Chapter IX (2)

The ancient reign of the quill-pen was first seriously disturbed about twenty-five years ago. An abortive imitation of the _form_ of a pen was produced before that time; a clumsy, inelastic, metal tube fastened in a bone or ivory handle, and sold for half-a-crown. A man might make his mark with one—but as to writing, it was a mere delusion. In due course came more carefully finished inventions for the luxurious, under the tempting names of ruby pen, or diamond pen—with the plain gold pen, and the rhodium pen, for those who were skeptical as to the jewelry of the inkstand. The economical use of the quill received also the attention of science. A machine was invented to divide the barrel lengthwise into two halves; and, by the same mechanical means, these halves were subdivided into small pieces, cut pen-shape, slit, and nibbed. But the pressure upon the quill supply grew more and more intense. A new power had risen up in our world—a new seed sown—the source of all good, or the dragon’s teeth of Cadmus. In 1818 there were only one hundred and sixty-five thousand scholars in the monitorial schools—the new schools, which were being established under the auspices of the National Society, and the British and Foreign School Society. Fifteen years afterward, in 1833, there were three hundred and ninety thousand. Ten years later, the numbers exceeded a million. Even a quarter of a century ago two-thirds of the male population of England, and one-half of the female, were learning to write; for in the Report of the Registrar-General for 1846, we find this passage—“Persons when they are married are required to sign the marriage register; if they can not write their names, they sign with a mark: the result has hitherto been, that nearly one man in three, and one woman in two, married, sign with marks.” This remark applies to the period between 1839 and 1845. Taking the average age of men at marriage as twenty-seven years, and the average age of boys during their education as ten years, the marriage-register is an educational test of male instruction for the years 1824-28. But the gross number of the population of England and Wales was rapidly advancing. In 1821 it was twelve millions; in 1831, fourteen millions; in 1841, sixteen millions; in 1851, taking the rate of increase at fourteen per cent., it will be eighteen millions and a half. The extension of education was proceeding in a much quicker ratio; and we may therefore fairly assume that the proportion of those who make their marks in the marriage-register has greatly diminished since 1844.

But, during the last ten years, the natural desire to learn to write, of that part of the youthful population which education can reach, has received a great moral impulse by a wondrous development of the most useful and pleasurable exercise of that power. The uniform penny postage has been established. In the year 1838, the whole number of letters delivered in the United Kingdom was seventy-six millions; in this year that annual delivery has reached the prodigious number of three hundred and thirty-seven millions. In 1838, a Committee of the House of Commons thus denounced, among the great commercial evils of the high rates of postage, their injurious effects upon the great bulk of the people. They either act as a grievous tax on the poor, causing them to sacrifice their little earnings to the pleasure and advantage of corresponding with their distant friends, or compel them to forego such intercourse altogether; thus subtracting from the small amount of their enjoyments, and obstructing the growth and maintenance of their best affections. Honored be the man who broke down these barriers! Praised be the Government that, _for once_, stepping out of its fiscal tram-way, dared boldly to legislate for the domestic happiness, the educational progress, and the moral elevation of the masses! The steel pen, sold at the rate of a penny a dozen, is the creation, in a considerable degree, of the Penny Postage stamp; as the Penny Postage stamp was a representative, if not a creation, of the new educational power. Without the steel pen, it may reasonably be doubted whether there were mechanical means within the reach of the great bulk of the population for writing the three hundred and thirty-seven millions of letters that now annually pass through the Post Office.

Othello’s sword had “the ice-brook’s temper;” but not all the real or imaginary virtues of the stream that gave its value to the true Spanish blade could create the elasticity of a steel pen. Flexible, indeed, is the Toledo. If thrust against a wall, it will bend into an arc that describes three-fourths of a circle. The problem to be solved in the steel-pen, is to convert the iron of Dannemora into a substance as thin as the quill of a dove’s pinion, but as strong as the proudest feather of an eagle’s wing. The furnaces and hammers of the old armorers could never have solved this problem. The steel pen belongs to our age of mighty machinery. It could not have existed in any other age. The demand for the instrument, and the means of supplying it, came together.

