. The city is situated in a charming vale,
about two leagues from the river Rhine.
The Castle is one of the “lions” of those parts; it is situated on a
rock, and affords from all sides the most splendid prospect. The road
to it is well cut, and made as easy as the nature of the ground will
permit; but it was a full hour before Keet (who is one of the best
and most courageous of companions) and I reached the place where the
wide-spread ruin stands. The rock on which it is placed is many hundred
feet above the level of the Rhine; and, being almost in the shape of a
sugar-loaf, the panorama is perfect.
[Illustration]
Keet said his prayers, which he generally does on any painful ascent,
and with the pathos of an old Greenwich Pensioner, blessed the
steps, the brambles, and the hard stumps that annoyed him. He also
performed sundry pious ejaculations to the tyrannical lords of the
ancient domain, wishing them in the “abodes of bliss,” with a fervor
and pathos truly marvellous. At last, we were shown, amid ruins, a
low-browed, dark, shaggy, doleful, savage, ugly-looking archway,
at which Keet curled the hair of his upper lip, as did Don Quixote
when about to attack the Fulling Mills; while I, like Sancho, stood
by, opening the sandwich-box, and the little bottle of very weak
liquor, called water, which Keet eyed with great jealousy. We had a
fierce-looking man as a guide, with a great black beard, clod-hopping
shoes, a long pole with a spike in it—and he had lost his nose, one
eye, and all his front teeth! When we came to this ugly-looking
gateway, our guide, whom Keet called “Ferocio,” knocked with his
spike-stick at the thick walls of the building, and cried out in
mournful accents,—“This is the great gigantic gateway of the powerful,
puissant, and portentious Castle of Baden; where men were strangled,
women were pressed to death, and children were _done for_ in a most
sanguinary, blood-thirsty, and barbarous manner. Behold,” said he,
in continuation, “the frowning granite that seems to yawn upon you
with the sleep of seven centuries. Within these blocks of stone, was
the famous ever-to-be-remembered, and never-to-be-forgotten secret
tribunal; below it are the secret chambers, the secret prisons, the
secret dungeons, and the secret horrors of this unsatisfactory pile of
buildings; but, come my friendships, we will go to the within port, and
there you shall see all the horrors of the dungeons as it appears by
the light of the flambeau. You would like to see the dungeons!—_Gents?_”
To this appellation we gave the most profound of bows, as much like
the obeisances of a “gent” of any of the seven drapers’ establishments
as we could assume. “Now, gents!” said the guide, “elevate the lids of
your desiring eyes, and follow me.” We did so, till we came to a low
portal gate, hedged round with ruins—dark, damp, and nauseous. “Stand
here, gents,” said the guide, with a fierce aspect and a menacing tone;
“stand here and contemplate, while I fetches the key.” After keeping us
waiting for a short time, he returned, holding in his hand a gigantic
key, which, having brandished with a mysterious air for some seconds,
he put into the lock—the old door grated on its hinges, and at last
stood open. He then looked at us sternly, and with the accents of
Hamlet’s Ghost, said in a hollow voice, “Follow me!”
Keet pulled out his “cheese-toaster,” and having deliberately sharpened
it on the stone door-posts, and brandished it as “Ferocio” did the
key, he gave me an expressive leer, and we followed. When we got
into the door-way, we perceived the passage to be very dark, but we
followed—took a turning to the right and then to the left, but all was
dark as “Erebus,” and we began to feel comical. Keet called out to the
guide, “I say, old fellow, I hope you are not going too far in this
darkness visible.” “Nouagh!” said the guide, with a grunt that echoed
through the place, “I av’ a flare-up in my pack!” With that he turned
round, and rubbing a lucifer on the wall, and pulling a flambeau from
his pocket, lighted it, and we proceeded.
We first came to another door, little and sturdy, and grim;—this he
kicked open with his foot. We then descended some stone steps; we then
went up a few steps, then down again, then round a corner, and then
through a niche, till having passed a third door-way without a door,
we came to a large vaulted room, lighted by heavy-barred windows from
above. “This,” said the guide, “is the place in which the women were
confined in time of war, lest they should unman the soldiers by their
frightments. Here they were all shut up like ‘cats in a barn,’ and, it
is said, that sometimes they fought to desperation. These here marks on
the wall are said to be occasioned by their mutual recriminations, and
the _lex talions_, as von gent called Alberto Smytheti say.”
The whole of this part of the structure is of Roman workmanship, but
the dungeons to which they lead are evidently of German construction;
and were, no doubt, appendages to the original pile; and designed
for the exercise of some of the delightful eccentricities of German
Margraves or Margravines, which Keet called “little amiabilities of
temper and prejudice.” We now reached a low vaulted room, and our
guide, with great coolness, took from his German small clothes, two
thick candles, which having lighted, we were told to carry them.
“Gents,” said he, “look to your heads against the walls, your feet
against the floors, and your elbows against the angles, don’t step into
holes, and say your prayers when you see a cross upon the stones, for
that place once belonged to——one who shall be nameless.”
Our guide now unbolted a small door, and descending two or three steps,
we entered a narrow passage which we could just squeeze through, and
this terminated in a square, vaulted room. The aspect of the passage,
and still more the dismal horror of the vault, which Keet said, “smelt
of bye-gone silent systems,” removed all fears that I should not find
dungeons terrible enough. It was quite impossible that stone walls can
convey a feeling of more hopeless desolation. From this square room
branched one more opening; but the utter darkness, the earthy smell,
the coldness, the damp, the sullen mystery of the intricate windings it
comprehended were such, that we now made, what Keet called, an “awful
pause.”
Our guide, however, was not so timid. He said, courageously, “Come
allons, gents. If you die here, you will not want a burying,” and he
led the way, with a “mind your head here,” and “mind your feet there.”
We were, after many tortuous windings, stopped by a door of stone,
a foot thick, hewn in one piece out of the granite rock. This door
stood ajar, and our “Ferocio” opened it with his thick stick, which
he used as a lever. We squeezed past it—Keet gave it one of his pious
addresses, and made the sign of the cross. “This is the little Bijou,”
said the guide, “a nice little gem of a prison.” It was a small,
vaulted stone room, utterly dark, damp, cold, and horribly mouldy to
the nose and lungs—and deadly to the body and soul. We shuddered—Keet
looked savage, and clenched his “cheese-toaster” with revenge in his
looks, as if he would have summoned up the Ghost of the villainous Old
Baron—who could form such dungeons—back again to earth, to have a stab
at him.
“This is the next,” said the guide, as he passed through another
massive door of rock, and another dismal vault. “This is the third,”
said he, and passed into another. “This is the fourth,” said he,
and took out his brandy bottle—“and this is the fifth,” hurrying us
along, and taking sup after sup from the aforesaid brandy bottle—“and
this is the eighth, ninth, and tenth.” There were, indeed, ten such
horrible dungeons; some of them hewn out of the solid rock, as well as
the passages which led to them, and others are constructed of immense
blocks of stone.
After passing through several passages, we reached a chamber of lesser
dimensions, the aspect and atmosphere of which might have chilled
a lion’s heart. Our guide paused as he passed the threshold, took
another dose, of course, from his brandy bottle, and said:—“This is the
‘Zammination Chamber.’” Many massive iron rings fastened into the walls
of this room, gave indications, sufficiently intelligible, of the mode
in which the questionings were wont to be carried on there.
One of the openings that led from this frightful room terminated in a
wall, along which another passage rose at right angles. Exactly at the
corner at which the turn was made, the footing of solid earth or rock
that we had hitherto trod, was changed for a flooring of planks; which,
if not quite loose, were yet so placed as to leave considerable space
between them. He suffered us to pass over them, and when we had entered
the door-way that stood at right angles, he stopped saying—“Here, this
is the _Oubliette_,” and pointed as he spoke to the planks we had
passed.
“And what is the _Oubliette_?” “It means _Maurecement_!” said the
guide, “a sort of ‘_eternal without a bottom_.’ When a foreigner was
sentenced to be forgotten, he was made to pass from the judgment-hall
through this door, these planks then sunk beneath him, he was
_universitied_ as he fell to the bottom, and was heard of no more.” I
shall tell you more of the horrors of this place in another chapter.
[Illustration]
A few Words about the Egyptians,
ANCIENT AND MODERN.
[Illustration]
In many respects Egypt is one of the most interesting countries on
the face of the earth. It was the cradle of infant science—and the
first seat of regular government; and if we go back into the darkness
of bye-gone ages, we shall find in Egypt the first dawn of social
intelligence. The land of the Pharoahs was an old country in the infant
age of Greece. The earliest writers of Europe describe its grandeur
as having already reached its consummation, and even as beginning to
pass away. In the days of Homer, the capital of the Thebaid, with
its hundred gates, and its vast population, was a subject of wonder,
and what that poet relates of it, as illustrated by the recondite
criticism of a Mitford, would scarcely be believed, were it not that
the remains which, even after a lapse of three thousand years, continue
to resist the injuries of the atmosphere and of barbarism, bear
evidence to a still greater magnificence than is recorded in the pages
of the Odyssey. Keet, the antiquarian and traveller, whose Asiatic
researches do him so much honor, spent a considerable time in Egypt
under the patronage of Ali Pacha, and made it his business to search
into the past and present state of that wonderful people. Rich in the
intelligence of modern science, he bears testimony to the improving
capabilities of the modern Egyptians. In examining the monuments of
that ancient people, he formed conclusions as to their former manners
and customs, by no means uninteresting. He discourses to us of the
“Dead, and of their Burial.” “In ancient times,” he tells us that, “a
talent of silver, four-hundred-and-fifty pounds, was often employed
in a funeral. The relations of the deceased” says he, “announced to
the judges that a ‘dead’ is about to pass the canal, and of the place
to which he belonged. Two-and-forty judges are then collected and
arranged on a semicircular bench, which is situated on the bank of
the canal, the boat is prepared, and the pilot, who is called by the
Egyptians, ‘Charon,’ is ready at his post. But before the body is put
into the boat, the authorities assemble, and one, who is called the
_accuser_, or _sateen_, brings forward against the deceased all his
crimes. The judges deliberate—an advocate replies to the accuser—if the
accuser makes out his case against the advocate, the deceased is denied
honourable interment, and may be cast into Tophet to be consumed; but
if his conduct has been good, he is ferried over the lake, and his soul
is supposed to enter the realms of eternal bliss, prepared for the
righteous from all eternity.”
[Illustration]
The Egyptians had many curious manners and customs. Unlike the other
Oriental nations, the Egyptians, like the English, since the times of
Shakspeare, Sir Philip Sydney, Raleigh, and other beard-wearers, did
not wear beards. They were the only people that practised shaving from
remote antiquity, and they held it as the _sign of civilization_, as
it was also considered by the Normans. We invariably find the captives
from barbarous tribes depicted with rough beards and shaggy locks,
as if no more striking marks could be given of their inferiority
to the highly cultivated nation which was subjected to the sway of
the Pharoahs. In the engraving, we behold two captive Jews, with an
Egyptian warrior before and an Egyptian attendant behind. The Jews have
their beards, the Egyptians have not; and in the engraving following,
we have two warriors, each leading two captives: the warriors have the
bow-and-arrow—the bow being not a stick bent in a rounded form, but a
piece of wood bent at a very wide angle. The captives are bound and
bearded, and their costume consists of a long cloak, which falls nearly
to the ancles, leaving their front dresses exposed, while that of the
Egyptians are like petticoats.
[Illustration]
Leaving beards for awhile, we may remark upon the law processes of
the Egyptians. In civil suits, the number of judges—or, rather, the
jury—was thirty; and it is worthy of notice, that their president
wore a breast-plate adorned with jewels, upon which the word _Truth_
appeared strongly emblazoned. The eight books of the laws were spread
open in court; the pleadings of the advocates were in writing, in order
that the feelings of the judges might not be improperly biased by the
eloquence of the orator. The president delivered the sentence of his
colleagues by touching the successful party with the mysterious symbol
of truth and justice, which adorned his person.
[Illustration]
In their battles, the Egyptians were very ferocious, and after they
were over, exercised many barbarities, by the immolation of their
prisoners. An admirable representation of a battle-field is found on
the walls of the great Temple of Medinet Habou. The South, and part
of the East wall is covered with a battle scene, where the cruel
punishment of the vanquished, by cutting off their hands and maiming
their bodies, is performed in the presence of the Chief, who has seated
himself in repose, on the back part of his chariot, to witness the
execution of this horrid sentence. Heaps of amputated hands are counted
over before him, and an equal number of scribes, with scrolls in their
hands, are writing down the account: as many rows of prisoners stand
behind, to undergo a similar mutilation in their turns. Their hands
are bound behind their backs, or lashed over their heads, or thrust
into eye-shaped manacles. Some of their heads are twisted completely
round; and some of them are turned back to back, and their arms lashed
together round the elbows, and thus they are marched up to punishment.
[Illustration]
In ancient times, the Egyptian system, as now, was one of the most
cruel tyranny. Large masses of men were ordered, at the will of a
despot, to “labour, in the sweat of their brow,” to their death. The
slavery of the lower orders gave birth to the Pyramids. What masses
were employed, and how human life was wasted, is evinced by the manner
in which Necho made his canal, connecting the Nile with the Red Sea.
Things are now much the same in that country. Mehemet Ali, the Pacha
of Egypt, obliged 150,000 men—chiefly Arabs from Upper Egypt—to
work on his canal, connecting the Nile with the Sea at Alexandria;
20,000 of that number perished during the execution of the work. The
construction of the railroad from Cairo to Alexandria is not, however,
conducted on this wicked principle; and things are beginning to wear
the appearance of humanity.
[Illustration]
One of the great labours of the ancient Egyptians was brick-making.
The bricks were made of the clay of the district, or mud of the Nile;
and in the Egyptian monuments, we have many representations, not
only of the manner in which brick-making was carried on, but also of
the application of bricks in the construction of houses. When Moses
commenced his mission, the Hebrews were chiefly occupied in making
these large bricks, dried in the sun, and compacted with straw, such
as may be seen in the Nimroud ruins. These bricks were often made use
of in the upper parts of houses, and in process of time, the weather,
and the heat of the sun, destroyed the more fragile part of a building,
and buried the strong foundations of it beneath their ruins. In the
engraving I have here introduced, the mode of making the brick is
delineated; some of the brick-makers are cutting the clay—others are
moulding it into parallelepipedom forms, and placing the bricks in
a row for drying. In the drawing, the bricks appear to be one above
another, but this appearance is given in consequence of the Egyptians
using no perspective in their drawings. The mode of arranging them was
in rows, flat upon the ground; they were then baked by the heat of the
sun, and the long dry weather, which lasts for months in this part of
the world.
[Illustration]
In building their houses, the Egyptians arranged the bricks much after
the same manner as we do at present, and had a kind bitumenous cement
for mortar. In the engraving, copied from one of the Egyptian tombs, we
have, first the taskmaster, sitting in the usual Egyptian custom, with
a long rod or stick in his hand; below him is a slave, who has just
brought some bricks to be used on the building; before him is another
slave, with masses of cement or bitumen, and below this figure are
others, building up a wall, or side of a house.
[Illustration]
The Pyramids, of which I have so often spoken, are, above all things,
the most wonderful of the Egyptian antiquities, and exhibit the science
of early times graphically. Nor were their temples less majestic. That
erected at Sais had in it a sanctuary, which consisted of a single
stone. The carriage of this employed two thousand men for the whole
period of three years. The length of this hallowed stone was twenty-one
cubits, the width fourteen, and the height eight—and allowing the cubit
to be one foot seven inches, you will have an idea of its diminsions.
The practice of erecting monolithic (single stone) temples was very
general in Egypt, some striking specimens having been preserved in
various parts of the country. Pilgrimages and sacrifices were a part of
the system of religion. The latter were employed for the expiation of
sins. The worshipper placed his hand on the head of the victim, loaded
it with imprecations, and its last gasp was the seal of his pardon.
Till the reign of Amasis, even human victims were offered. Besides the
heavenly bodies, some kinds of animals, also, were worshipped. These
were not regarded as mere symbols, but adored as actual gods, like
the Apis and Mnevis; this worship arose from the hieroglyphics of the
Egyptians. In one of their places of worship, the painting below was
found, which represents offerings, attended by priestesses, coming to
the temple. And with this, I shall conclude my notes upon Egypt.
[Illustration]
THE WILLOW TREE.
FROM MARY HOWITT’s “DIAL OF LOVE AT NOON-DAY.”
In a valley deep a little stream did run,
Dashing o’er the pebbles in the blithsome sun;
By the river’s edge the forget-me-not did grow,
And a weeping willow kissed the water’s flow.