The commercial importance of the steel pen was first manifested to our senses a year or two ago at Sheffield. We had witnessed all the curious processes of _converting_ iron into steel, by saturating it with carbon in the converting furnace; of _tilting_ the bars so converted into a harder substance, under the thousand hammers that shake the waters of the Sheaf and the Don: of _casting_ the steel thus converted and tilted into ingots of higher purity; and, finally, of _milling_, by which the most perfect development of the material is acquired, under enormous rollers. About two miles from the metropolis of steel, over whose head hangs a canopy of smoke through which the broad moors of the distance sometimes reveal themselves, there is a solitary mill where the tilting and rolling processes are carried to great perfection. The din of the large tilts is heard half a mile off. Our ears tingle, our legs tremble, when we stand close to their operation of beating bars of steel into the greatest possible density; for the whole building vibrates as the workmen swing before them in suspended baskets, and shift the bar at every movement of these hammers of the Titans. We pass onward to the more quiet _rolling_ department. The bar that has been tilted into the most perfect compactness, has now to acquire the utmost possible tenuity. A large area is occupied by furnaces and rollers. The bar of steel is dragged out of the furnace at almost a white heat. There are two men at each roller. It is passed through the first pair, and its squareness is instantly elongated and widened into flatness; rapidly through a second pair, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. The bar is becoming a sheet of steel. Thinner and thinner it becomes, until it would seem that the workmen can scarcely manage the fragile substance. It has spread out like a morsel of gold under the beater’s hammer, into an enormous leaf. The least attenuated sheet is only the hundredth part of an inch in thickness; some sheets are made as thin as the two-hundredth part of an inch. And for what purpose is this result of the labors of so many workmen, of such vast and complicated machinery, destined?—what the final application of a material employing so much capital in every step, from the Swedish mine to its transport by railroad to some other seat of British industry? _The whole is prepared for one steel-pen manufactory at Birmingham._

There is nothing very remarkable in a steel-pen manufactory, as regards ingenuity of contrivance or factory organization. Upon a large scale of production, the extent of labor engaged in producing so minute an article, is necessarily striking. But the process is just as curious and interesting, if conducted in a small shop as in a large. The pure steel, as it comes from the rolling-mill, is cut up into strips about two inches and a half in width. These are further cut into the proper size for the pen. The pieces are then annealed and cleansed. The maker’s name is neatly impressed on the metal; and a cutting-tool forms the slit, although imperfectly in this stage. The pen shape is given by a convex punch pressing the plate into a concave die. The pen is formed when the slit is perfected. It has now to be hardened, and, finally, cleansed and polished, by the simple agency of friction in a cylinder. All the varieties of form of the steel pen are produced by the punch; all the contrivances of slits and apertures above the nib, by the cutting-tool. Every improvement has had for its object to overcome the rigidity of the steel—to imitate the elasticity of the quill, while bestowing upon the pen a superior durability.

The perfection that may reasonably be demanded in a steel pen has yet to be reached. But the improvement in the manufacture is most decided. Twenty years ago, to one who might choose, regardless of expense, between the quill pen and the steel, the best Birmingham and London production was an abomination. But we can trace the gradual acquiescence of most men in the writing implement of the multitude. Few of us, in an age when the small economies are carefully observed, and even paraded, desire to use quill pens at ten or twelve shillings a hundred, as Treasury Clerks once luxuriated in their use—an hour’s work, and then a new one. To mend a pen, is troublesome to the old, and even the middle-aged man who once acquired the art; the young, for the most part, have not learned it. The most painstaking and penurious author would never dream of imitating the wondrous man who translated Pliny with “one gray goose quill.” Steel pens are so cheap, that if one scratches or splutters, it may be thrown away, and another may be tried. But when a really good one is found, we cling to it, as worldly men cling to their friends: we use it till it breaks down, or grows rusty. We can do no more; we handle it as Izaak Walton handled the frog upon his hook, “as if we loved him.” We could almost fancy some analogy between the gradual and decided improvement of the steel pen—one of the new instruments of education—and the effects of education itself upon the mass of the people. An instructed nation ought to present the same gradually perfecting combination of strength with elasticity. The favorites of fortune are like the quill, ready made for social purposes, with a little scraping and polishing. The bulk of the community have to be formed out of ruder and tougher materials—to be converted, welded, and tempered into pliancy. The _manners_ of the great British family have decidedly improved under culture—“_emollit mores_:” may the sturdy self-respect of the race never be impaired!

SNAKES AND SERPENT CHARMERS. (FROM BENTLEY’S MISCELLANY.)

At the present time there are at the London Zoological Gardens two Arabs, who are eminently skilled in what is termed “Snake-Charming.” In this country, happily for ourselves, we have but little practical acquaintance with venomous serpents, and there is no scope for the development of native skill in the art referred to; the visit, therefore, of these strangers is interesting, as affording an opportunity of beholding feats which have hitherto been known to us only by description. We propose, therefore, to give some account of their proceedings.

Visitors to the Zoological Gardens will remark, on the right hand side, after they have passed through the tunnel, and ascended the slope beyond, a neat wooden building in the Swiss style. This is the reptile-house, and while our readers are bending their steps toward it, we will describe the performance of the Serpent Charmers.

The names of these are Jubar-Abou-Haijab, and Mohammed-Abou-Merwan. The former is an old man, much distinguished in his native country for his skill. When the French occupied Egypt, he collected serpents for their naturalists, and was sent for to Cairo to perform before General Bonaparte. He described to us the general, as a middle-sized man, very pale, with handsome features, and a most keen eye. Napoleon watched his proceedings with great interest, made many inquiries, and dismissed him with a handsome “backsheesh.” Jubar is usually dressed in a coarse loose bernoose of brown serge, with a red cap on his head.