The violet raised its head from under the willow-tree,
Whispering gentle words, as also did the bee,
Who came to gather honey from the lovely flowers
Of the valley meadow, till the cruel mowers
Came, each scythe in hand, to that valley deep,
And cut down the flowers. Weep, weep, oh weep!
Now no more the flowers fill with scent the air,
Now no more the skylark has a young brood there.
Lonely is the willow, by the water’s flow,
Weeping, ever weeping, to the stream below:—
Weeping, ever weeping, like a thing forlorn—
Mourning for the flowers that were cut down at morn.
The corn is ripe and golden, the autumn sun o’erhead,
But in that silent valley the willow-tree is dead.
[Illustration: The Goat of the Welsh Guards]
The Regimental Goat.
Goats are the oddest creatures that can be imagined, and are as varied
as to species as they are as to tricks. He is a sheepish looking
animal, but nothing at all like the sheep in its habits. He can bear
heat and cold, wind and storm—it is only very severe cold that kills
him, as it did my poor “Billy,” in St. John’s Churchyard, seven years
ago. The inconstancy of his disposition is marked by the irregularity
of his actions. He walks, stops short, runs, leaps, approaches,
retires, shows or conceals himself, or flies off, as if actuated by
mere caprice, and without any other cause than what arises from an
eccentricity of temper. Yet he is a very docile and attached beast.
He can be made to draw a carriage, and patiently submits to labour.
He will also bear a saddle, and in some mountain countries it is no
uncommon thing to see little children mounted on goats, who ride with
great ease, and sometimes with great speed. These goats are very fond
of horses, and horses are very fond of them. I have often found our
poor “Billy” standing on the back of “Bessie,” the mare, when the
stable-door has been opened of a morning. They are, too, from their
very nature, prone to climb: and master “Billy,” not always content
with “Bessie’s” back as a mountain, on one occasion leaped from the
wall of the dung-pit on to a higher wall, and from that to the tiles
of the stable, and from there he soon mounted to the top of the roof;
and after capering about there for some time, he, evidently pleased
with the mountain-like elevation, bounded to the roof of another
house, from that to a third, and so on from roof to roof, over half
the houses in the town. It was difficult to know what to do—“Billy”
would not come down till he liked. It was of no use to call “Billy,
Billy,” and to hold up bunches of hay or Shrewsbury cakes—“Billy” only
snorted at them; and every person over whose roof “Billy” pattered had
a reverential fear for their tiles, and the outcry was loud to get him
from them. One “savage bear” proposed to shoot him, a “cunning old fox”
proposed to throw a lasso over him, but to no purpose. “Billy” was
delighted with his elevated position, and felt as proud as if he had
been called to the chair at a public dinner, and felt no desire to come
down whatever. It so happened, however, that being Whit-Monday—Punch’s
Holiday—the parish engines had to be called out for exercise, and the
principal churchwarden of the place, the renowned Robert Balderdash,
Esq., proposed that the water-spout should be brought to bear upon
Billy. After some remonstrance on the part of Jemmy Barerib, the
Secretary of the Teetotallers, at the unnecessary waste of water, the
engine made play, and poor Billy was soused over head and ears, and
nearly knocked over by the force of the water, whereupon he snorted and
rose on his hind legs, and kicked and scampered homewards as fast as
his legs would carry him.
It is not an uncommon thing to find goats attending an army on its
march, and in some of those provinces which the Russian Emperor wishes
to steal from the Turks, herds of goats follow in the rear of the
Turkish troops. They are generally milch goats, and afford an agreeable
supply of milk to the officers and others of the various regiments. One
of our own regiments had a couple of goats attached to it; the last
pair had been presented to it by Her Majesty the Queen, but one of
these having died, the remaining one now does duty alone, as you see
him in the picture.
Some goats have been taught very extraordinary tricks. They have been
taught to climb a very high pole, by the aid of small pegs let into
its sides, and then to balance themselves on its top. They have also
been trained to take enormous leaps through blazing circles of fire: to
dance to the sound of a tabor, and to do such wonderful things, that
I am ashamed to relate them to you, for fear you would not believe
me—therefore, let this be sufficient for a Chapter on Goats.
[Illustration]
The Rain; or, the Child, the Fairy, and the Magic Bird.
A loving fairy watched over the slumbers of a beautiful child. The
little maiden seemed to be dreaming uneasily, for she turned often in
her sleep, then she rubbed a little ring on her finger, and then waving
her arm upwards, she sang:—
“Rain, rain,
Go away.
Come again
Another day—
Little Johnny
Wants to play.”
“Mary! Mary! my pretty one!” said the kind fairy, “what is the matter?
That magic ring, which I gave you,—you have been rubbing it for the
last ten minutes,—what is it you want with me?”
“Did I rub the ring?” said Mary, starting up; “I did not know that:—but
I do want you, dear fairy. You must know that I and my brother Johnny
are invited to my auntie’s to-morrow, provided it be fine weather. It
has been raining almost every day for the last week, and last night it
looked very black, as if it would rain again. Now, dear fairy, grant me
a favour?—Give me and Johnny a fine day for our visit to auntie’s.”
The fairy looked tenderly on the child, but yet grave. “Mary, my sweet,
did I not tell you, when I gave you the magic ring, that you were not
to summon me except when you wanted comfort, or advice, or help to
strengthen your character? I said you were never to ask gifts of me,
nor any change of _outward_ circumstances. However, it is well you have
called me; for I have something to tell you. I am about to leave the
Fairy realm for a short time, and during my absence I cannot answer the
rubbing of the ring. But I will not leave you without some help. Until
my return, I will lend you one of the birds that sing in the gardens of
our Fairy-land.”
The fairy struck three times with her wand upon the floor, and a moment
or two afterwards three or four little hands were lifted up, holding a
golden bird-cage, with a beautiful canary in it.
“There, my child, cherish this little bird tenderly. Let the door of
its cage be open all day, that it may wander about the garden where it
will. It will not go away from you very far. Every night it will sleep
in its cage.”
Mary looked on the little bird, and was greatly pleased. She put her
lips to the golden wires, and the pretty little creature came and
kissed them. She opened the door, and it flew upon her finger and sang,
and with its pretty round eyes looked into hers, and played with its
beak about her pretty mouth.
“Oh, fairy! dear fairy! a beautiful bird indeed! I will take great care
of it, for I love it tenderly.”
“My child,” said the fairy, “I have lent you this beautiful creature
for your good, not for your amusement merely. This little bird has
the power of speaking to you when you need it. Listen attentively to
his songs, and let the meaning and spirit of them sink deep into your
heart.”
So saying, the fairy went away, and left Mary alone with the bird.
For awhile the pleasure of looking at it quite filled her mind.
Its beautiful plumage, its little round sparkling eye, its pretty,
affectionate ways, its clear, sweet note, were always delightful and
charming. After a time, however, she remembered the day’s pleasure that
had been promised to her at her aunt’s, and she lifted up the blind of
the window to look at the weather.
O dear! dear! it rained worse than ever!—Drip, drip, drip—patter,
patter, patter. Little bits of spongy cloud kept scudding overhead,
sometimes black and sometimes grey, sometimes dropping a good drenching
shower, and sometimes only a drizzling sheet of spray. The roads were
soft and miry, with little pools of water here and there, through which
the horses and carts passed with a splashing sound. Mary sighed. She
thought of her aunt’s beautiful garden and meadow, of the games of play
with her cousins, of the swing under the boughs of the mulberry tree,
of the pet lamb and the little dog, and little Johnny trotting about
and enjoying it all; and then she looked out into the gloomy rain. How
vexatious! “Rain, rain, go away!” the lips of the little maiden pouted,
and presently she began to cry.
“Swe-et!—swe-et!” said the little bird, from his golden cage, and then
he broke out into song:—
“Oh! Foolish little maid to pray
The fruitful rain to go away.
Showers as well as sunbeams fall,
From that deep Soul which loveth all;
Dark or bright, the Heavens are full
Of mercies—sweet and beautiful.”
“Ah, little bird! is that you, dearest?” said Mary; “I did not mean to
ask anything improper. I know the rain is very beautiful; but then so
much of it, you know—and just at this time, too, when we are invited to
auntie’s! O! really, little bird, it is very, very——”
But the little bird would not hear more. He drowned her voice with loud
carollings, and he kept on singing all the day, while the rain fell and
pattered against the window-panes. All the day long it rained without
ceasing. When the evening came, it held up for awhile, but the sky was
still dark and lowering. Mary retired to her bed-room for the night,
and placed her little bird on the dressing-table near the window; and
when she had said her evening prayer, and lain down on her pillow with
a quiet heart, the little creature gave one long-drawn note of song,
and a calm sleep came over both bird and child. Once during the night,
the veil of clouds parted for a moment, and a glowing little star sent
a ray of its beauty into the room; but the darkness folded over it
again, and when the morning came and Mary got up, it rained. Again!
Still disappointment! Little Johnny, at the breakfast-table, kept on
asking why he did not go to auntie’s; and it required a good deal of
talking and coaxing to keep him from crying about it.
Just as breakfast was over, who should ride up to the door but Thomas,
auntie’s groom, mounted on a beautiful bay mare, but splashed up to
the very saddle-girths, with mud and mire. Thomas brought a letter
to Mary’s mamma, to say that the visit of the children would better
be put off for a few days. At present, the lawn was soddened with
water, and all the paths were wet and muddy. As the children wanted
to amuse themselves out of doors, they must wait not only till the
weather was fine, but also till the ground was dry. Now, to the ears
of poor Mary and little Johnny, this sounded like a putting off of the
invitation altogether. Johnny cried about it sadly, and Mary, partly
out of love to him, and partly from her own disappointment, felt much
inclined to cry too. She ran up to her bed-room, and tried to drive
back the tears, by thinking of something bright and cheerful; but it
was very difficult, for the pattering of the rain went on, and as the
drops broke and melted on the window, they ran down it like tears. The
furniture of the room was clammy and unpleasant to the touch, and now
and then a big rain-drop fell down the chimney into the fire-place,
and sounded on the bright fender. Altogether, it was very dismal. Mary
looked up to her little bird; his round bright eye twinkled as bright
and happy as ever. She remembered what he had said about the skies
being always full of beauty, and she knew that it was true; but still
she did long for the sunshine, and she could not help talking to her
little pet about it:—“Oh, when will the sunshine come, my pretty bird?
when will the sunshine come?”
“Swe-et! swe-et?” said the bird:—
“When the troubled breast is still,
And duty guides and shapes the will;—
When holy feelings upward stray,
And meet the love of Heaven mid-way—
In the heart without guile
The sweet sunbeams shall smile,
And joy all around,
Like music-drops, sound.”
“Ah, little bird, you talk just like the fairy!—She speaks to me about
the inward sunshine; but, dear little bird, I want to know when the
outward sunshine will come?”
The bird was silent. Presently it hopped out of its cage—perched upon
her finger—kissed her on the lips—and passed its little bill up and
down her cheek, in such a fondling way, that she felt tears of love
and tenderness in her eyes. She caressed the little bird, and thought
no more of the rain; and she made up her mind, that happen what might,
rain or sunshine, disappointment or not, she would leave off her
murmuring. So, with a calm bright countenance, she went about all her
duties; and little Johnny, touched by her kindness, and amused by her
playfulness, grew quite content to have the promised visit to auntie’s
put off for a little while.
The whole week continued showery. Some days there were several hours
of sunshine, which seemed to give promise of brighter weather; then
came an hour of rain, which drenched the gardens and the roads, and
made play out-of-doors impossible. But now, it had no effect on the
temper of little Mary. She would have liked fine weather better than
wet, a great deal better indeed; but she was gradually learning to
bear disappointment; the inward sunshine was brightening in her heart.
One day, when there had been a good many intervals of sunshine, and the
showers had passed over quickly, she was playing with little Johnny
in the parlour, when she suddenly heard her bird singing loudly, and
calling to her with his “swe-et! swe-et!”
“Ah! my pretty one! I am coming! Darling has got something to say to
me!”
She hurried up to her room, and the bird sang:—
“See where hope and beauty glow,
Dancing down the bending bow.”
She opened the window, and looked out over the landscape. There was
a most lovely rainbow in the skies. It arched over a broad heaven,
and the green earth beneath it sent up a grateful fragrance, and all
the flowers looked up lovingly at the rainbow, and gave it smile for
smile. Water-drops twinkled like stars among the green leaves of the
gently waving trees; and, as the sunbeams glistened on the gilt vane
of the distant church-spire, it gleamed in the air like a tongue of
golden flame. What a chirping from the green boughs and the hedge-rows!
The lark in the sky sent messages of love down to the linnet in the
brushwood, and the robin on the thorn. The breeze sprung up, and sang
through the leafy boughs of the Poplar and the Elm, and light and music
mingled together, as if nature had clustered her beauties and joys
for a service of thanksgiving. Far and wide, and upward, spread the
various melody. It seemed as if every voice had wings, fluttering with
delight, and bearing away into the blue air the silent gratitude of the
flowers, and the prayers of all beautiful though voiceless things.
Mary sat at the window, and with cheek resting on her hand, she looked
over the beautiful scene. The beauty-drops all around trickled to the
very roots of her affections; her heart throbbed, her eyes glistened,
and the breathing of her bosom heaved it as gently as if the waves
of some soft music-stream were flowing there. She saw that all was
good—storm and calm, rain and sunshine, summer and winter—all was good;
and her young spirit hallowed it, and rested in a sabbath of calm.
Presently the rainbow melted away, the clouds fell to the horizon, and
the sun spread his bright beams over a broad, blue sky. Mary put on
her little straw-hat, and went down into the garden. Near the steps
was a large flower-pot, with a rose-tree in it. It was half-blown; the
rain-drops were glistening in its leaves; its fragrance was passing
into the air, and making it delicious and sweet; its blushing tints
were exquisitely lovely; the mere looking at the rainbow seemed to
have increased its beauty. Mary took the flower in her hand—smelled
it—kissed its leaves—and then a pulse of music throbbed at her heart,
and the little maiden sang:—
“I dream of my Rose when the spirits of light
Dance on the beautiful margins of night,
And the mists of the morning unclose;
When at murmuring eve, the angel of rest
Foldeth us lovingly close to her breast,
Then I think of my own pretty Rose.
Beautiful world, that so well can impart
The lessons of loveliness fit for the heart!
A stream of sweet tenderness flows
From bird and from flower—from streamlet and sky—
From beauty below and from beauty on high,
And the smiles of my own pretty Rose.”
“Ah! Miss Mary!” said a voice, “I am always glad to hear you sing, and
particularly such a happy, thankful song as that.”
Mary started, for she did not know that any one was by to hear her
sing. She turned, and saw the farmer’s wife, one of their nearest
neighbours, who had come in silently by the garden-wicket, with a
milk-pail in her hand, which she was going to take into the kitchen.
“We are going to have a change of weather at last, Miss!”
“Are we?” said Mary. “How do you know that?”
“The wind that is blowing now has dried up a good deal of wet already,
and my husband says, that if it goes on blowing in the night, it will
be quite dry under foot by to-morrow morning.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mary, “for Johnny and I have been
engaged, for some time past, to go to my aunt’s; but the rain has
prevented us. To-morrow, you think there is a chance for us, do you?”
“I have no doubt of it, my dear; but if you like, I will give you a
signal of fair weather early in the morning. You know my boy Jem minds
his father’s sheep on those downs yonder. He plays the flageolet pretty
well, and he always takes it with him to amuse himself when he is alone
on the hills. When the wind is blowing from the quarter where it is
now, you can hear him very plainly, as you sometimes have, no doubt. I
will tell him to play to-morrow morning, about six o’clock; and if you
can hear him, you may be sure that the wind is in the dry quarter, and
may reckon on a fine day.”
“Thank you!” said Mary, “let it be so, if you please. Tell him to play
loud and well.”
That day passed in happy, tranquil beauty. A fresh breeze swept over
the hills and leas, and sang through the boughs all the evening long;
and when the little maiden went to bed, its murmuring hushed her to
slumber. Pleasant was her sleep, and beautiful and innocent her dreams!
Tick, tick, tick! went the clock upon the stair-case, and the wind went
on whistling and sighing through all the night hours. At five o’clock
in the morning, the light shone strong into the bed-chamber, and every
cock in the neighbourhood was crowing. The little maiden turned over
on her pillow; but she still slept. Six o’clock! and not awake yet?
Suddenly the little bird fluttered his wings, and gave a long shake of
his music at the very top of his voice. Then he sang:—
“What! my maiden—sleeping still?
Hark! the music on the hill!”
Mary awoke, and the first sounds she heard after the calling of her
bird, were the notes of a flageolet from the downs. She got up and
dressed, drew up the blind of her window and looked out—and, oh! what a
clear, dry, beautiful, fresh, sparkling morning!
Oh! happy day! Now, Johnny, my dear, we shall go to auntie’s, and play
in the meadow and garden through the bright sunny hours. Up! up! and be
stirring every one! Get the breakfast over in a twinkling, and out with
the pony chaise! Now they are off! Johnny and Mary, side by side, and
one of her fond arms around him.
Auntie’s was an exceedingly nice place to go to. She had an excellent
house, and beautiful grounds attached to it. There was a lawn and
shrubbery, and flower-beds, and fountain, a dog and a peacock, and,
oh! such a beautiful little pet lamb! Cousins Julia and George wove a
garland of flowers and gave it to Johnny, who put it round the lamb’s
neck. Mary got a basin of milk from the kitchen, and the gentle little
creature lapped it from her hand.
[Illustration]
Thus, sometimes out of doors, sometimes in, sometimes in the greenhouse
and shrubbery, sometimes in the paddock,—sometimes playing with the
dog, sometimes with the lamb, and always with each other, the happy
children flew on the wings of golden hours to the evening of the day.
While the chaise was being got ready to take them home, Mary wandered
alone for a moment or two into a retired part of the garden, and while
there, she carelessly, and without thinking of what she did, rubbed the
magic ring upon her finger.
The fairy instantly appeared.
“What, Fairy! have you come back again? I was not thinking of you. I
did not know that I had rubbed the ring. I did not intend to trouble
you.”
“I know you did not; but I have come for all that. Mary, my child, I am
very happy indeed, to find that you have attended so well to my little
bird, and that you have grown so patient and spiritual. I have come now
to say that the time has arrived when we fairies must have our gifts
returned to us. Give me that little ring from your finger.”
The little maiden obeyed, and put the ring into the fairy’s hand.
“Good, my child! what I am now going to say to you will, I fear, be
rather painful. It is this:—by the time you get home you will find I
have taken away the beautiful magic bird. You remember that it was but
a loan until my return?”
“Oh, dear Fairy! don’t! don’t! Pray don’t take it away,” cried the
child, bursting into tears.
“Hush, my pretty one! Remember you are not, and never will be, without
the teaching of beautiful things. Has not every bird in the skies a
voice for you? Do not the rainbows speak of love and beauty? Do not
your own roses breathe sweet affection on you? And the wind, and the
rain, and the stars, and the trees, have they not already been teachers
of wisdom to you? My darling, you are not forgotten! ‘Day unto day
uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth forth knowledge’ for you
and for all that are willing to learn.”
The fairy vanished. Mary bowed her head and dried up her tears. She
went into the house, kissed her aunt and cousins affectionately, and
went home with Johnny in the pony chaise.
Her after life was something like this experience of her youth. It
had its rainy season and its disappointments; it had its rainbow of
hope and beauty; it had its winds and its storms; its sunshine and its
calms; and it had, too, a still small voice within it singing like a
magic bird. By listening to what it said and obeying it, she made it on
the whole a life of happiness and beauty.
[Illustration]
The Electric Telegraph.
Most wondrous specimen of art,
With Nature’s laws combined,
Thou actest an enchanter’s part,
Unrivalled in its kind.
United, at a moment’s date
Two distant spots we see;
Whilst time and space, annihilate,
Are set at nought by thee.
The fabled wonders, which of old
Our childhood loved to read,
Have scarcely equal wonders told,
To match thy light’ning speed.
The waive of the magician’s wand
Bade distant scenes appear;—
Whilst far off lands, at thy command,
Obediently hear.
O’er miles and miles the message flies;
Yet scarcely it is said—
When lo!—the listener replies
Before a moment’s fled.
When shall thy new-found influence cease?—
How far will it extend?—
Shall not its curious powers increase?—
Remotest nations blend.
Yet enemies thou needs’t must find—
True merit raises spite—
Then think of all the foes combined
With which thou’lt have to fight:
Ambassadors—who’ll be sent back
From every foreign nation—
With secretaries at their back,
All dying of vexation.
The post-office destroyed will be—
For where’s the use of writing?—
While answers will come back to us
While queries we’re inditing.
Let’s have a talk, then, quite at ease,
And gossip while we may;
Let’s chat awhile with the Chinese,
And jest with Paraguay.
We’ll ask a riddle in Peru—
Tell tales in Ispahan,—
Just speak a word in Timbuctoo—
And whisper in Japan.
As round the world thy influence rolls,
For one, I shall not wonder
To find, through thee, the very poles
Cannot be kept asunder.
[Illustration: A day at the Hall]
Juvenile Day at the Hall.
An old English Hall is one of the finest and most noble of mansions.
Our country abounds with them; and happy may be, I will not say is, he
who possesses one. Old Leckford Hall, in Suffolk, and Helmingham Hall,
in the same place, have ever commanded my veneration; but there is one,
which now shall be nameless, that I used, in my youth, to love to pay a
visit to.
The said hall stood in a secluded situation, deeply embowered. On three
sides it was surrounded by a park, on the fourth by meadows, edged
by the river. Close by, on one side of the house, was a thick grove
of lofty trees, along the verge of which runs one of the principal
avenues to it through the park. It is an irregular building of great
antiquity, probably erected about the termination of feudal warfare,
when defence became no longer to be an object in a country mansion.
Many circumstances in the interior of the house, however, seemed
appropriate to feudal times. The hall is very spacious, floored with
stones and lighted by large transoms that are closed with casements.
Its walls are hung with old military accoutrements, that have long been
left a prey to the rust. At one end of the hall is a range of coats of
mail and helmets, and there is on every side abundance of old-fashioned
pistols and guns, many of them with matchlocks. Immediately below the
cornice hangs a row of leathern jerkins, made in the form of a shirt,
supposed to have been worn as armour by the vassals. A large oak table,
reaching nearly from one end of the room to the other, might have
feasted the whole neighbourhood, and an appendage to one end of it made
it answer, at other times, for the old game of shuffle-board. The rest
of the furniture is in a suitable style, particularly an aged chair of
curious workmanship, an old carved chest, a grave-looking old ebony
cabinet inlaid with precious stones, while the walls were hung with
noble pieces of tapestry, representing the hunting of Diana, and other
strange subjects of sylvan classicality.
The entrance into the hall was by a lofty porch, but there was a
winding stair at one side of it, that led from the front door to a
quadrangle within. At the other it opened into a gloomy staircase,
by which you ascended to the first-floor, and, passing the doors of
some bed-chambers, entered a narrow gallery, which extends along the
back part of the house from one end to the other, and looks upon
an old garden, with high walls all round it, and having niches for
medallions, in which the busts of the twelve Cæsars appear in all their
naked-necked and unadorned beauty. The gallery is hung with portraits,
chiefly in the Spanish dresses of the sixteenth century. In one of
the bed-chambers, which you pass in going towards the gallery, is a
bedstead hung with blue furniture, which time has now made dingy and
thread-bare. The other bed-rooms sympathise with this, and the whole
brought back to me the glory of former days.
The hall of the country squire was usually the scene of hospitality.
At the upper end was placed the _orsille_, or high table, a little
elevated above the floor, and here the master of the mansion presided,
with an authority, if not a state, which almost equalled that of the
potent Baron. The table was divided into upper and lower messes by a
high salt-cellar, and the rank and consequence of the visitors were
marked by the situation of their seats above and below the salt-cellar;
a custom which not only distinguished the relative dignity of the
guests, but extended likewise to the freemen; the wine frequently
circulating only above the salt-cellar, and the dishes below it being
of a coarser kind than those near the head of the table.
Such was an old hall in ancient times. And such remains the old hall
to which I have alluded, with this difference, that the people, the
manners, and the customs have changed. The old hall is now tenanted by
a gentleman of birth and fortune, who is also the spiritual guide of
the scattered flocks of his somewhat extensive domain. He is, indeed,
the “Good Shepherd of the Sheep,” and the sheep love him and follow
him. It is his delight to make all cheerful about him, and nothing
affords him greater pleasure than to give a grand treat at the hall
to the young people, especially the children of the villagers round
him. Once a year he has what he calls a “Juvenile Day at the Hall.” He
invites both rich and poor, and mingles them together for their mutual
good—deeming nothing to be more delightful than the text of scripture,
“rich and poor meet together, for the Lord is the maker of them all.”
[Illustration]
It was a beautiful day in the latter end of June, that the “Juvenile
Day at the Hall” took place. The day was ushered in by the jingle
of the three bells of the little church or chapel close to the
hall, and within its precincts. A flag was placed upon the little
tower, and festoons of flowers were tastefully arranged in the
avenue that led from the church to the mansion. Presently was seen
the village schoolmaster, an old cripple with a very white head,
and with his “four-and-twenty free boys” in their blue jackets and
cord contrivances, and looking all fresh and rosy. Then came the
schoolmistress, with her “clear-starched” cap, neat muslin apron, and
demure demeanour, with her “twenty-four girls” in “russet brown.”
The boys had their traps, bats, and balls, their kites, their
stumps and wicket-markers, and were ready for “hog-over hie,”
“prisoners’-base,” “stay-out,” or any other delightful game. And
the girls were ready for a dance, or a romp, as the occasion might
require—or for a roll down the slope, or for “hunt-the-slipper,” or
“honey-pots,” or any other exhilirating game. Within the hall were the
juveniles of higher stamp—there were the good clergyman’s sons and
daughters, three of the former and four of the latter; there were also
the sons and daughters of the mayor of the Town; and of the half-pay
captains in the valley. Then there were the apothecary’s two daughters,
so proud that their father’s occupation disgusted them; and the
steward’s two sons, fine, noble looking youths, so humble, that they
looked more like gentlemen, than any other persons. However, pride
soon met with a fall, for the apothecary’s two daughters had a roll
down the slope without stopping, a ride on the ponies, and a dance with
the village-school dux—that is the boy who could do “fluxions;” and
long before night, the poor and the rich, the rustic and the genteel,
mingled in the most delightful harmony imaginable. The good old rector,
who was all joy to see young people so happy, often found the tears
coming into his eyes, and all seemed to share his sympathy.
It would be tedious for me to mention all the “noble sports” and funny
entertainments the young ones amused themselves with during this happy,
jolly day—from the drawing of a crooked stick for a plough, to the
noble game of cricket; or hand-kites arose in various directions, or
tired groups of boys exhausted their games on the great meadow. But it
was a crowning joy to find the whole assembled at nightfall, just as
the sun descended to his rest, to partake of a sumptuous entertainment,
finished well by rich, old black-currant wine, and other innocent
drinks. To hear the shouts—the hearty shouts of the youngsters—to see
the beautiful rosy cheeks of the village girls, and the freshened looks
of those, whose false education had made them lack-a-dasical! All were
free, and hearty, and joyous, and when the “Hymn of Praise” was sung
after supper, it appeared to old Peter Parley as the most delightful
thing of all.
I wish those who read Peter Parley’s Annual would encourage these
kind of mysteries. I mean those hundreds of rich persons who can give
the “children of the poor” a treat in such a manner. Our good Queen
Victoria has set us an example in this particular, which all would do
well to follow, and poor old Peter says, in consequence:—“God bless
the Queen of England.”
God bless the Queen of England and happy may she reign,
Through many years of peaceful strength, our freedom to maintain;
May virtue be the brightest gem to sparkle in her crown,
A loyal people’s ardent love the safeguard of her throne.
[Illustration]
Something about Ships and Shipping.
The launch of a “first-rate” man-of-war is one of the finest sights in
the world, as it exhibits the triumph of mechanical genius, and the
wonderful perseverance of man. The building of such a ship is a work
of great skill, labour, and assiduity, and no country possesses these
qualities in greater proportion than Englishmen. It may be interesting
to my young friends, were I to explain, in brief, the methods used in
the construction of a ship, that when they see a mighty castle floating
on the seas, such as the Duke of Wellington, carrying one hundred and
thirty-one guns, they may know something about the means taken to
produce such gigantic effects.
In building large ships, a good ship-yard is essential. It must be
a place to which the tide flows daily, and containing a good depth
of water, with plenty of room, so that the ship, when launched, may
not run a-ground. The most celebrated ship-yards for the building of
men-of-war in England, are those of Chatham, Plymouth, Pembroke, and
Portsmouth, and in these places the building of ships is performed on a
very grand scale, and very large numbers of workmen are employed.
[Illustration]
The first thing done in ship-building, is, what is called “laying down
the stocks.” The stocks are large masses of timber, higher at one end
than at the other, forming what is called an inclined plane, which is
carried out into the water some distance, to allow the vessel to be so
far immersed, before she leaves their support, as nearly to float her.
The ship is supported in an upright position on the stocks or ways by
strong pieces of timber, called the cradle, which can be just seen in
the picture of the launch, jutting out under the stern of the ship. The
cradle is not fixed to the stocks, but moves loosely upon them, and
when the ship is to be launched, slides down the ways with the ship,
and falls to pieces when she reaches the water.
The first thing done when the stocks are built, is the laying down of
that part of the ship called the keel. This is laid down in the middle
of the stocks, and is supported by pieces of wood placed across the
said stocks. On the top of the keel branch out, on each side, long,
bent, square timbers, called the ribs, which, at the lower poop in the
middle of the ship, form nearly a quarter of a circle on each side, and
are afterwards carried nearly upright. Upon these timbers, when they
cross the keel, is laid, in the same direction as the keel, another
long square timber, called the kelson. The keel and kelson are fastened
together, at every place where the floor timbers cross them, by iron
bolts passed through all. That portion of the ribs which touches and
crosses the keel is called the “floor timbers;” upon the kelson are the
steps of the masts.
The ribs are divided into several parts, which are called futtocks. To
the ribs the planking is nailed, and bolted through them; after which
the seams are caulked. This is done by forcing oakum, saturated in tar
or pitch, into the spaces between the planks, when a good coat of tar
is laid over the whole. That part of the ship which is always under
water is covered with thin sheets of copper. This is done to prevent
the attack of a destructive little animal called the wood-worm, which
eats its way into and through the planks, making holes nearly an inch
in diameter. These holes would, by admitting the water into the hold
of the ship, soon sink her, as it is impossible to stop the ravages of
these insects while the ship is at sea. The worm attacks every part
that is below the water-line in such immense numbers, that every plank
in the bottom of a vessel that has not the protection of copper has
been found full of them on her arrival into port.
The ribs of the ship are of a bent form. Of course no tree would be
large enough to form them of one piece; they are, therefore, made in
different lengths, each length being called a futtock; and they are
distinguished as first, second, or third futtock, according to their
position in the ship. These are joined together with great exactness:
if not joined properly the vessel would soon tumble to pieces,
for, when on a heavy sea, a ship is very much strained in various
directions, and the creaking noise the timbers make is so dreadful,
that inexperienced persons think the ship is going to pieces.
A great deal also depends on the position in which these ribs are
placed, not only for the purpose of containing her cargo, but to enable
the ship to sail well. Now, if the broadest part be placed too near the
stern or after-part of the vessel, which is towards you in the drawing
of the launch, she will not pass through the water so swiftly as she
would if it were nearer to her bow, or the fore-part of the ship.
[Illustration]
In the after-part of the ship is the captain’s cabin; the poop is
directly over it; and here is the quarter-deck; the middle of the upper
deck is called the waist or gangway, and beyond that (forward) the
fore-castle. These are all the divisions of the upper-deck, which is
largest in the ship, and, in some of our great men-of-war, is three
hundred feet long—the depth of hold being from fifty to sixty, and the
breadth fifty-five feet.
The next deck is the main-deck, and immediately under the captain’s
cabin is the admiral’s state cabin. In the fore-part of the ship is
the galley or cook’s room, and near to it the sick bay. These are the
principal divisions of the main-deck. A portion of this deck, in front
of the admiral’s cabin, is commonly called the half-deck.
Under the admiral’s cabin is the ward-room, where the lieutenants and
other commissioned officers mess. This is on the middle deck. In the
after-part is the gun-room, where the mates, some of the midshipmen,
the assistant masters, and assistant surgeon, and the ship’s clerks
mess.
The following are in the hold:—1. The boatswain’s and carpenter’s
store-room; 2. The powder magazine; 3. The tanks and water-casks;
4. The shot-well; 5. The pump-well; 6. The provision-stores; 7. The
spirit-room; 8. The bread-room. The after-magazine is situated under
the front of the great gun-room. Thus the ship is now described so far
as her hull is concerned, and now I will say a few words about getting
in the masts.