The gift, or craft, of serpent-charming, descends in certain families from generation to generation; and Mohammed, a smart active lad, is the old man’s son-in-law, although not numbering sixteen years. He is quite an Adonis as to dress, wearing a smart, richly embroidered dark-green jacket, carried—hussar fashion—over his right shoulder, a white loose vest, full white trowsers, tied at the knee, scarlet stockings and slippers, and a fez or red cap, with a blue tassel of extra proportions on his head. In his right ear is a ring, so large that it might pass for a curtain ring.

Precisely as the clock strikes four, one of the keepers places on a platform a wooden box containing the serpents, and the lad Mohammed proceeds to tuck his ample sleeves as far up as possible, to leave the arms bare. He then takes off his cloth jacket, and, opening the box, draws out a large Cobra de Capello, of a dark copper color: this he holds at arm’s length by the tail, and after allowing it to writhe about in the air for some time, he places the serpent on the floor, still holding it as described. By this time the cobra had raised his hood, very indignant at the treatment he is receiving. Mohammed then pinches and teases him in every way; at each pinch the cobra strikes at him, but, with great activity, the blow is avoided. Having thus teased the snake for some time, Mohammed rises, and placing his foot upon the tail, irritates him with a stick. The cobra writhes, and strikes sometimes at the stick, sometimes at his tormentor’s legs, and again at his hands, all which is avoided with the utmost nonchalance. After the lapse of about ten minutes, Mohammed coils the cobra on the floor, and leaves him while he goes to the box, and draws out another far fiercer cobra. While holding this by the tail, Mohammed buffets him on the head with his open hand, and the serpent, quite furious, frequently seizes him by the forearm. The lad merely wipes the spot, and proceeds to tie the serpent like a necklace around his neck. Then the tail is tied into a knot around the reptile’s head, and again head and tail into a double knot. After amusing himself in this way for some time, the serpent is told to lie quiet, and stretched on his back, the neck and chin being gently stroked. Whether any sort of mesmeric influence is produced we know not, but the snake remains on its back, perfectly still, as if dead. During this time the first cobra has remained coiled up, with head erect, apparently watching the proceedings of the Arab. After a pause, the lad takes up the second cobra, and carrying it to the first, pinches and irritates both, to make them fight; the fiercer snake seizes the other by the throat, and coiling round him, they roll struggling across the stage. Mohammed then leaves these serpents in charge of Jubar and draws a third snake out of the box. This he first ties in a variety of apparently impossible knots, and then holding him at a little distance from his face, allows the snake to strike at it, just dodging back each time sufficiently far to avoid the blow. The serpent is then placed in his bosom next his skin, and left there, but it is not so easy after a time to draw it out of its warm resting-place. The tail is pulled; but, no! the serpent is round the lad’s body, and will not come. After several unsuccessful efforts, Mohammed rubs the tail briskly between his two hands, a process which—judging from the writhings of the serpent, which are plainly visible—is the reverse of agreeable. At last Mohammed pulls him hand-over-hand—as the sailors say—and, just, as the head flies out, the cobra makes a parting snap at his tormentor’s face, for which he receives a smart cuff on the head, and is then with the others replaced in the box.

Dr. John Davy, in his valuable work on Ceylon, denies that the fangs are extracted from the serpents which are thus exhibited; and says that the only charm employed is that of courage and confidence—the natives avoiding the stroke of the serpent with wonderful agility; adding, that they will play their tricks with any hooded snake, but with no other poisonous serpent.

In order that we might get at the truth, we sought it from the fountain-head, and our questions were thus most freely answered by Jubar-Abou-Haijab, Hamet acting as interpreter:

_Q._ How are the serpents caught in the first instance?

_A._ I take this adze (holding up a sort of geological hammer mounted on a long handle) and as soon as I have found a hole containing a cobra, I knock away the earth till he comes out or can be got at; I then take a stick in my right hand, and seizing the snake by the tail with the left, hold it at arm’s length. He keeps trying to bite, but I push his head away with the stick. After doing this some time I throw him straight on the ground, still holding him by the tail; I allow him to raise his head and try to bite, for some time, in order that he may learn how to attack, still keeping him off with the stick. When this has been done long enough, I slide the stick up to his head and fix it firmly on the ground; then taking the adze, and forcing open the mouth, I break off the fangs with it, carefully removing every portion, and especially squeezing out all the poison and blood, which I wipe away as long as it continues to flow; when this is done the snake is harmless and ready for use.

_Q._ Do the ordinary jugglers, or only the hereditary snake charmers catch the cobras?