When this is to be accomplished, which is rather a formidable job, the
ship is first taken alongside of a shear-hulk, or into a dry dock,
by the side of which are erected shears. A very fine specimen of the
latter machinery is to be seen in Woolwich Dock-yard. The shear-hulk
is a large, strongly-built vessel, and well moored by strong chains in
a convenient spot on the water, where any ship can approach her. This
vessel is fitted with a strong, perpendicular mast; and two others,
called the shears, fixed on pivots or hinges to strong frame-work on
the deck. The upper ends, meeting in a point, are suspended by strong
latches from the mast-head in a slanting direction, leaning to such a
distance over the side of the hulk, as to hold the mast to be fixed in
the ship alongside her directly over the holes in the deck; when they
are lowered into their places, and fixed tight with wedges—of course it
is only the lower masts that require the adoption of this method to fix
them in their places—and when their great length and consequent weight
are considered, it is very certain none better could be used.
The length of the main-mast in a large, first-rate ship, is about one
hundred and eighty feet from the keel to the top; the main-top-mast is
sixty feet; above it the main-top-gallant-mast, forty-four feet, being
altogether about two hundred and sixty feet, from which, if we deduct
fifty-two feet, the depth of the hull, we have left two hundred and
eight feet, the height of the main-mast above the deck. In light winds,
royal and sky-sail-masts are set, which will add from thirty to forty
feet to its height.
Large men-of-war, such as the one I have described, will carry a great
number of hands; they frequently amount to a thousand, of which two
hundred are marines; yet, although a ship is thus thronged with people,
the admirable order and regularity with which everything is conducted,
preserves her from many of the disasters to which smaller ships with
fewer hands are liable.
It has been ascertained that the actual weight of a seventy-four
gun-ship, including the hull, rigging, guns, stores, officers and
men, together with six-months’ provisions, amounts to two thousand
eight-hundred _tons_, and the quantity of water displaced when the ship
is afloat is equal to about one hundred thousand cubic feet.
The stowage of large ships is admirable. The live-stock often forms
a considerable item in a ship’s stowage. It is generally for the use
of the officers, and consists of cows, sheep, pigs, and poultry. The
latter, and sheep, are stowed away upon the main-deck, under the waist,
between the guns; and the pigs in that part of the ship called the
manger, on the lower or gun-deck; the cows are kept in boxes or stalls;
the sheep in pens, in one or two tiers; and the poultry in hen-coops.
The whole are under the charge of the butcher and poulterer.
I could tell you a great deal more about ships and shipping, but space
prevents me doing so; and as a great many of our ships are now engaged
in the war against Russia, it will not be out of place to hope that our
brave sailors may not be “savagely slaughtered” by the Russians, and
that the Great Bear may have his claws clipped before we have done with
him.
[Illustration]
Manufacture of Ropes.
Hemp is a plant belonging to the same species as the moss and nettle,
and the quantity used in Great Britain is prodigious. Latterly a large
quantity has been grown in Ireland, and one of the chief objects of the
Irish Industrial Exhibition of last year was to promote the indigenous
growth of Flax and Hemp. An acre of land in Ireland produces on an
average thirty-six or thirty-eight stone of hemp, and the season for
sowing it extends from the 25th of March, to the 15th of June.
What the muscles and sinews are to the human frame, and what wings are
to birds, ropes and sails are to ships. Their manufacture is at all
times of the greatest consequence to our country, and the celerity with
which they can be produced, is one of the wonders of this mechanical
age.
The materiel for a great deal of our cordage comes from Russia, and
more than a million of pounds, of which sixty-three make a ton,
are annually imported to this country; their value is estimated at
something more than half-a-million sterling. It comes over in large
bundles weighing nearly a ton each, which are separated into heads or
layers, each containing twelve or fourteen pounds of hemp.
The qualities of good hemp are a long, fine, and thin fibre, free from
woody particles, and possessed of strength and toughness. The first
process it undergoes is that called heckling. This is performed in the
following manner:—On the surface of a small bench before him, each
heckeller has before him a stand on which are situated, point upwards,
a number of sharp steel spikes, sixty or seventy in number—these
constitute what is technically called the “heckle.” The workman
then taking a head or layer of the hemp in his hand, strikes it on
the points of the heckle and draws it between the spikes, repeating
the operation several times with each head, by which the fibres are
straightened, and the thicker ones split by the sharp points of the
wires, and all the loose fragments are loosened and fall to the ground.
The fibres now drawn out into long parallel threads, have to undergo
the process of twisting. The fibre has to be twisted into yarn, the
yarns into rope. A rope consists of several parts, and in most cases,
is a twisting within a twisting, being built up by threes. In the
subjoined figure we have a ship’s rope or cable. A. B. B. B. shows the
three smaller ropes which forms it. C. the three ropes called strands,
and dissecting one of these, D. we find it to be composed of a number
of threads called yarns, and if we untwist one of the yarns, we arrive
finally at the hempen-fibres themselves.
[Illustration]
The first stage, therefore, of making hemp into rope, is spinning it
into yarn, and this brings us at once to what is technically called
the “rope-walk,” a long narrow space of ground, at one end of which is
a wheel, three or four feet in diameter, round which a band passes in
such a manner as to give rotation to a small number of hooks or whirls
disposed round a semicircular frame above the wheel. Each spinner has a
bundle of hemp round his waist, the double or bight being in front and
the ends crossing each other behind. With his left hand he draws out a
few fibres and fastens them on one of the hooks with his right, which
holds a piece of thick woollen cloth—he grasps these fibres, a boy then
turns the wheel and the spinner walks backwards—the man draws out more
and more fibres from his bundle as he recedes, and the twist which is
given to them by the rotation of the hooks on the wheel makes each
length of fibre entangle itself among those previously drawn out; while
the pressure of the right hand regulates the hardness or closeness of
the twist. The spinner, by his long practice and skill, is enabled to
make any description of yarn, either fine or coarse, by the manner in
which he supplies the hemp to the revolving wheel, and can produce
with the greatest nicety, any given length of yarn from a given weight
of hemp. Each spinner can make about a thousand feet of yarn in about
twelve minutes.
[Illustration]
This process is in many manufactories performed by machinery, but
the hand-made yarn is decidedly the best. When a spinning walk is
in full operation, there are twelve spinners at different parts of
its length, in three groups, each group being distant three or four
hundred feet from the next adjoining, and all the twelve hooks or
whirls of the wheel being engaged at once. As the yarns are twisted,
they are wound in large bundles upon reels, each reel containing about
two-hundred-and-fifty rounds of yarn.
If the hemp should be used for the manufacture of tarred rope—the yarn
is now tarred—the reels of yarn are first warped into a haul, that is,
the yarns are unwound from the reel and stretched out straight and
parallel, and assembled together in a large group, called “a haul,”
consisting of between three and four hundred yarns, each a hundred feet
long. The haul is dipped into a copper of hot tar, and, being dragged
through a grip or gauge, the superfluous tar is squeezed out; by the
aid of a capstan the haul is gradually drawn forward until the whole
has passed through the tar kettle.
The next process in the formation of a rope is the making of the
strand. This may be composed of any number of yarns—in a cable twelve
inches in circumference there are eighty yarns in a strand, and in
the very largest rope cables three hundred and sixty; however, few
if any ropes are now made of the last dimensions, as chain cables
have superseded hempen cables of large size; the latter being, in the
present day, seldom more than twelve inches in circumference, except
for Her Majesty’s navy.
The making of the strand of a rope is now performed by machinery. A
frame consisting of a great variety of bobbins, each loaded with yarn
and posted upon a pivot so as to rotate easily, occupies one end of
the factory; the ends of all these yarns, from twenty to eighty, are
made to pass through an equal number of small holes in a convex plate
attached to the central machine, and then combined into one close
group. This group next passes through a tube, whose diameter is such
as to compress the yarns into close contact, and lastly is wound on
a large reel attached to the machine. Meanwhile the twist is given
to the strand by a remarkable arrangement—the whole of the machinery
from the tube to the reel rotates round a horizontal axis, and in so
doing imparts a twist to the strand, which is passing round the various
wheels. The different arrangements are very beautiful. In the first
place each bobbin rotating separately on its axle, gives off just as
much yarn as the strand requires, so that all become equally strained
by the outer yarns being somewhat longer than the inner. Then the
arrangement of the holes in the plate and of the tube bring all the
yarns to their proper position in the strand, and lastly by changing
the wheels in the machine, the strand becomes more or less hard by
twisting at a more or less acute angle. If the strand be drawn more
swiftly through, while the machine is revolving with a given velocity,
the intensity or closeness of the twist is diminished, if less swiftly
then the twist is increased. Such are some of the beautiful results of
machinery.
To twist the strands into a rope is called “laying” a rope. In the
laying walk a revolving wheel placed near the end is provided with
hooks, whereon the three strands to form the rope are fixed. These
hooks are made to rotate by the action of the wheel, its prime mover
being horse or steam-power. At the other end of the walk all the
strands are fixed to one hook, which revolves in an opposite direction
to the others. To equalize the hardness of the twist or lay, a conical
or rather bee-hived piece of wood called a “top” is inserted between
the three strands—groves being cut in the surface of the “top” for
their reception. This “top” thus placed prevents the strands from
twisting, except in the direction of the smaller end; while a man
stationed immediately behind, compresses the rope by a simple piece
of apparatus, and causes the twist to become hard and firm. The “top”
as the rope closes behind it is slowly urged on from one end to the
other—if small it is managed by a top-man, but if large it is supported
on a carriage, as in the engraving. No difference exists in making a
larger or smaller rope, so far as the principle is concerned. The three
strands are twisted round each other in the same manner by an apparatus
more or less powerful according to the size of the rope.
[Illustration]
From three such ropes as these a cable is formed in precisely the same
manner, the three being fixed to three revolving hooks at one end,
and one at the other, and a travelling top being used to regulate and
harden the twist. In the twisting process it is natural that the rope
should gradually shorten as it is formed; provision is made for this
shortening in the arrangement of the apparatus. The wheels to which
the three strands are fixed on three separate hooks is a fixture at
one end of the walk, but the other ends of the strands are fastened to
a moveable sledge, which is so weighted as to travel gradually up the
walk just as fast as the rope diminishes in length.
[Illustration]
San Rosalia.
Who has not heard the curious history of San Rosalia, the saint of
Palermo, whose name is prefixed to this article? She was, according to
the legend, the daughter of William the Good, who reigned in the year
1159. At the age of fifteen she retired to Monte Pelegrino, in order
to spend the remainder of her life in religious solitude; and a period
of nearly five hundred years elapsed without her ever being heard of.
In 1624, a plague, which threatened to depopulate the capital, raged
at Palermo. A hermit, whose name is not given in the legend, dreamed
that the bones of the saint were on the top of Mount Pelegrino, and
that, if they were carried in procession round the walls of the city,
the plague would cease. After prayers and supplications, he induced a
number of persons to go in procession to the top of the mountain, where
the remains of Rosalia were found in a cave. Some say that the body
was fresh, and looked as if she had died at the age of fifteen, while
others assert that there were only the bones. Which account is the true
one Peter Parley does not pretend to inquire; but one thing is certain,
that they were carried round the city walls, and the plague greatly
ceased. This was accounted as a miracle, and churches were built to
her honor. A chapel was erected on the top of the mountain were she was
found, and priests appointed to perform divine service.
[Illustration]
To facilitate the approach to these sacred relics, the pious and
grateful Palermotans, after immense labour, constructed on the face of
the mountain a road which is nearly perpendicular, and very dangerous.
This, however, by no means operates as a check to the devotion of the
hundreds who seek the protection and patronage of the saints.
In the vault beneath the chapel, which has long been the resting-place
for her bones, there was an inscription, which differs from the monkish
legend. It states her to be the daughter of Count Sinibaldus, who lived
at the period when the irruptions of the Saracens were so frequent in
Italy, and that Rosalia first retired to a cave on Mount Quesquina,
in order to preserve herself from the disciples of Mohammed, and
afterwards to Mount Pelegrino, where she died a nun.
The bones of this Saint are now annually carried about the City in a
large silver box; and, according to popular belief, she has, several
times since her discovery, saved the Sicilians from the plague. Long
before the celebration of the festival she becomes the subject of
general conversation, and excites the greatest interest. Her triumphal
car is made of very great height, and drawn through the principal
streets by a number of caparisoned mules, preceded by dragoons with
trumpets. On the lower part of the conveyance is an orchestra, and
above it is a small temple, in the interior of which are figures
of different saints, and, on the top of all, a large statue of San
Rosalia. Every side of the carriage is decorated with flowers; and
during the ceremony the streets are crowded with people, and the
windows, to all of which are balconies, are filled with ladies. At
night there is an illumination.
The amusements at this Palermo rejoicing vary each day. One night the
Flora gardens are illuminated, on another one of the streets, and, in
the day-time, horse-races. The latter, from their peculiarities, are
worthy of notice. The horses start from the bottom of the principal
street, near the Porto Felice, and run to the Porto Nuovo. They have
no riders, but have small bladders fixed on their backs, in which are
inserted sharp spikes, serving by the motion to urge them on. The
prizes run for are generally small, consisting of from ten to fifteen
ounces in dollars, fastened to a board; and the horse that wins is led
in procession, with the prize before him.
The illumination of the Madre Chiesa, which is the cathedral church of
Palermo, excites the admiration of all travellers. It is here where
the box containing the bones of St. Rosalia is deposited. The last
ceremony is a grand procession, in which the silver box is carried by
the principal citizen. Immense crowds endeavour to get near it to touch
it, for they consider it a remedy for all evils.
The approach of the festival produces general joy and happiness;
and the people are so attached to the memory of the Saint, that it
is supposed that any attempt to suppress her commemoration would be
attended with the most serious consequences.
[Illustration]
Christmas Day at the Diggings.
Gold is now every man’s business. The earth is yielding it by the
hand-full and spade-full. Already nearly fifty millions sterling have
been raised by the rude exertions of a part of the population who might
have been starving upon six-shillings a-week, in delving and ditching.
And it is a wonderful sight to see thousands upon thousands of brisk,
brawny, and sturdy men, in their shirt-sleeves washing the productive
earth, and rocking the gold to rest in their own pockets—the finest
of all kinds of cradling. Boys and girls too even lend their aid. The
boys are trained in the digging, and the girls in the washing—the boys
find the “pockets” as they are called, and the girls make purses for
it. Along the banks of the various creeks, it is delightful to see the
throng of men and boys, and girls and women, busy with tin dishes and
cradles, making their ounces and half-ounces of “pure, bright, slippery
gold” in a-day.
[Illustration: _Christmas-day in Australia_]
But one of the most beautiful of all sights is to see a “Christmas
Day” at the diggings. Here, in Australia, there are no “snow-flakes
thickly falling,”—no drifts twenty or thirty feet high—no coughing,
wheezings, and sneezings—no swamps and sore throats, quinseys and
influenzas—no noses blue and fingers numbed—dark skies and piercing
north-easters—but lovely, balmy, warm, clear, bright sunshine, and the
plum-pudding, and the roast beef, and the mince pies, and all the other
delicious viands of which England is so proud, smoke upon the grass
sward, beneath the delicious shade of overhanging boughs, and redolent
with all the ambrosial gifts of nature. And joy reigns there in all its
fullest majesty: and love reigns there in all its holiest excess of
affection: and hope reigns there, looking boldly upon the future. Nor
is faith absent entirely—though the sound of the “church-going bell”
is not heard—although no organ peal ascends in the fretted vault—yet
the mind of the good man turns to “God and to his worship,” and the
joyful time of merry Christmas is not spent without remembrance of
Him who brought “peace on earth and good-will to man.” And thus it is
that Christmas Day at the Diggings is a true holiday to all, and that
joy and mirth abound, to the delight of hearts who do not forget their
old homes and their old religion, but pledge them with prayers, and
blessings, and songs of gladness. So let us remain, my young friends,
wherever it may please a good God to cast us—true to our country, to
our religion, to our institutions, our old friends, and to all that
we loved, or that is worthy of love: and let us never forget our old
customs—our “Easters,” our “Whitsuntides,” and our “Christmases,” and
all those old things which our infancy, our youth, and our manhood have
consecrated to the best of thoughts and of feelings, and which have
engendered so many happy hours among us. “Hurrah! then,” says Old Peter
Parley, “for a Christmas Day at the Diggings.”
[Illustration]
The Owl.
BY THE REV. JOHN MTTFORD.
Owl! that lovest the boding sky—
In the murky air,
What saw’st thou there?
For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry.
“The maple’s head
Was glowing red,
And red were the wings of the Autumn sky;
But a redder gleam
Rose from the stream,
That dabbled my feet, as I glided by!”
Owl! that lovest the stormy sky,
Speak! oh speak!
What crimson’d thy beak,
And hung on the lids of thy staring eye?
“’Twas blood! ’twas blood!
And it rose like a flood,
And for this I screamed as I glided by.”
Owl! that lovest the midnight sky,
Again, again—
Where are the twain?
Look! while the moon is hurrying by—
“In the thicket’s shade
The one is laid;
You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye.”
Owl! that lovest the darkened sky,
A step beyond
From the silent pond,
There rose a low and murmuring cry
“O’er the water’s edge,
Through the trampled sedge
A bubble burst, and gurgled by;
My eyes were dim,
But I looked from the brim,
And I saw, in the weeds, a dead man lie!”
Owl! that lovest the moonless sky,
Where the casements blaze
With the faggot’s rays,
Look! oh look! what seest thou there?
Owl! what’s this?—
That snort and hiss?
And why do thy feathers shiver and stare?
“’Tis he! ’tis he!
He sits ’mid the three—
And a breathless woman is on the stair.”
Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky,
Where clank the chains
Through the prison panes
What there thou hearest tell to me!
“In her midnight dream,
’Tis a woman’s scream,
And she calls on one—on one of the three,”
Look in once more,
Through the grated door,
“’Tis a soul that prays in agony.”
Owl! that hatest the morning sky,
On thy pinions gray—
Away! away!
I must pray in charity,
From midnight chime,
To morning prime,
“_Miserere, Domine_.”
A Visit to the Royal Polytechnic Institution.
No sooner do we enter, and pay our shilling at the door, then “bang,
bang, bang” goes the gong—a Lecture on “a New Method of Blowing-up
Sunken Vessels” is announced. Do our young friends recollect the
circumstance of the sinking at Spithead of one of our largest
men-of-war, the “Royal George?” a very beautiful model of which is
to be found in the Museum for Shipping and Maritime Apparatus; the
circumstances are so well known, that we will presume you not to be
ignorant. Well, some years after the accident, a plan was projected by
Colonel Pasley, of the Royal Engineers, for raising the guns and other
valuables which were, of course, carried down with the ship; this plan
was founded upon the well-proved law of electricity—that if the wire
which conducts that wonderful agent be intercepted by a short piece
of platinum wire, exceedingly small in diameter, and placed within a
membrane impervious to water, and surrounded by a charge of gunpowder,
a partial impediment to the passage of the electric fluid necessarily
takes place, and the small platinum wire is made red-hot—and my young
friends well know that if a piece of red-hot wire be placed in contact
with gunpowder, that it will readily explode; hence, if a sufficient
charge be placed within the vessel, the explosion would separate the
timbers of the ship, and, by their floating properties, they would rise
to the surface, and leave behind any great weight, such as guns, &c.;
by the aid of the diver, then, they are attached to air cylinders,
and floated to the surface. But to accomplish this, there are many
reasons why more simplicity should be employed, and for this purpose
the Lecture we allude to was given, embracing as it does a more simple
plan. The invention is patented by a gentleman named Trestrail, of
Southampton, and is as follows:—An air-tight vessel is fitted up with
a coil of “fuse,” as it is called, consisting of a kind of flexible
tube filled with gunpowder, and coated with a pitchy substance, to
prevent its coming into contact with the water, which would, you know,
destroy its explosive condition. This fuse will continue to burn under
water for almost any distance, and was formerly used for the purpose
of blasting rocks, blowing up sunken vessels, &c.; but the adaptation
of Mr. Trestrail differs from this method, from the material or fuse
being in the case, which is to raise the object from the bottom, by
generating the gases contained in gunpowder, which gases are nitrogen,
carbonic oxide, sulphurous acid, deutoxide of nitrogen, and carbonic
acid gas, in different proportions. But this is going from our
subject—you must read Chemistry to understand this. However, these
gases force the water from the cylinders, and of course take its place;
then, you know that the specific gravity or weight of the gas is so
much less than the same bulk of water, that it has a buoyant property
and rises to the surface, bringing with it whatever, in the judgment
of the diver, it is capable of lifting. Many thousand pounds’ worth of
property is now lying at the bottom of the sea and rivers, which seems
a pity when so simple a method can bring them again to “_terra firma_.”
After this Lecture, which was illustrated in a large tank of water in
the centre of the Great Hall of the Institution, we walked around to
look at the immense collection of models of all new discoveries in
science. There was the magnificent model of the Britannia Bridge.—The
machinery, which commences by taking the cotton from the pod, cleans it
from the seed by means of rollers; then it is passed through another
instrument called a carding machine, being a series of wires so placed
as to tear the cotton asunder, and lay it in a beautiful sheet on the
surfaces of the wires; from thence it is collected by a most elegant
and ingenious contrivance, formed into a fillet, and then placed on
the roving frame; thence it passes into the spinning frame and becomes
thread, which is again used in an exhibition of the lace manufacture,
by a beautiful model machine.
In close proximity to this machine, we observe a model lighthouse,
fixed on a black substance for its base: this substance is very
curious, and requires a little explanation. In Trinidad, in the West
Indies, there is a Lake of Bitumen. A stream of this Bitumen (which you
know is a sort of pitch) flowed in distant ages, through a channel two
thousand yards in length to the beach, and thence six hundred yards
into the sea, carrying with it all the loose materials encountered
in its progress. This now constitutes a promontory, whereon the
action of the waves and atmosphere, under a tropical sun, have had no
deteriorating effect. This fact led to investigation, and now it is
used as foundations to lighthouses, piers, jetties, bridges, &c., as
well as water-pipes, instead of lead, which you know will combine
chemically with the constituents of water, and convert that water into
a deleterious compound. When Admiral, the Earl of Dundonald, (to whom
this pitch belongs,) was Commander-in-Chief of the West India Station,
he made many experiments on this wonder of nature, and has patented its
application to very many useful purposes; his lordship laid down, from
the lake to the shore, a series of pipes, which were manufactured by
his sailors, and which pipes enabled the ships on the station to obtain
excellent fresh water, without the difficulty of carrying it overland,
which, in that hot climate, would have been very inconvenient. These
pipes have been found as strong as iron ones of the same admeasurement.
It is also applied to the coating of the wires of the Electric
Telegraph with great advantage.
On we go to the upper gallery, and find the gigantic reflectors for
illustrating the laws of reflection of heat, light, &c., which,
singularly enough, are governed by the same law; sometimes by these
instruments a mutton-chop is placed in the focus of one of them, and at
one hundred feet distant a fire is placed in the other; the result is,
that the chop is cooked, or a candle may be lighted by the same means
at the same distance: this is by reflection. Well, another bang of the
gong, and away we go to hear a Lecture on “the Process of Marbling and
Decorating Paper.” By-the-bye, that gong is a curious instrument, being
composed of a large steel spring, coiled round in an open coil, and
terminating in a standard. On being struck with a hammer it emits a
melodious sound, like the tone of a church bell, for which it has been
proposed to be used, and is patented for this purpose; and no doubt,
in a short time, these instruments will be so improved and tuned, so
as to do duty for a whole peal of bells. The Marbling of Paper has
never yet been made public, the trade having carried the process on in
perfect secrecy, so as to retain a monopoly—which is a very bad thing,
as it prevents many improvements being made, which would much increase
its sphere of utility; the simplicity of the process, however, has been
now brought forward by the public spirit of a gentleman named Woolnoth,
to whom the world should be much obliged for upsetting monopoly,
and breaking down principles which tend to frustrate rather than
accelerate improvements in science. The process commences by making a
solution of the “gum tragacanth,” and which is called in the shops,
“gum dragon;” this solution being brought to a proper consistency,
is placed in a long flat vessel, sufficiently superficial to allow a
large sheet of paper to be placed on its surface. Well, having prepared
this apparatus, which requires great nicety, the workman, having his
colours already mixed, sprinkles on the surface of the gum solution a
sufficient quantity, first of one colour and then another, until he
obtains the required pattern. But the philosophy of obtaining this
pattern remains to be told. The colours are mixed with such materials
as cause them to repel when they come in contact with each other, in
the same manner as oil does when dropped on water. The material thus
made use of is gall taken from the bladder of an ox. This substance has
the curious property of preventing the colours from mixing with each
other; for instance, if a sprinkle of lake be first put on the surface
of the gum (there being no absorption of colour as there would be on
paper,) and another colour having gall ground with it be sprinkled
over this, the two colours, instead of mixing, would immediately repel
each other, and form a curious pattern, each colour forming its own
particular shape, and this may be carried on to any number of colours;
it is applied to various purposes, such as covering copy-books, and
the edges of books. For many years this invention was confined to the
Dutch workmen, and the patterns produced by them are still called the
“old Dutch patterns;” but an Englishman discovered the means by which
this pattern was obtained, and by his ingenuity very much improved the
application, and this improvement, although still suffering from the
same secrecy in England with which it was encumbered in Holland, bids
fair to develop many improvements, of which the public spirit of Mr.
Woolnoth has rendered it susceptible. Based upon these circumstances,
Messrs. De La Rue, the famous card-makers, set their ingenuity to
work, and have produced such wonderful advantages, that the papers now
introduced by them are perfect gems of art—the “iridescent film,” as it
is by them technically called, giving on the surface of highly-glazed
paper all the beautiful colours of the rainbow. It is singular, that if
an exceedingly thin film of a gummy varnish be floated on the surface
of the water, a sheet of paper placed thereon may be taken off, having
all the splendid colours referred to. But to perfectly understand the
process it should be seen, and this is easily done by a visit to that
delightful place of recreation, the Royal Polytechnic Institution. So
many are the attractions of this Temple of Science, that we intend
to pay it another visit; and no doubt, from the constant additions
which are daily made to the Museum, we shall find matter with which
to entertain and instruct our readers; bearing in mind that while the
brain is engrossed with useful things, there is no room for vicious and
useless thoughts.
[Illustration]
Passage of the Desert.
All the young people who have read Peter Parley’s Annual for the last
fifteen years, know well enough what the Desert is. Some of them also
may have heard, now-and-then, of its dangers. They are, of course,
varied. There is the danger by heat, the danger by thirst, and the
danger from the wild robbers, who prowl about like wolves upon its
arid bosom. It was in the year 1850, that Edwin Keet, a traveller of
great enterprise, who had not only mounted the Nile and Pyramids, and
smoked a pipe with the famous Mehemet Ali, but, what is of far greater
consequence, had spent many a happy day with Peter Parley, made the
journey. Keet was not to be overcome by trifles. He had proceeded
across the desert to Aleppo, and met with no serious molestation
until he was within fifteen miles of Bassora, when early one morning
he perceived himself followed by a party of about thirty Arabs,
mounted on camels, who soon overtook him. As they approached, he, by
his interpreter, directed them either to advance or halt. Keet was
not alone—he had half-a-dozen Englishmen with him, two of whom were
Lieutenants in the Navy, one a rough old sailor, and the remaining
three his servants. He again called upon the Arabs to halt, or to
remove to the right or left of him, for he choose to travel by himself.
They answered they would not interfere with him, and went on at a brisk
rate. Keet then suspected them of some design, and kept himself upon
his guard. The two lieutenants prepared their pistols, and the sailors
drew their cutlasses. The Arab party proceeded only a few miles, and
slunk behind some rising ground in the distance:—this move, however,
did not escape the quick eye of Jim Crank, one of sailors, who had been
boatswain’s-mate on board the “Fairy,” and knew how to keep a good look
out a-head. As the party proceeded, they came to the range of little
hillocks behind which the Arabs had crouched, like so many tigers, to
spring on their prey. Keet and his companions were well mounted. It
is true that the lieutenants nor the sailors sat on their horses to
the best advantage. All had got their stirrups too high, and looked
more like old women on horseback than men, with the exception of Keet,
who rode firm, slowly, and high on his saddle. “Now my lads,” said
he, “we have only to sell our lives as dearly as possible—if we must
die, let us die like Englishmen—if we falter or flee, our destruction
is certain—if we dare the rascals, and give them two or three good
volleys, they may chance to quail, and we must trust to our good
horses to get us out of the fray. Here are eight of us, and we must
be prepared to form a square—to make a round, or to make an angle, if
necessary. So stand to your arms, my lads, and let me go in advance.
Don’t give way, nor attempt to flee while you can fight, for it is
fighting alone can save us.” So Keet placed himself at the head of his
little army of seven, and advanced.
[Illustration]
He had not marched far before he saw the caps of the Arabs dodging
behind some of the loose stones, topping hillocks before them. And,
from what he could observe, it was clear that the foe was in ambuscade,
and preparing to let fly at them as they passed. Keet’s mind was made
up in a minute as to the best course to pursue; so calling to his
people to follow him, and do as he did, as the only course they had, he
rode quietly forward at a slow pace, but just as he got abreast of the
stone-work of the hillocks, he made a sharp detour to the right, and
passing round the hillocks, attacked the Arabs suddenly in flank on the
other side. Bang! bang! bang! bang! from four of the double-barreled
muskets, and four of the Arabs fell from their camels. Keet spurred on,
and attacked the leader sword in hand, but he was speedily unhorsed by
the thrust of a spear into his back. At the very moment of his falling,
however, he took out one of his pistols, and blew out the chieftain’s
brains. The boatswain’s mate, at the same time, cut down the lance-man
who had thus intruded on Keet’s rear quarters. The two lieutenants had
adroitly jumped off their horses, and, from a secure embrasure of the
rocks above the hillocks, kept loading and firing their pieces with
the utmost expedition, and eleven or twelve of the Arabs were soon
prostrate. The remainder, observing the warm reception, and perceiving
Keet, although on the ground, valiantly and deliberately loading his
rifle and pistols, and feeling the “peppering” of the other sailor
and the lieutenants, and being not a little astonished at the conduct
of Jim Crank—who kept leaping, hollowing, firing, and shouting like a
wild demon, and calling them all the wicked names of which the English
tongue is so capable—began to sheer off, and, in a very short time,
nothing was seen of them but a small cloud of dust far away in the
desert. The remainder of the journey was passed without molestation,
and Keet and his companions arrived safe at Bassora.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Glastonbury Abbey.
WITH THE STORY OF KING ARTHUR.
Glastonbury is called by Fuller “the ground of God—the first ground
of the saints in England, and the rise and fountain of all religion
in Britain.” Because, “it was here,” says the tradition, “that
Christianity was first introduced into England.”
But the early history of the introduction of Christianity into these
islands, is veiled in considerable obscurity. We see the “Light of the
Word” shining here fully enough, but we see not they who kindled it.
The honour of first evangelizing England has, indeed, been confidently
ascribed to various individuals, and, amongst others, to Joseph of
Arimathea.
[Illustration]
The legend states, that when St. Philip, the Apostle, after the death
of our blessed Saviour, was in Gaul, he was informed of the heathenish
wickedness of this country. To England he therefore resolved to extend
the influence of his precepts and influence, over barbarous and bloody
rites, long exercised by bigoted and besotted Druids—to introduce the
meek and gentle system of Christianity. Accordingly he dispatched
twelve of his companions and followers, and appointed Joseph of
Arimathea, who had not long before taken his Saviour from the Cross, to
superintend the sacred embassy. Britain was wild and uncultivated—its
inhabitants rude and inimical to strangers—yet, withal, its King
Arviragus could foster a few itinerants, whom he knew not how to hate,
nor wished to love. In consideration of their long and laborious
journey, he disposed their habitation in a small island, then waste
and untilled, and surrounded by bogs and morasses, assigning to each of
the “twelve” a certain portion of land, called a “hide,” sufficient for
one family to live upon; and composing in all, a territory denominated,
to this day, “the twelve hides of Glaston,” and here, according to the
monastic annals, St. Joseph erected to the honour of the Blessed Virgin
Mary—of wattles and wreathed twigs—the first Christian Oratory in
England.
This legend, however, wants much of truthfulness, I fear. I don’t
see what connection there could be between Joseph of Arimathea and
Glastonbury. Be that as it may—a more substantial structure was erected
on the spot named above, in the year 180 after Christ, owing to the
exertions of some Christian Missionaries. In the year 439 we are told
that St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, visited this holy spot,
and collected together a body of clergy, being himself elected as the
first Abbot. About the year, 530, St. David, Archbishop of Manevia,
accompanied by seven bishops, took a journey to Avalon, and expended
large sums of money, in adding to the building of the church. St. David
was uncle to the renowned King Arthur, who, in his time (A.D. 543),
having been mortally wounded in battle, was carried to this abbey to be
interred, and, accordingly, on his death his body here found a grave.
In the reign of Henry II., 640 years after Arthur was buried, his grave
was opened, and the body of the king discovered interred in a coffin
made of oak, sixteen feet deep, and nine feet below a rude leaden
cross, on which the name and virtues of Arthur were described.