_A._ We are the only persons who dare to catch them, and when the jugglers want snakes they come to us for them; with that adze (pointing to the hammer) I have caught and taken out the fangs of many thousands.

_Q._ Do you use any other snakes besides the cobras for your exhibitions?

_A._ No; because the cobra is the only one that will fight well. The cobra is always ready to give battle, but the other snakes are sluggish, only bite, and can’t be taught for our exhibitions.

_Q._ What do the Arabs do if they happen to be bitten by a poisonous snake?

_A._ They immediately tie a cord tight round the arm above the wound, and cut out the bitten part as soon as possible—some burn it; they then squeeze the arm downward, so as to press out the poison, but they don’t suck it, because it is bad for the mouth; however, in spite of all this, they sometimes die.

_Q._ Do you think it possible that cobras could be exhibited without the fangs being removed?

_A._ Certainly not, for the least scratch of their deadly teeth would cause death, and there is not a day that we exhibit that we are not bitten and no skill in the world would prevent it.

Such were the particulars given us by a most distinguished professor in the art of snake-charming, and, therefore, they may be relied on as correct; the matter-of-fact way in which he _acted_, as well as related the snake-catching, bore the impress of truth, and there certainly would appear to be far less mystery about the craft than has generally been supposed. The way in which vipers are caught in this country is much less artistic than the Arab mode. The viper-catcher provides himself with a cleftstick, and stealing up to the reptile when basking, pins his head to the ground with the cleft, and seizing the tail, throws the reptile into a bag. As they do not destroy the fangs, these men are frequently bitten in the pursuit of their business, but their remedy is either the fat of vipers, or salad oil, which they take inwardly, and apply externally, after squeezing the wound. We are not aware of any well-authenticated fatal case in man from a viper bite, but it fell to our lot some years ago to see a valuable pointer killed by one. We were beating for game in a dry, stony district, when suddenly the dog, who was running beneath a hedgerow, gave a yelp and bound, and immediately came limping up to us with a countenance most expressive of pain; a large adder was seen to glide into the hedgerow. Two small spots of blood on the inner side of the left foreleg, close to the body of the dog marked the seat of the wound; and we did our best to squeeze out the poison. The limb speedily began to swell, and the dog laid down, moaning and unable to walk. With some difficulty we managed to carry the poor animal to the nearest cottage, but it was too late. In spite of oil and other remedies the body swelled more and more, and he died in convulsions some two hours after the receipt of the injury.

The Reptile-house is fitted up with much attention to security and elegance of design; arranged along the left side are roomy cages painted to imitate mahogany and fronted with plate-glass. They are ventilated by perforated plates of zinc above, and warmed by hot water pipes below. The bottoms of the cages are strewed with sand and gravel, and in those which contain the larger serpents strong branches of trees are fixed. The advantage of the plate-glass fronts is obvious, for every movement of the reptiles is distinctly seen, while its great strength confines them in perfect safety. Each cage is, moreover, provided with a pan of water.

Except when roused by hunger, the Serpents are generally in a state of torpor during the day, but as night draws on, they, in common with other wild denizens of the forest, are roused into activity. In their native state the Boas then lie in wait, coiled round the branches of trees, ready to spring upon the antelopes and other prey as they pass through the leafy glades; and the smaller serpents silently glide from branch to branch in quest of birds on which to feed. As we have had the opportunity of seeing the Reptile-house by night, we will describe the strange scene.

About ten o’clock one evening during the last spring, in company with two naturalists of eminence, we entered that apartment. A small lantern was our only light, and the faint illumination of this, imparted a ghastly character to the scene before us. The clear plate-glass which faces the cages was invisible, and it was difficult to believe that the monsters were in confinement and the spectators secure. Those who have only seen the Boas and Pythons, the Rattlesnakes and Cobras, lazily hanging in festoons from the forks of the trees in the dens, or sluggishly coiled up, can form no conception of the appearance and actions of the same creatures at night. The huge Boas and Pythons were chasing each other in every direction, whisking about the dens with the rapidity of lightning, sometimes clinging in huge coils round the branches, anon entwining each other in massive folds, then separating they would rush over and under the branches, hissing and lashing their tails in hideous sport. Ever and anon, thirsty with their exertions, they would approach the pans containing water and drink eagerly, lapping it with their forked tongues. As our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we perceived objects better, and on the uppermost branch of the tree in the den of the biggest serpent, we perceived a pigeon quietly roosting, apparently indifferent alike to the turmoil which was going on around, and the vicinity of the monster whose meal it was soon to form. In the den of one of the smaller serpents was a little mouse, whose panting sides and fast-beating heart showed that it, at least, disliked its company. Misery is said to make us acquainted with strange bed-fellows, but evil must be the star of that mouse or pigeon whose lot it is to be the comrade and prey of a serpent!

A singular circumstance occurred not long since at the Gardens, showing that the mouse at times has the best of it. A litter of rattlesnakes was born in the Gardens—curious little active things without rattles—hiding under stones, or coiling together in complicated knots, with their clustering heads resembling Medusa’s locks. It came to pass that a mouse was put into the cage for the breakfast of the mamma, but she not being hungry, took no notice. The poor mouse gradually became accustomed to its strange companions, and would appear to have been pressed by hunger, for it actually nibbled away great part of the jaw of one of the little rattlesnakes, so that it died! perhaps the first instance of such a turning of the tables. An interesting fact was proved by this, namely, that these reptiles when young are quite defenseless, and do not acquire either the power of injuring others, or of using their rattles until their adolescence.

During the time we were looking at these creatures, all sorts of odd noises were heard; a strange scratching against the glass would be audible; ’twas the Carnivorous Lizard endeavoring to inform us that it was a fast-day with him, entirely contrary to his inclination. A sharp hiss would startle us from another quarter, and we stepped back involuntarily as the lantern revealed the inflated hood and threatening action of an angry cobra. Then a rattlesnake would take umbrage, and, sounding an alarm, would make a stroke against the glass, intended for our person. The fixed gaze, too, from the brilliant eyes of the huge Pythons, was more fascinating than pleasant, and the scene, taking it all together, more exciting than agreeable. Each of the spectators involuntarily stooped to make sure that his trowsers were well strapped down; and, as if our nerves were jesting, a strange sensation would every now and then be felt, resembling the twining of a small snake about the legs. Just before leaving the house, a great dor beetle which had flown in, attracted by the light, struck with some force against our right ear; startled indeed we were, for at the moment our impression was that it was some member of the Happy Family around us who had favored us with a mark of his attention.

In feeding the larger serpents, the Boas and Pythons, some care is necessary lest such an accident should occur as that which befell Mr. Cops, of the Lion Office in the Tower, some years ago. Mr. Cops was holding a fowl to the head of the largest of the five snakes which were then there kept; the snake was changing its skin, consequently, being nearly blind (for the skin of the eye is changed with the rest), it darted at the fowl but missed it, and seized the keeper by the left thumb, coiling round his arm and neck in a moment, and fixing itself by its tail to one of the posts of its cage, thus giving itself greater power. Mr. Cops, who was alone, did not lose his presence of mind, and immediately attempted to relieve himself from the powerful constriction by getting at the serpent’s head; but the serpent had so knotted itself upon its own head, that Mr. Cops could not reach it, and had thrown himself upon the floor in order to grapple, with greater success, with his formidable opponent, when fortunately, two other keepers came in and rushed to the rescue. The struggle even then was severe, but at length they succeeded in breaking the teeth of the serpent, and relieving Mr. Cops from his perilous situation; two broken teeth were extracted from the thumb; the wounds soon healed, and no further inconvenience followed. Still more severe was the contest which took place between a negro herdsman, belonging to Mr. Abson, for many years Governor at Fort William, on the coast of Africa. This man was seized by a huge Python while passing through a wood. The serpent fixed his fangs in his thigh, but in attempting to throw himself round his body, fortunately became entangled with a tree, and the man being thus preserved from a state of compression which would have instantly rendered him powerless, had presence of mind enough to cut with a large knife which he carried about with him, deep gashes in the neck and throat of his antagonist, thereby killing him, and disengaging himself from his frightful situation. He never afterward, however, recovered the use of the limb, which had sustained considerable injury from the fangs and mere force of the jaws, and for many years limped about the fort, a living example of the prowess of these fearful serpents.

The true _Boas_, it is to be observed, are restricted to America, the name _Python_ being given to the large serpents of Africa and India. It is related by Pliny that the army of Regulus was alarmed by a huge serpent one hundred and twenty-three feet in length. This account is doubtful; but there is a well-authenticated instance of the destruction of a snake above sixty-two feet long, while in the act of coiling itself round the body of a man. The snakes at the gardens will generally be found coiled and twined together in large clusters, probably for the sake of warmth. Dr. Carpenter knew an instance in which no less than _thirteen hundred_ of our English harmless snakes were found in an old lime kiln! The _battûe_ which ensued can better be imagined than described.

The cobras, the puff-adders, and some of the other highly-venomous serpents are principally found in rocky and sandy places, and very dangerous they are. Mr. Gould, the eminent ornithologist, had a most narrow escape of his life when in the interior of Australia: there is a serpent found in those arid wastes, whose bite is fatal in an incredibly short time, and it springs at an object with great force. Mr. Gould was a little in advance of his party, when suddenly a native who was with him screamed out, “Oh, massa! dere big snake!” Mr. Gould started, and putting his foot in a hole, nearly fell to the ground. At that instant the snake made its spring, and had it not been for his stumble, would have struck him in the face; as it was, it passed over his head, and was shot before it could do any further mischief. It was a large snake, of the most venomous sort, and the natives gathered round the sportsman anxiously inquiring if it had bitten him? Finding it had not, all said they thought he was “good for dead,” when they saw the reptile spring.