Such is one of the “stories” of Glastonbury—and I forgot to say that,
in the churchyard, still stands the celebrated “Glastonbury thorn,”
said to be derived from the rod of Joseph, of Arimathea, and which
always blossoms on Christmas Day.
[Illustration]
A few words about Soluble Glass.
It appears from ancient testimony, that there have been many successful
attempts at making glass mouldable in its cold state, or of so far
altering its state as to render it malleable. There is a tradition,
that a clever artist, in the time of Tiberius Cæsar, made glass both
elastic and malleable, for which he was rewarded by the loss of his
head. A similar discovery is said to have been made in France, in the
reign of Louis XIII. The inventor presented a bust, formed of malleable
glass, to the Cardinal Richelieu, and was rewarded for his ingenuity
by perpetual imprisonment, lest the French glass-makers should be
injured. In our day, a description of glass, perhaps more remarkable,
has been discovered by Mr. Fuchs, the curious properties and important
applications of which it will be proper to advert to in this place.
The preparation of soluble glass does not greatly differ in its early
stages from that of common glass. It is a union of silica and an
alkali, which has, in addition to some of the properties of common
glass, the property of dissolving in boiling water.
To form this compound, carbonate of potash and stone sand, are taken
in the proportion of two, to three, or four parts of charcoal, and
added to every ten parts of potash, and fifteen of sand. The charcoal
accellerates the fushion of the glass, and separates from it all the
carbonic acid, a small quantity of which would otherwise remain and be
injurious. The materials must first be well mixed, then fritted and
finally melted at a high heat, until a liquid and homogenous mass be
obtained. This is removed by means of an iron ladle, and the glass-pot
filled with fresh grit.
The crude glass thus obtained is usually full of bubbles; it is as hard
as common glass—it is of a blackish gray, and more or less transparent
at the edges. In order to prepare it for solution in water, it must be
reduced to powder by pounding. One part of this glass requires from
four to five of water for its solution. The water is first boiled in an
open vessel; the powdered glass is added gradually, and is continually
stirred to prevent adhesion. The boiling is continued for three or four
hours, until no more glass is dissolved. If the boiling be checked
before the liquor has thus attained the proper degree of concentration,
carbonic acid will be absorbed by the potash from the air, which
will produce an injurious effect. When the solution has acquired the
consistency of syrup, and a density of 1·24, it is fit for use, and
will keep for any length of time.
The solution of soluble glass is viscid, and when concentrated,
becomes turbid or opalescent. The solution unites with water in all
proportions. At a density of 1·28 it contains nearly twenty-eight per
cent. of glass, and if the concentration be carried beyond that point,
it becomes so viscid that it may be drawn out in threads like molten
glass. When the solution is applied to other bodies it dries rapidly
in the air, and forms a coat like varnish, and possesses the quality
of not being affected by cold water, and it is applied as a durable
coating to a vast variety of articles.
None of the methods hitherto proposed for making cloth fire-proof
appear so advantageous as the application of soluble glass, for it does
not act upon the vegetable matter, and completely closes the spaces
between the threads. It can also be applied to clothes; but one of its
most useful properties is its application as a cement; and, for this
purpose, it is superior to all those that have hitherto been employed
for cementing broken glass, porcelain, &c., and may be used instead of
glue or isinglass in applying colors.
[Illustration]
Something about Boiling Springs.
In various parts of the world, we have “Springs,” possessing curious
properties. Some spout up “mud,” some throw up a kind of “pitch,”
others give forth waters strongly impregnated with “copper,” and
some again, bubble with water full of “iron,” then we have “salt”
springs, and even “quicksilver” springs—but the most remarkable, are
the “boiling” springs, and of these, the most celebrated are those
of Iceland. One of the most enrapturing scenes I ever witnessed, was
that of these Boiling springs; which I first saw on the morning of the
30th of July, while on my visit to Iceland, in Captain Cox’s yacht. We
walked for some time over a barren district, but at last were arrested
by the roaring of Stockr, which threw up a great quantity of steam, and
while we stood gazing and wondering what would come next—a crash took
place as if the earth had burst, which was instantaneously succeeded
by jets of water and steam, rising in a perpendicular column, to the
height of sixty-feet. But Stockr had not been in action above twenty
minutes, when the Great Geyser, apparently jealous of the reputation,
and indignant at our bestowing so much of our time and applause on her
rival, began to thunder tremendously, and emitted such quantities of
water and steam, that we could not be satisfied with a distant view—but
hastened to the mound with as much curiosity as if it had been the
first eruption we had beheld. However, if she was more interesting
in point of magnitude, she gave the less satisfaction in point of
duration, having again become tranquil in the course of five minutes,
whereas, her less grand, but more steady companion continued to play
till within four minutes of six o’clock.
[Illustration]
My attention was so much taken up with these two powerful fountains,
that we had little time or inclination to watch the numerous inferior
springs with which the country abounds. The little Geyser erupted,
perhaps, twelve times in the twenty-four hours, but none of its jets
rose higher than eighteen or twenty feet, and, generally, they were
about ten or twelve. The pipe of this spring opens into a beautiful
circular basin, about twelve feet in diameter, the surface of which
exhibits encrustations equally beautiful with those of the great
Geyser. At the depth of a few feet, the pipe which is scarcely three
feet wide, becomes very irregular, yet its depth has been ascertained
to be thirty-eight feet. There is a large steam hole at a short
distance to the north-west of the little Geyser, which roars and
becomes quiescent with the operations of that spring.
On the brow of the hill, at the height of nearly two-hundred feet above
the level of the great Geyser, are several holes of burning clay,
some of which produce sulphur and the effervescence of alum; and, at
the base of the hill, on the opposite side, are not less than twenty
springs—which prove that its foundations are entirely perforated with
veins and cavities of hot water.
Such is a very brief account of a late visit to this phenomenon, which
was very interesting, for in some of the eruptions, the jets were
thrown to the height of at least a-hundred-and-fifty feet, and the
effect of sunlight on these columns of water is such as to leave an
indelible impression on the minds of those who witness it.
Story of the American Sea Serpent.
The Americans equal Mr. Jesse for story-telling. They are not
particularly nice as to data. Some of their tales are so preposterously
absurd as to puzzle us exceedingly, and we are obliged to confess that
Brother Jonathan is quizzing us. But still Jonathan is a brother, and
a warm-hearted, noble, faithful, brother too; and we must not be too
hard upon him concerning his funny stories. He sets us an example in
many things, and we Britons ought to feel that he is of our own flesh,
blood, bones, and sinews, and go the entirety of good things with him
at all times. But this is nothing to do with my story, and, therefore,
for a say about the “say sarpint,” as the Irish call him.
The Sea Serpent has been before us now for nearly thirty years. It has
been seen in every latitude, and of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes as
long as the longest yarn ever spun by a man-o’-war’s man; sometimes as
high as a purse-proud tradesman; at others its wriggle on the ocean was
fearful, and its beard—like that of our New Englanders—doubly terrible,
and what, with its length, and its height, its breadth, and its beard,
this wonderful animal has puzzled and perplexed the learned and the
unlearned.
[Illustration]
It was in the year 1817, that some “American” authorities reported that
an animal of very singular appearance had been repeatedly seen in the
Harbour of Gloucester, at Cape Anne, nearly thirty miles from Boston;
and Amos Story, of Gloucester, has deposed that he saw a strange marine
animal, like a serpent, in the Harbour of Gloucester. It was noon when
he first saw the animal, and it continued in sight for an hour and
a half. Story was sitting on the shore, about twenty rods from the
animal, whose head appeared shaped like the head of a sea-turtle, and
was raised from ten to twelve inches above the surface of the water.
At that distance it appeared larger than the head of any dog. From the
back part of the head to the next part that was visible was from three
to four feet. It moved very rapidly through the water—a mile in about
three minutes. On this day, Story did not see more than ten or twelve
feet of its body. Some days after this, he saw what he believed to be
the same animal, which then lay perfectly still, extended on the water.
He had a good telescope and continued looking at it for half-an-hour,
and it remained still and perfectly visible. He did not, however, see
its head nor tail. Its colour appeared a dark brown, and while the sun
shone upon it the reflection was bright. Story thought its body was the
size of a man’s.
Another ship-master, Solomon Allen deposed that on the 12th, 13th,
and 14th of August, 1817, he saw a strange marine animal, which he
believed to be a Serpent, in the Harbour of Gloucester. This animal
was between eighty and ninety feet in length, and about the size of a
half-barrel—apparently having joints from the head to the tail. Allen
was about one-hundred-and-fifty yards from it. The head was formed
something like a rattlesnake, but nearly as large as that of a horse.
Allen went round it in a boat several times. Its haunches appeared to
be about ten inches from the surface of the water. At times its head
was about ten feet in perpendicular height, and its mouth open.
James Ellary of Gloucester, shipmaster, also deposed that he saw the
Sea Serpent. He saw the upper part of its head, and about forty feet
of its body. It appeared to have joints about the size of a two-gallon
keg. W. H. Foster deposed to the animal being shaded in colour, and
also to the particulars above-mentioned; and further said, that as he
drew near to the place at which he was stationed to observe it, there
arose from its head a prong or spear, about twelve inches in height and
six inches in circumference, terminating in a point. Mathew Gaffrey,
of the same place, also deposed that he saw this strange “marine,”
and that its head appeared as large as a four-gallon keg, its body as
large as a barrel, and its length at least forty feet. The top of its
head was of a dark colour, the under part nearly white. He fired at it
with his gun, and thought he must have hit it. It turned towards him
immediately, and went directly under his boat, and made its appearance
at about a hundred yards from the place where it dived.
Several others deposed to these particulars, and Sewell Toppon,
master of the schooner “Laura,” said that he saw the “marine” on the
eastern point of Cape Ann, being becalmed. Its head was the size of
a _ten_-gallon cask, and that it left a great “wake” behind. Robert
Bragg said he saw the “beast,” with its head six or seven inches out
of the water. He did not see its _eyes_, but when astern of the vessel
about fifteen feet, it threw out its _tongue_, which was about two
feet in length, and the end was like a harpoon. William Sowerby also
deposed that he saw its tongue, and one eye, which appeared large and
bright, like that of an ox. Its body moved up and down, and its head
wagged from side to side. The colour of its tongue was a light brown.
Elkanah Finney also deposed at length, and amongst other things,
declared that it appeared to him like a long string of bungs. He saw
thirty or forty of its “hunches” all in a line. The head appeared about
six feet long. Its _under-jaw_ had a white stripe. It appeared to be
at least 150 feet long. It often rose, and it appeared as if fishing
for its food. It seemed to move at the rate of twenty miles an hour.
Various other persons deposed to the same particulars—one that it had
a beard, which flowed down its venerable chops like sea-weed. Another
declared solemnly that it had a kind of “swivel eye,” which followed
the boat whichever way it turned. One said, that it suddenly rose up
into the form of a “steeple,” and that upon firing at it, the ball
must have passed through the inside of the “steeple” part of his body.
One declared that he saw the end of its tail, which had a kind of tuft
or fin, about four or five feet from its “cutter-cud,” and, at last,
a large kind of serpent was actually caught at “Prospect,” which was
exhibited at Boston as the progeny of some “old serpent”—but this, on
inspection, proved to be a “whopping” conger eel.
Since these “appearances” on the American side have taken place,
we have had many accounts of the greatest of all the “marines.”
It has been frequently seen in the Atlantic, once or twice in the
South Sea—sometimes computed at three hundred feet, sometimes at
seventy—sometimes with a beard, sometimes without. The last account of
it is taken from the log-book of the “Jesse Gleaner,” in which it is
depicted as resembling in the head, a “griffin;” in the body, a hundred
sugar hogs-_heads_ linked together by a rope; and in the tail, as one
of Peter Parley’s best. Whether my young friends will ever hear or know
more of it, will be left to the future concatenation of events. Perhaps
“Old Charley” may pick it up in the Baltic, or Keet lay hold of it at
the “fish ordinary” at Billingsgate.
* * * * *
Since the above was written, we have received the following, concerning
the capture of the “beast.” It is in a letter from Charles Seabury,
master of the whale ship “Monongatiela,” of New Bedford, and states as
follows,—On the morning of the 13th of January, when in latitude 3 deg.
10 min. S., and longitude 131 deg. 50 min. W., the man on the look-out
cried “white water.” I was aloft half-an-hour before I observed
anything like white water—then I presumed it was a shoal of porpoises.
I ordered the mate to keep both eyes open, and went down, it being my
breakfast hour. Before I reached the deck, my attention was called to
the sudden cry of Annetu Vanjan, a Marquesan Islander. “Oh look! me
see! too much! no whale! too big! me ’fraid!” The native continued to
look with eagerness. I turned to leeward, and my eye rested on the
strangest creature I had ever seen in the ocean. I knew it was not a
whale. “It is a Sea Serpent!”—I exclaimed; “stand by the boats.” When
they had mustered, I said, “I do not order you to go into the boats—who
will volunteer?” Every American in the ship stepped out—we lowered—I
told the boat-steerer, James Whittermore, of Vermont, to stand up, who,
with calm intrepidity, laid hold of his harpoon; when I beckoned with
my hand, quick as thought both his weapons were buried to the socket in
the repulsive body before us; the head and tail of the monster rushed
to touch the wound; the frightfulness of the head filled the crew with
terror; he began to sound, and the line went out, in all, one thousand
fathoms. At four a.m., on the 14th inst., sixteen hours after it went
down, the line began to slack, and just before breakfast it rose; we
lanced the body repeatedly without any signs of life; at last it drew
itself up, and we pulled away, and then witnessed the terrific dying
struggles of the monster. The evolutions of the body were quick as
lightning, like the revolving of a thousand enormous black wheels,
and a sound was heard, so dead and unearthly, that a thrill of horror
ran through our veins. The convulsive effort lasted fifteen minutes,
when suddenly it ceased, turned up, and lay still. Our prey was dead!
I took off my hat, when nine terrific cheers broke from the crew. It
was a male, one hundred-and-three feet long, nineteen feet round the
neck, twenty-five feet round the shoulders, and forty-nine feet round
the largest part of the body. The head was long and flat, with ridges,
the end of the tongue was like a heart, the back black, sides brown,
under the belly yellow, with a white streak. The body was covered with
blubber, and the oil was as clear as water, and burnt like spirits of
turpentine. One of his lungs was three feet longer than the other.
[Illustration]
Something more about the Chinese.
To maintain the laws of China, and impress the people with
fear, a numerous standing army is kept up. There are at least,
five-hundred-thousand—Tartar troops—such as we should term
“regulars,”—in this country. There are also about a million of what we
should call “the militia.” For courage they are not very remarkable,
but they have the word _brave_ stitched upon the back of their jackets,
and the word _retreat_ on the front. They wear also a peculiar cap, as
seen in the engraving, and carry a matchlock. Here is a picture of a
Chinese “Brave.”
The “Tartar troops” are enrolled under eight banners, which are
attached to certain lands or estates. The cavalry are not much better
equipped than the infantry; they have neither carbines nor pistols,
but are armed exclusively with swords and sabres. The weapons of the
foot consist of bows and arrows, pikes, matchlocks, swords, baskets,
shields, and iron cannon.
[Illustration: TIGER OF WAR.]
[Illustration: ELEUTH TARTAR.]
But the most famous of all the soldiers are, what we should term “life
guards;” they are called “tigers of war,” and are the members of the
Imperial Guard. They are covered from head to foot with a striped dress
of black and yellow, to resemble the tiger. The head of these “tigers”
is also covered with a close cap, and two horns or ears stick up from
each side. They carry a shield, with a sort of Gorgon face upon it,
like that of the fabled Minerva, which is said to have turned all it
looked upon into stone.
[Illustration]
Besides these military gentlemen, the Eleuth Tartars now form a part of
the military force of the Chinese, and are regarded as the handsomest
and finest-looking men of the Empire. They retain their national dress,
as you see it in the picture. They are a numerous people, divided into
various tribes, living in the north and west of the Chinese territory.
They had, for ages, been at war with the Chinese, and a long while ago
some of these tribes eventually gained a complete victory, and settled
the family of one of their chiefs upon the throne—so that the present
emperor is not a Chinese by descent, but a Tartar, and this is one of
the causes of the “Great Rebellion” now raging in China, the object
of which is to destroy idolatry, and to drive the Tartar race from the
Empire.
The naval force of the Chinese is very numerous, but, compared with
European ships, of little service. Their war vessels are little better
than trade junks, one thousand of which would not have the least effect
upon one of our frigates. The barges and boats of the Chinese are,
however, more useful; and the waterman is an important personage. The
engraving is a representation of one. The boatmen have a peculiar song.