The expression “sting,” used repeatedly by Shakspeare, as applied to snakes, is altogether incorrect; the tongue has nothing to do with the infliction of injury. Serpents bite, and the difference between the harmless and venomous serpents generally is simply this: the mouths of the harmless snakes and the whole tribe of boas are provided with sharp teeth, but no fangs; their bite, therefore, is innocuous; the poisonous serpents on the other hand, have two poison-fangs attached to the upper jaw which lie flat upon the roof of the mouth when not in use, and are concealed by a fold of the skin. In each fang is a tube which opens near the point of the tooth by a fissure; when the creature is irritated the fangs are at once erected. The poison bag is placed beneath the muscles which act on the lower jaw, so that when the fangs are struck into the victim the poison is injected with much force to the very bottom of the wound.

But how do Boa Constrictors swallow goats and antelopes, and other large animals whole? The process is very simple; the lower jaw is not united to the upper, but is hung to a long stalk-shaped bone, on which it is movable, and this bone is only attached to the skull by ligaments, susceptible of extraordinary extension. The process by which these serpents take and swallow their prey has been so graphically described in the second volume of the “Zoological Journal,” by that very able naturalist and graceful writer, W. J. Broderip, Esq., F.R.S., that we shall transcribe it, being able, from frequent ocular demonstrations, to vouch for its correctness. A large buck rabbit was introduced into the cage of a Boa Constrictor of great size: “The snake was down and motionless in a moment. There he lay like a log without one symptom of life, save that which glared in the small bright eye twinkling in his depressed head. The rabbit appeared to take no notice of him, but presently began to walk about the cage. The snake suddenly, but almost imperceptibly, turned his head according to the rabbit’s movements, as if to keep the object within the range of his eye. At length the rabbit, totally unconscious of his situation, approached the ambushed head. The snake dashed at him like lightning. There was a blow—a scream—and instantly the victim was locked in the coils of the serpent. This was done almost too rapidly for the eye to follow; at one instant the snake was motionless—the next he was one congeries of coils round his prey. He had seized the rabbit by the neck just under the ear, and was evidently exerting the strongest pressure round the thorax of the quadruped; thereby preventing the expansion of the chest, and at the same time depriving the anterior extremities of motion. The rabbit never cried after the first seizure; he lay with his hind legs stretched out, still breathing with difficulty, as could be seen by the motion of his flanks. Presently he made one desperate struggle with his hind legs; but the snake cautiously applied another coil with such dexterity as completely to manacle the lower extremities, and in about eight minutes the rabbit was quite dead. The snake then gradually and carefully uncoiled himself, and finding that his victim moved not, opened his mouth, let go his hold, and placed his head opposite the fore-part of the rabbit. The boa, generally, I have observed, begins with the head; but in this instance, the serpent having begun with the fore-legs was longer in gorging his prey than usual, and in consequence of the difficulty presented by the awkward position of the rabbit, the dilatation and secretion of lubricating mucus were excessive. The serpent first got the fore-legs into his mouth; he then coiled himself round the rabbit, and appeared to draw out the dead body through his folds; he then began to dilate his jaws, and holding the rabbit firmly in a coil, as a point of resistance, appeared to exercise at intervals the whole of his anterior muscles in protruding his stretched jaws and lubricated mouth and throat, at first against, and soon after gradually upon and over his prey. When the prey was completely engulfed the serpent lay for a few moments with his dislocated jaws still dropping with the mucus which had lubricated the parts, and at this time he looked quite sufficiently disgusting. He then stretched out his neck, and at the same moment the muscles seemed to push the prey further downward. After a few efforts to replace the parts, the jaws appeared much the same as they did previous to the monstrous repast.”

THE MAGIC MAZE. (FROM COLBURN’S MONTHLY MAGAZINE.)

The Germans are said to be a philosophical and sagacious people, with a strong _penchant_ for metaphysics and mysticism. They are certainly a _leichtgläubiges Volk_, but, notwithstanding, painstaking and persevering in their search after truth. I know not whence it arises—whether from temperament, climate, or association—but it is very evident that a large portion of their studies is recondite and unsatisfactory, and incapable of being turned to any practical or beneficial account. They meditate on things which do not concern them; they attempt to penetrate into mysteries which lie without the pale of human knowledge. It has been ordained, by an inscrutable decree of Providence, that there are things which man shall not know; but they have endeavored to draw aside the vail which He has interposed as a safeguard to those secrets, and have perplexed mankind with a relation of their discoveries and speculations. They have pretended to a knowledge of the invisible world, and have assumed a position scarcely tenable by the weight of argument adduced in its defense. What has puzzled the minds of the most erudite and persevering men, I do not presume to decide. Instances of the re-appearance of persons after their decease, may or may not have occurred; there may, for aught I know, be good grounds for the belief in omens, warnings, wraiths, second-sight, with many other descriptions of supernatural phenomena. I attempt not to dispute the point. The human mind is strongly tinctured with superstition; it is a feeling common to all nations and ages. We find it existing among savages, as well as among people of refinement; we read of it in times of antiquity, as well as in modern and more enlightened periods. This universality betokens the feeling to be instinctive, and is an argument in favor of the phenomena which many accredit, and vouch to have witnessed.

I inherit many of the peculiarities of my countrymen. I, too, have felt that deep and absorbing interest in every thing appertaining to the supernatural. This passion was implanted in my breast at a very early age, by an old woman, who lived with us as nurse. I shall remember her as long as I live, for to her may be attributed a very great portion of my sufferings. She was an excellent story-teller. I do not know whether she invented them herself, but she had always a plentiful supply. My family resided at that time in Berlin, where, indeed, I was born. This old woman, when she took me and my sister to bed of an evening, kept us awake for hours and hours, by relating to us tales which were always interesting, and sometimes very frightful. Our parents were not aware of this, or they never would have suffered her to relate them to us. In the long winter nights, when it grew quite dark at four o’clock, she would draw her chair to the stove, and we would cluster round her, and listen to her marvelous stories. Many a time did my limbs shake, many a time did I turn as pale as death, and cling closely to her from fear, as I sat listening with greedy ear to her narratives. So powerful an effect did they produce, that I dared not remain alone. Even in the broad day-light, and when the sun was brightly shining into every chamber, I was afraid to go upstairs by myself; and so timid did I become, that the least noise instantly alarmed me. That old woman brought misery and desolation into our house; she blasted the fondest hopes, and threw a dark and dismal shadow over the brightest and most cheerful places. Often and often have I wished that she had been sooner removed; but, alas! it was ordered otherwise. She pretended to be very fond of us, and our parents never dreamed of any danger in permitting her to remain under their roof. We were so delighted and captivated with her narratives, that we implicitly obeyed her in every respect; but she laid strong injunctions upon us, that we were not to inform either our father or mother of the nature of them. If we were alarmed at any time, we always attributed it to some other than the true cause; hence the injury she was inflicting upon the family was unperceived. I have sometimes thought that she was actuated by a spirit of revenge, for some supposed injury inflicted upon her, and that she had long contemplated the misfortune into which she eventually plunged my unhappy parents, and which hurried them both to a premature grave.

I will briefly state the cause of the grievous change in our domestic happiness. My sister was a year or two younger than myself, and, at the time of which I speak, about seven years of age. She had always been a gay, romping child, till this old woman was introduced into the family, and then she became grave, timid, and reserved; she lost all that buoyancy of disposition, that joyousness of heart, which were common to her before. Methinks I now see her as she was then—a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired little creature, with soft, blue eyes, that sparkled with animation, a mouth pursed into the pleasantest smile, and a nose and chin exquisitely formed. My sister, as I have already stated, altered much after the old woman had become an inmate of the family. She lost the freshness of her complexion, the bright lustre of her eye, and was often dejected and thoughtful. One night (I shudder even now when I think of it), the wicked old beldame told us, as usual, one of her frightful stories, which had alarmed us exceedingly. It related to our own house, which she declared had at one time been haunted, and that the apparition had been seen by several persons still living. It appeared as a lady, habited in a green silk dress, black velvet bonnet, with black feathers. After she had concluded her narrative, under some pretense or other, she left the room, though we both strenuously implored her to remain; for we were greatly afraid, and trembling in every limb. She, however, did not heed our solicitation, but said she would return in a few minutes. There was a candle upon the table, but it was already in the socket, and fast expiring. Some ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, and the chamber-door was quietly thrown open. My hand shakes, and my flesh seems to creep upon my bones, as I recall that horrid moment of my past existence. The door was opened, and a figure glided into the room. It seemed to move upon the air, for we heard not its footsteps. By the feeble and sickly light of the expiring taper, we closely examined the appearance of our extraordinary visitor. She had on a green dress, black bonnet and feathers, and, in a word, precisely corresponded with the appearance of the apparition described by the wicked old nurse. My sister screamed hysterically, and I fell into a swoon. The household was disturbed, and in a few minutes the servants and our parents were by the bed-side. The old woman was among them. I described, as well as I was able, what had occurred; and my parents, without a moment’s hesitation, laid the mysterious visitation to the charge of the old woman; but she stoutly denied it. My belief, however, to this day, is, that she was concerned in it. My beloved sister became a confirmed idiot, and died about two years after that dreadful night.