One person repeats the sentences, which have a meaning, and the whole
join in chorus “Hee-o-noto-hee-o,” the import of which is, “Pull away,
my boys, heartily.” Near the head of the vessel or boat is suspended a
gong, which serves to regulate the motions of the boatmen.
[Illustration: WATERMAN.]
[Illustration: WATCHMAN.]
In all the cities of China watchmen are regularly kept. The watch
is set at nine o’clock, and remains till five in the morning. The
watchman carries in his left hand a long bamboo tube, which he strikes
with a short thick stick in his right as many blows as there may be
half-hours elapsed since the watch was set. The sound of the instrument
is loud, but dull. Sometimes the bamboo, instead of being cylindrical,
is shaped like a fish, about two feet and a-half long, and six inches
in diameter. Each watchman is also furnished with a paper lanthorn,
on which is inscribed his name, and that of the division to which he
belongs.
[Illustration]
The Chinese laws are contained in the canonical books, which constitute
the laws and literature of the country. They have been compiled so as
to lay down with great exactness the various descriptions of offences,
with a suitable punishment for each. In China, the cane is the
grand instrument of punishment; and all China has been compared to a
school,—kept in awe by the rod of the master.
[Illustration]
Every city of the first, second, or third rank, has its proper courts
and judges, and when a person is charged with an offence, torture is
used to extort confession. The ordinary one, which is very acute and
painful, is a kind of engine in which the hands and feet of the culprit
are enclosed; and then, by means of a screw, compressed to such a
degree that the wrists and ancle-bones are broken and flattened, and
all the toes and fingers dislocated. Rebellion and treason are punished
by cutting the criminal into ten thousand pieces—which is literally
accomplished by the knife or sword. Murder is punished with death. For
disobedience to parents, the punishment is very severe. The criminal
is condemned to be cut into “ten thousand pieces,” and afterwards
burnt. Theft is punished by the Bastinado. In this punishment, the
offender lies with his face downwards, and the executioner, with a
cudgel, beats him severely. After he has been thus soundly beaten, the
offender arises, and, kneeling before the presiding magistrate, thanks
him for his kind correction. But bribery will soften the blows, or
it is not unfrequent for a substitute to be allowed, and many a poor
fellow, for the sake of a little money, will kneel down and receive
the punishment. The Chinese have also laws and punishments relating to
form, ceremony, and dress; the manner in which an inferior bows to a
superior; the terms of the card written to him, the mode in which it
is to be folded, the ceremonial of visiting, are all fixed by rules.
Whether a Chinese sits down or rises, whether he receives company at
home, or walks abroad, there is a rule fixed, and the cane is always
at hand to punish its violation. The Mandarins are the magistrates
in China, and here is a picture of one of them. His tunic is gray or
violet color, his trousers yellow, embroidered with gold. The Mandarins
are selected from all classes of the community, and their number is
said to amount to nearly 50,000. There are nine classes of Mandarins,
who are distinguished by the buttons in their caps. Sometimes the
Emperor confers a high and extraordinary honour on Mandarins who have
performed essential service to the state, namely—“the right of wearing
two peacock’s feathers in the cap, which is as great a mark of dignity
as the ”Garter“ of a ”Knight Companion of the Garter“ in England.”
[Illustration]
There are, in China, booksellers who keep shops as in England, but
the greater number of booksellers are hawkers, and one of these is
represented in the engraving. The books are arranged on a stall, and
boxes full of others stand beside them.
[Illustration]
The books of the vendor are usually covered with a kind of pasteboard
of a green or yellow colour. Those kept in shops are generally bound in
red brocade, adorned with flowers of gold and silver, and have their
titles in gold letters, not on their backs, but on the exterior surface
of the cover. Some works are splendidly illustrated, after the Chinese
manner, by designs in colours, and others by rude but very graphic
wood-cuts.
The paper which the Chinese use for printing, being extremely thin, is
printed only on one side. The sheets are so folded that the two open
edges go to the back when they are stitched. Thus the Chinese books
are cut in the back (not in the front like ours), and the sheets are
then held together by a silk lace, or merely a strip of paper twisted
between the fingers. The Chinese have a variety of books, and no nation
in the world can boast of such a mass of historical annals. The people
are amused with a variety of the vilest trash, and there are published
in quick succession, dramas, poems, and tales, some serious and some
comic, but none of any great merit. They have also plays, and strange
representations of various kinds, but, for the most part, of a gross or
whimsical nature. The Chinese are particularly fond of puppet shows,
which they have brought to a great degree of perfection, with various
automatons, like our “Punch and Judy.” All ranks take delight in these
amusements.
I hope in my next Annual to give you some further insight into the
manners and customs of this most interesting people.
Jack and Jill.
“Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water:—
Jack fell down
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.”
Widow M’Carthy rented four or five acres of land, in a rural part of
the county of Cork, in Ireland. She was a respectable, hard working,
cleanly, honest, upright woman; and the landlord, seeing that she
was likely to become quite as good a tenant as any one could be, and
indeed, far better than most persons in her neighbourhood, allowed
her to keep the little farm after her husband’s death. It was well
in him to do so, for she managed the land properly, paid her rent,
and every other debt, with punctuality and honour. The good widow
had two daughters, the stay and comfort of her old age, the pride
of the village, the pattern of all good and thrifty qualities to
the neighbours. Their names were Betsey and Jill. They were young,
good-looking, cheerful and industrious. Under their management the
cottage became cleanly, neat and comfortable. The pigs and poultry
were kept out of the house, in their proper places. The floors were
regularly swept and scoured; the table, though it was only a deal
table, was always so white, and clean, and sweet-looking, that
positively it looked quite pretty. A neat Dutch clock stood over the
dresser, among the shining crockery-ware; and click! click! click!
it went, so cheerfully, that even the old hoary figure of Time with
a scythe, which was painted on it, looked benignant and happy, as if
well satisfied with his continual harvest of holy and profitable hours.
Betsey, the elder of the two girls, was unfortunately lame, from an
accident she had received in her babyhood. She could not, therefore,
be so active as her sister, but she made up for it in the activity of
her mind. She was wise and thoughtful, and her mother relied upon her
much for advice and sympathy in times of difficulty. Jill, the younger,
was the pride and joy of the neighbourhood. She was here, there, and
everywhere, wherever there was work to be done. She milked the cow;
she baked the bread, she could mend the thatch, and weed the garden.
And then she had such a pretty face, such a neat little figure; her
hair was always so clean and so nicely arranged. Many lads of the
village were in love with her, and one among them was Jack Sullivan,
the son of their nearest neighbour. He had known her for a great many
years, without caring more about her than he did about other young
maidens; but one day as he was passing the widow’s front garden, he
saw Betsey leaning over the half-door of the cottage, and Jill mounted
on a ladder, mending the thatch of the roof. There was a gentle breeze
stirring, and it played and whispered about her little form very
lovingly. The small check apron round her pretty waist, waved and
fluttered about, and curled round behind, as if playing at hide-and
seek with the morning breeze, and now and then a wavy movement of the
neat stuff gown showed her well-turned ancles and little feet. The
sunlight played upon her shining hair; her face was so rosy and full of
smiles; her hands moved so nimbly at her work, and all the curves of
her young figure were so graceful, that Jack stood still a long time
to look at her. From that hour he fell in love. Jack himself was a
good-looking fellow, very good-looking indeed. He had, besides, free,
frank, good-natured ways, and was a great favourite in the village
for his generosity, and his gay and lively manners. He could play the
fiddle a little, sing a song with spirit, and dance as gaily as if all
the blood within him were a current of joy. He became now a frequent
visitor at the widow’s cottage. What he came for was soon plain enough
to the mother and to Betsey, and indeed to any one that observed; but
Jill—sly, blushing, little Jill—pretended not to know anything about
it. One day, however, she knew all about it, because Jack told her; and
oh! to see the little maiden then! It was well there was nobody by,—she
could not have borne it. She lifted up that little apron of hers, and
covered her pretty face with it, burning with blushes. Jack had put
such an important question to her, that it was quite impossible she
could answer it at once without consulting her mother; but the blushing
brow, the sparkling eyes, the trembling little hand, were almost answer
enough for him.
[Illustration]
The mother shook her head when she heard of what had passed between
Jack and her daughter. She loved him for his generosity and liveliness,
but she knew well his defects of character. Jack was not a thrifty
fellow. He loved his pleasures better than his business. His cottage
and garden were both in sad disorder. His fences, too, were broken
down; the weeds grew in his fields; and, altogether, his affairs were
in anything but a prosperous condition. Of course, the good mother
could not think of such a suitor to her thrifty little daughter, until
he altered his habits and gave some promise of becoming a steady and
industrious man. Jack was told this—and his conscience, besides,
whispered to him that he had been careless and indolent, and that it
was nothing more than right that Jill’s little hand should be denied
him till he had shown some proofs of care and frugality. But with such
a reward to encourage him and urge him on, he felt a new life at his
heart; he made a manful beginning of improvement, and probably would
have gone successfully on, but for an accident which brought sorrow
to both families, and for a time disabled Jack altogether. There had
been long drought in the summer; a drop of rain had not fallen for a
fortnight; the ponds in the neighbourhood were dried up, and the wells
gave but a very scanty supply. The best of these was at some distance
from the village at the top of a hill, with a well-worn path on one
side, but covered with grass and underwood on all the others. One day,
Jill, wanting water for her cows and for household purposes, proposed
to go up the hill to fetch some. Jack readily offered to help her. He
obtained a donkey cart, and filled it with buckets, and drove to the
foot of the hill, with Jill in company. They went up together, Jack
holding her by the hand and helping her on. When they had reached the
top and filled their pails, he proposed to go down the other side of
the hill, the distance being a little shorter. It was steeper and more
slippery it was true, but still he thought he could venture. He went
first, with a full pail in his hand, and Jill followed behind him.
They had not gone more than half-way down when Jack’s feet began to
slide over the smooth, steep ground, and down he fell on his side, and
rolled, over and over. Poor Jill screamed, leaned forward, and, in her
turn, fell and rolled down the hill behind Jack. On they went, over and
over down the hill, like a couple of cricket-balls, and nothing could
stop them till they came to the bottom. The mere rolling down hill
would not perhaps have have done them any great harm, for the ground
at that part was soft and grassy; but the worst of it was that Jill’s
pail—when it fell from her hand—struck Jack’s head, and it went bump!
bump! all the way down-hill close to him, hitting him now and then on
the ribs rather roughly. They were both picked up at the foot of the
hill, and placed, carefully, side by side in a cart, with a truss of
straw strewn over it to relieve the jolting. It was soon evident that
Jill, though a good deal frightened, was not much hurt; but Jack’s
fall was somewhat serious. His head was bleeding, and, when the Doctor
examined him, he said, that two of his ribs were broken. A day or two’s
nursing brought Jill round again, for there was nothing seriously the
matter with her; but Jack’s illness kept him to his bed some weeks.
Stars shine in the night, and so love burns with peculiar fervour in
the hours of affliction and sorrow. Jill and her mother waited upon
their patient with tenderest care. His food and his medicine were given
to him by their gentle hands; he sank into slumber at night with the
echoes of their prayers in his ears; and when he awoke in the morning,
the first eye-beams that met his own were theirs. The love in his heart
strengthened, and grew under such influences. He made all sorts of
generous resolves as to what he would do when he got well—how hard he
would work! how prudent and careful he would be! Nothing was too hard
to do or to endure, to gain such a wife as Jill.
With such excellent nursing, Jack recovered in due time, and came
out of his illness quite well and cheerful, One evening, after his
recovery, he was seated in the widow’s kitchen, talking to Jill and
Betsey, while they arranged their garden-pots of flowers in the window,
when the door opened, and Father M’Callagh, the parish priest, entered
the room, holding a letter in his hand.
“Jack!” said the Father, “I have just called upon you; but not finding
you at home, I guessed very naturally that you were here. While I was
standing at your doorway, the village postman came with this letter;
and as I knew pretty well where you were, I offered to deliver it to
you. Do not stand upon any ceremony with me, but read your letter at
once, while Mrs. M’Carthy, Betsey, and I, have a little quiet talk
together.”
Jack opened the letter, and read it aloud to Jill. It was from a
cousin of his, who had gone to America about ten years ago. He was
now a small but substantial and thriving farmer in one of the Western
States; and, as he wanted help in his farm, he had written to Jack,
offering him a free passage out and good wages. The letter stated that
the labour required would be constant and steady—now and then, perhaps,
severe—but that the reward would be sweet and sure. It also enclosed an
order, on an Irish Bank, for a small sum of money.
Jack looked at the maiden in silence. There were tears in her eyes.
Then the letter was handed to Betsey and the mother, and they both read
it; a solemn stillness came over the spirits of the family.
“What is to be done?” said Jack.
“Suppose we ask Father M’Callagh to advise us,” said Betsey.
The letter was instantly put into the good man’s hand. He looked over
it, and then advancing to where Jack and Jill sat, he took the little
hand of the maiden in one of his own, and laid the other in a friendly
manner on Jack’s shoulder.
“My advice,” said he, in a firm and cheerful voice, “is—Go! Go! by all
means.”
The young people looked up with distressed countenances, but spoke not
a word.
“Jack, my friend!” said the old man, cheerfully, “you are at heart
a good fellow; but you have some serious faults, which you are now
striving bravely to amend. You have made a capital beginning, but as
yet it is only a beginning. When we awaken to a sense of duty, we
ought to accept opportunities which put our virtue to the proof.
Inward resolutions must become outward life. Virtuous sentiments must
speak out in virtuous habits; practice must prove theory. Now, Jack,
my boy! shew a brave spirit. Accept this trial. Go to America! work!
be thrifty! Put by what you can reasonably spare; and in about a
twelvemonth, perhaps, you will be able to send for little Jill and make
her your wife.”
Jack’s countenance brightened, and so did Jill’s a little, though
her tears continued falling; but it was now the widow’s turn to be
sorrowful. The thought of her daughter’s going away to marry in a
foreign land was hard to bear; but Father M’Callagh comforted her. She
came to see that the arrangement was natural and wise; and, after some
little hesitation, she gave her consent.
On the following Sunday, the good old Father preached in the village
chapel from this text:—“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell
in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me,
and Thy right hand shall hold me.” He attempted to shew, that wherever
we go, in obedience to the voice of duty—whether upon burning sands or
freezing snows—whether in the flowery meadows or on the stormy seas—the
love, and mercy, and tenderness of heaven would hover over us still,
making our happiness fruitful, and turning our sorrows into joy. It
was a very comforting sermon for the family; and when the evening of
that Sabbath came, it was one of the sweetest and calmest they had ever
enjoyed. The stars that glittered in the skies seemed like the eyes of
angels looking down upon them; and the cool breeze that touched their
cheek and hair as it swept by, was like the kiss of an invisible
spirit, stooping down from a higher world.
Time flew rapidly on, and the day for parting came. Jill went with her
lover to the ship. She saw it leave the quay at Cork; she watched it
from the sea-shore, as with outspread sails it glided on and on. She
lingered on the beach till the shadows of evening fell, and the vessel
containing her dearest friend faded away like a speck on the horizon.
She wept a little—it was natural, she could not help it; but the tears
were not altogether bitter. The night wind swept over the sea with a
solemn sound; the waves broke upon the shore, and to the pious listener
they seemed to say—“Fear not! we roll in the hollow of His hand.”
* * * * *
Among the old lovers of little Jill was one Laurence Doheney, the
village postmaster’s son. She had never given him the slightest
encouragement; but now that Jack had gone to America, he thought there
was a chance for him, if he chose to persevere; and persevere he did,
much to Jill’s annoyance. He would sit upon the garden railings,
playing a few notes on an old cracked fiddle he had borrowed, and sing
a rude verse of a song which some one had written for him:—
“My pretty Jill!
Have you I will!
I’ll be your constant lover.
When one’s away,
The wise would say,
‘Take comfort in another.’”
Such a rude verse as this was, of course, not at all likely to please
so faithful a girl as Jill. It deeply offended her. She turned a deaf
ear and a severe countenance to all that he had to say, and his foolish
wooing was all in vain. Seeing that he could not succeed at all, and
that he did not get even so much as a smile, his love (if, indeed,
it ever was love) soured into vexation and anger. He took to teazing
her about her tumble down-hill, and made rude jests about the droll
figure she must have cut, when she came rolling over and over, like
a snow-ball, with Jack before her. He even went so far as to bring a
bell, one day, and ring it like a town-crier three times, while he
cried out—“O yes! Lost, a pair of young lady’s garters, while tumbling
down hill. Whoever will bring the same to Miss Jill McCarthy, will
receive one shilling reward.” This foolish and vexatious nonsense went
on for some time. Jill took but little notice of it; and she hoped
that, ere long, Laurence himself would grow tired of his own unkindness
and folly.
Meanwhile time flew on rapidly. The vessel which had taken Jack out to
America returned to Cork; but, strange to say, no letter had yet been
received by Jill. A sailor on board the ship, who had some relations
in the village, reported that he had seen Jack leave the ship on her
arrival, safe and sound, but that since that time he had neither heard
nor seen anything of him. This information was satisfactory, as far as
it went; but, of course, it was not enough, nor anything like enough,
for a loving heart like Jill’s. It was strange she did not hear from
him! What could be the matter? Five months—six months—seven months
passed away, but no letter. Poor Jill! she went into secret places,
and wept bitterly; she pined, lost her appetite, and grew pale. Her
mother and sister comforted her to the best of their power; but her
heart was deeply wounded, and it would not heal.
One day, when Father M’Callagh was visiting the cottage, and the
deep grief and disappointment of poor Jill was being talked over, he
suddenly fell into a deep silence, as if some thought had suddenly
struck him. Presently, turning to the chair where Jill sat, he spoke to
her,—
“My child! I have heard that Laurence Doheney, the postmaster’s son,
has been troublesome to you since Jack’s departure, and that he has
tried to get himself accepted as your suitor.”
“Yes, Father, he has annoyed me very much. Of course, I have had
nothing to say to _him_; and now I hope he will have nothing to say to
_me_.”
“Humph!” said the old Father. Then, after a long pause, he continued,
“Jill, my child, I daresay you know when the next mail is due from
America?”
“Yes,” she replied, drawing out a slip of newspaper from her pocket; “I
study such things now. Here it is! To-morrow!”
“That is at Cork, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Then, the day after to-morrow the letters ought to be delivered in
the village, if there be any. My child, you will probably see me on
that day. Meanwhile, be patient and hopeful. I dare be sworn Jack is
constant and true. I much fear that others——.” And here his countenance
grew grave and sorrowful; but he checked himself, looked smilingly
again, and bidding them all a gentle adieu, went his way.
* * * * *
On the day appointed for his again visiting the cottage, Father
M’Callagh went into the post-office of the village. Holding out his
hand to the postmaster, he began to inquire, in a friendly way, after
his health and that of his family, and begged permission to be seated
there a short time, as he was weary.
“As long as you please, Father—none more welcome!”
And then they began chatting together, the two old men, of the times
when they were young—of men and things—of joys and sorrows long since
past away. Laurence was in the room.
Presently, a horn was heard.
“Here comes the mail from Cork, father!” said Laurence, starting up,
and taking in the bag at the doorway.
“Very well,” said his father, “untie the bag, and go on sorting. I will
be ready presently.”
Father M’Callagh shifted his chair a little, so as to command a good
view of the movements of Laurence, while seeming not to notice him. He
entered into conversation again with the elder Doheney.
It was but a small packet of letters; and Laurence, who had long been
used to help his father in such matters, very quickly divided them
into their proper parcels. But there was one letter which, instead
of putting on the table with the others, he snapped up with a rapid
movement, and put into the side-pocket of his jacket.
But, quick as this was done, the watchful eye of Father M’Callagh saw
it. He rose from his seat, went up to Laurence, laid his hand upon his
shoulder, and, with a solemn voice and manner, said:—
“Laurence! Laurence! I pity you. I fear you have done a very wicked
thing. I would lead you back to honour by the gentle means of mercy.
Repent now, while there is time to do it, without public shame, or
by-and-bye Justice may seize you with a rough hand. Give me, instantly,
the letter that you have just concealed.” Laurence, pale and trembling,
produced the letter. It was addressed to Jill M’Carthy.
“I have no doubt,” said the priest, clutching the letter, “that you
have several others addressed to her in your possession. Give them all
up!”
Laurence unlocked a little drawer of his own in a corner of the office,
and, with downcast eyes, put into the old Father’s hands five or six
letters addressed to Jill. The seals had not in any instance been
broken.
“Oh, Laurence! Laurence!” said the old Father, with emotion, “is it
needful for me to say, how mean and paltry, how malicious, how unkind,
how cruel is such conduct towards any one? But towards such a girl as
Jill!—Oh, Laurence! Come! Come! I see the tears of shame and sorrow in
your eyes. You _do_ feel it.”
Yes! Laurence did feel it. He buried his face in his hands and wept.
Foolish habits and evil companionship had done him much harm, but they
had not destroyed all good. Here and there, in his neglected nature,
were some spots where the beautiful still grew, like patches of verdure
in a desert of sand. Now, the good within him awoke and stirred—the
evil sank into silence and slumbered. Shame and sorrow fell upon his
spirit, as summer rain upon withering flowers, and the true and the
beautiful revived.
Father M’Callagh promised the distressed father and the repentant son
that he would not speak of this discovery to any one in the world
but Jill. Now that a gracious repentance had begun its work, they
need not fear anything harsh or indelicate from those who knew the
circumstances. Then, with a few words of solace and encouragement, the
good old Priest shook hands with both father and son, and went away.
In a few minutes he arrived at the widow’s cottage. He asked to speak
with Jill alone, and then he told her of the discovery he had just
made; he spoke, too, of the sincere penitence of Laurence, and asked
her to forgive him. Then, putting all the letters into her hands, he
bade her adieu, and left her to go up into her little bed-chamber,
and read over their happy and loving contents, with beating heart and
tearful eyes.
One day, about a month after this incident, Jill was sitting at the
window working, when Laurence opened the garden-gate, and came forward
with a letter in his hand. It had just arrived, and he had requested
his father to let him be the bearer of it. It was the first time he
had ventured to shew himself to Jill since the affair of his dishonour
towards her. She came forward into the garden to meet him, and took the
letter from his hand. He blushed, and trembled a little as he delivered
it to her; with a faltering voice, he asked if Father M’Callagh had
told her how very sorry he was that—
“Yes—yes, Laurence! he told me all about it!” said Jill, interrupting
him. “I know you are sorry, and that you would never do so again to any
one.”
“Never! never!” said Laurence, with great emphasis. “Believe me—never!”
“Of course, you would not! therefore we will say no more about it. Now,
Laurence, please let me go and read my letter. Good bye!” and she held
out her hand so prettily, and pressed it into his so gently, yet so
warmly, and looked into his face with so much simplicity and sweetness,
that Laurence felt the tears starting to his eyes. These new touches of
tenderness and mercy strengthened his virtue, and made his heart steady
in the beautiful change upon which he had resolved.
Jill, as soon as she got to her room, opened the letter. Of course,
it was from Jack. It contained an order for £12 on an Irish Bank, and
a very earnest entreaty that she would come to America without delay,
and be his wife. It stated that he was now bailiff and manager of a
good farm, which his cousin had just bought—that he had saved a little
money, and had now a comfortable home, which only wanted Jill to make
it delightful. The £12 enclosed were for the expenses of her passage
out.
Such a letter as this could not be received but with mixed feelings.
There was joy in the prospect, but it could not be reached without much
present pain. There was a blessed meeting to look forward to, but there
was also a sorrowful separation to endure. So it is! Heaven’s beautiful
affections are the means of dividing families, as well as of drawing
them together. And so it will be, till all are “gathered together into
one fold.”
And now the hours, as they rolled on, brought near the time of another
parting—parting, the lot, sooner or later, of all meeting things in
this world below. Many of the villagers went as far as Cork, to see the
last of their dear little friend; and when the vessel left the harbour,
amidst the tears and blessings of mother, and sister, and friends,
several of them (Laurence and his father among the number) clustered
on the sea-shore, and watched it, as it glided away with her whom they
loved on board.
Sail gallantly, proud ship! Waft her gently on, ye winds! Roll, roll
ye murmuring waters! Rejoice, ye waves, and smile! for Love, the most
beautiful of all things, is now upon the sea!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Adventure with a Shark_]
The Two Middies; or, a Fearful Encounter with a Shark.
My young readers will recollect, that in my last volume I afforded them
some curious particulars regarding the “shark family;” I am now about
to relate to them a story“ concerning one, which I know to be true. It
was the year, 1835, that the fine Indiaman, the ”Rajah,“ had crossed
the line, and stood on her way to Madras. There were, on board of her,
two brothers, named Palgrave; one had the baptismal designation of
”Edwin,“ and the other’s name was ”Arthur.“ They were twin brothers,
and Arthur was only a few minutes older than Edwin.
Both these boys had been brought up together—they had the same nurse,
the same tutor, the same education, the same pocket-money. They were
the same in appearance, in countenance, in stature, and so like that
one was often mistaken for the other.
They were, however, somewhat different in character and disposition.
Edwin was gentle and retiring, Arthur was bold and resolute. Edwin
was fond of books and the pen, and of the pencil. Arthur delighted in
riding, fishing, shooting, and boating. Arthur wished to go to sea.
Edwin wanted to be a clergyman.
At last the time came for each to make a choice of a profession. Arthur
was determined to be a sailor, and his father took the requisite
means to get him entered as a “middy” on board the “Rajah,” and
everything was soon settled, and the little boy appeared, dressed in
his “uniform,” to the great joy of all his brothers and sisters, except
Edwin, who looked upon it as a sign that he was now to lose the society
of his beloved brother for a long time—perhaps for ever.
This was more than he could endure, and he therefore implored his
father, with tears in his eyes, to get him a “berth” in the same ship,
and offered to give up his idea of becoming a clergyman, and to share
all the perils of the deep, that he might not lose the companionship of
his brother.
I need not say how pure and holy fraternal affection is; nor how
pleasing it is in the sight of Him who would have all men to be
Brothers. But I may say, that the love that existed between Edwin and
Arthur has never been excelled in my experience.
The ship “Rajah” pursued her way with a fair wind and a calm sea, and
as she neared the point of her destination the weather became hotter
and hotter. At last, the Indiaman lay becalmed, the sun darting down
its heat so furiously as to make the boards of the deck shrink and
crack. All the passengers were in a “melting mood,” and the crew of the
ship in little better than a fry. The sun was indeed so hot that you
might almost cook a beef-steak on the flat of the locker.
The most rational thing to do—when a person is hot—is to devise some
means of getting one’s-self cool. And among the various devices
commonly practised to produce this effect, that of bathing is said to
be a very good one.
Many, therefore were the “bathers” that dropped over the ship’s sides
to take a “salt-water cure” for heat, and among the bathers was Edwin.
A sail had been let down with a large “bulge” in it from the main and
mizen-yard, and on this, which had about the depth of six feet of water
in its lowest part, the young middies and some of the passengers found
a very pleasant bath.
Several persons had taken their ablutions and came on deck again. But
Edwin lingered about in company with another middy, amusing himself
with various frolics in the water, when all at once the head of an
enormous shark appeared for a moment at the margin of the extended
sail. The monster turned up its mouth, shewed its treble row of
saw-like teeth, and descended rapidly. Both the youths gave a fearful
shriek, and the one nearest to the ship’s-side laid hold of a “dangling
rope,” and leaped into the vessel. Not so with Edwin. This poor youth
seemed suddenly paralyzed with fear. In a few seconds the shark
appeared again, and, making a lurch, threw himself over one part of
the sail, and nearly swept the unfortunate Edwin into the sea. The
enormous weight of the creature so slackened the ropes that held the
sail on one side that it tilted, and left Edwin clinging to the other
side in great terror, not knowing what would come next.
[Illustration]
Arthur was a witness of this dreadful state of things, and Edwin
instinctively uttered his brother’s name. In a moment, with his
dirk-knife unsheathed in his hand, Arthur was by the side of Edwin. The
soft swell of the sea gave a lurch to the ship, and, as the sail dipped
deeper into the sea, the horrid creature made a movement towards the
lads, turned his mouth upwards, and gave a snap—and so close was his
monstrous jaw to the boys, that the rope to which they clung was cut in
two, and the monster darted down with a mouthful of sail and rope in
his capacious jaws.
The sailors on board were endeavouring, with all their might, to
haul the boys into the ship; but before this could be done the shark
made another plunge above the edge of the sail, close to Edwin, who
instinctively threw himself more into the water at this moment. Arthur
made a spring—buried his long knife up to the hilt, close to the
animal’s jaw, and, quickly withdrawing it, gave him a like “dig” in his
throat, and the blood gushed out, making the sea and sail quite red.
“Bravo—bravo!” said the sailors on board, “give it him again, middy.”
Before, however, Arthur had the opportunity of so doing the shark drew
off, and was seen savagely frisking about at a few yards from the side.
Shortly after he made another attempt, and Arthur made a bold lurch at
him; but, in doing this, he over-reached himself and fell into the sea.
In an instant the shark turned upon him, but while it was in the act of
throwing up its teeth, Arthur dexterously dived, and, rising beneath
the monster, sent his knife into its most vital part.
Feeling the wound, the creature twisted downwards, while Arthur rose
to the surface—one mass of blood. The shark rose, too, but evidently
weaker, and before he could make another attack Arthur dealt another
blow at him, amid the cheers of the spectators. The shark endeavoured
to dive but was unable: made two or three convulsive twistings, and
then turned and floated, belly upwards.
As soon as the shark gave signs of being among the defunct, Arthur
sprang to his brother, and clasping him affectionately round the neck,
held on by the remnant of the sail till both were drawn on board, amid
the plaudits of the crew and passengers.
Such, young friends, is the story of the Shark and the Middies; and I
hope you will be so far instructed by it as to be ready, at all times,
to venture your life to save that of a brother. You may not be called
upon to do it by fighting with sharks of the sea; but there are “land
sharks” worse than sea sharks, in the various business matters of this
world, which it may be necessary for you to combat to save a brother’s
life, or, what is equally precious, his integrity or his honour.
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s notes:
In the text version, italics are represented by _underscores_, and bold
and black letter text by =equals= symbols.
This book contains a considerable number of unusual and inconsistent
spellings. In some cases, research indicates that a spelling that
appears incorrect in current times, was in use at the time that this
book was printed, however a good number are probably typesetting errors
or originate with the authors.
In the majority of cases, spelling has been left as printed but a small
number of errors which obscure the meaning for the reader have been
corrected.
Both uncorrected and corrected spellings are noted below.
Some incorrect puntuation has been silently corrected
Page
p7 exhilirating — left as printed.
p8 despatches — more common than dispatches pre 1900.
p9 pecularity — left as printed.
p9 jackall — occurs occasionally in this era.
p20 comsumptive — left as printed.
p21 our — corrected to cur.
p21 summersault — Both this and somersault were in use in 1850s.
p26 discernable — left as printed.
p33 massacreing — occurs occasionally in this era.
p37 cupfull —left as printed.
p38 titilation — occurs equally with titillation in this era
p38 wont — corrected
p39 undulterated — left as printed.
p39 St. Columb — St. Columba used elsewhere — left as printed.
p40 hostlery — left as printed.
p53 chesnuts — chesnut may be correct, it appears to be used in
this era.
p57 Mahommedans — occurs occasionally in this era.
p58 p145 p239 p245 ancles — occurs occasionally in this era.
p59 gipsies — a more common alternative in this era.
p62 througout — left as printed.
p62 spiritural — left as printed.
p63 immates — left as printed.
p63 superintendance — left as printed.
p67 sumptous — left as printed.
p68 effctually — left as printed.
p71 Mediteranean — left as printed.
p77 distinquishes — left as printed.
p82 sumptousness — left as printed.
p84 entrused — left as printed.
p85 suprised — left as printed.
p85 commision — left as printed.
p86 powerful — corrected, there is space at end which probably held
it.
p88 to night — should be to-night for consistency - left as printed.
p92 Moscow to St. Petersburg — Petersburgh elsewhere but left as
printed.
p99 embarassing — left as printed.
p106 Ballinm — left as printed.
p107 Govenor — left as printed.
p107 Castellain — left as printed.
p112 trowsers — this spelling reasonably common in this era.
p117 vallies — left as printed.
p123 confectionary — this spelling reasonably common in this era.
p137 portentious — left as printed.
p143 Pharoahs — left as printed.
p144 Shakspeare — left as printed.
p145 Pharoahs — left as printed.
p149 bitumenous — left as printed.
p150 diminsions — left as printed.
p152 blithsome — this spelling occurs occasionally in this era.
p164 one o — corrected to one of.
p175 exhilirating — left as printed.
p189 materiel — left as printed.
p222 accellerates — left as printed.
p222 fushion — left as printed.
p222 homogenous — left as printed.
p237 notions — corrected to motions.
p238 shaped liked a fish — corrected to like.
p257 eutreaty — corrected to entreaty.
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