My subsequent wretchedness may be traced to this female, for she had already instilled into my mind a love for the marvelous and supernatural. I was not satisfied unless I was reading books that treated of these subjects; and I desired, like the astrologers of old, to read the stars, and to be endowed with the power of casting the horoscopes of my fellow-creatures.

When directed by my guardians to select a profession, I chose that of medicine, as being most congenial to my taste. I was accordingly placed with a respectable practitioner, and in due time sent to college, to perfect myself in my profession. I found my studies dry and wearisome, and was glad to relieve myself with books more capable of interesting me than those relating to medical subjects.

I had always attached great importance to dreams, and to the various coincidences which so frequently occur to us in life. I shall mention a circumstance or two which occurred about this time, and which made a very forcible impression upon me. I dreamed one night that an intimate friend of mine, then residing in India, had been killed by being thrown from his horse. Not many weeks elapsed, before I received intelligence of his death, which occurred in the very way I have described. I was so struck with the coincidence, that I instituted further inquiry, and ascertained that he had died on the same night, and about the same hour on which I had dreamed that the unfortunate event took place. I reflected a good deal upon this occurrence. Was it possible, I asked myself, that his disinthralled spirit had the power of communicating with other spirits, though thousands of miles intervened? An event so strange I could not attribute to mere chance. I felt convinced that the information had been conveyed by design, although the manner of its accomplishment I could not comprehend.

A circumstance scarcely less remarkable happened to me only a few days subsequently. I had wandered a few miles into the country, and at length found myself upon a rising eminence, commanding a view of a picturesque little village in the distance. Although I had at no period of my life been in this part of the country, the scene was not novel to me. I had seen it before. Every object was perfectly familiar. The mill, with its revolving wheel—the neat cottages, with small gardens in front—and the little stream of water that gently trickled past.

These matters gave a stronger impulse to my reading, and I devoured, with the greatest voracity, all books appertaining to my favorite subjects. Indeed, I became so engrossed in my employment, that I neglected my proper studies, avoided all society, all exercise, and out-door occupation. For weeks and weeks I shut my self up in my chamber, and refused to see anybody. I would sit for hours of a night, gazing upon the stars, and wondering if they exercised any control over the destinies of mankind. So nervous did this constant study and seclusion render me, that if a door were blown open by a sudden blast of wind, I trembled, and became as pale as death; if a withered bough fell from a neighboring tree, I was agitated, and unable for some seconds to speak; if a sudden footstep was heard on the stairs, I anticipated that my chamber-door would be immediately thrown open, and ere many seconds elapsed to be in the presence of a visitor from the dark and invisible world of shadows. I became pale and feverish, my appetite failed me, and I felt a strong disinclination to perform the ordinary duties of life.

My friends observed, with anxiety and disquietude, my altered appearance; and I was recommended to change my residence, and to withdraw myself entirely from books. A favorable locality, combining the advantages of pure air, magnificent scenery, and retirement, was accordingly chosen for me, in which it was determined I should remain during the winter months. It was now the latter end of September.

My future residence lay at the distance of about ten German miles from Berlin. It was a fine autumnal day, that I proceeded, in the company of a friend, to take possession of my new abode. Toward the close of the day we found ourselves upon an elevated ground, commanding an extensive and beautiful view of the country for miles around. From this spot we beheld the house, or rather castle (for it had once assumed this character, although it was now dismantled, and a portion only of the eastern wing was inhabitable), that I was to occupy. It stood in an extensive valley, through which a broad and deep stream held its devious course—now flowing smoothly and placidly along, amid dark, overhanging trees—now dashing rapidly and furiously over the rocks, foaming and roaring as it fell in the most beautiful cascades. The building stood on the margin of the stream, and in the midst of thick and almost impenetrable woods, that rendered the situation in the highest degree romantic and captivating. The scene presented itself to us under the most favorable aspect. The sun was just setting behind the distant hills, and his rays were tinging with a soft, mellow light, the foliage of the trees, of a thousand variegated colors. Here and there, through the interstices of the trees, they fell upon the surface of the water, thus relieving the dark and sombre appearance of the stream. The road we now traversed led, by a circuitous route, into the valley. As we journeyed on, I was more than ever struck with the beauty of the scene. Dried leaves in many places lay scattered upon the ground; but the trees were still well laden with foliage, although I foresaw they would be entirely stripped in a short time. The evening was soft and mild; but occasionally a gentle breeze would spring up, and cause, for a moment, a slight rustling among the trees, and then gradually die away. The sky above our heads was serene and placid, presenting one vast expanse of blue, relieved, here and there, by a few light fleecy clouds. As we got deeper into the valley, the road became bad and uneven, and it was with much difficulty we prevented our horses from stumbling. In one or two instances we had to dismount and lead them, the road in many places being dangerous and precipitous. At length we gained the bottom of the valley. A rude stone bridge was thrown over the stream above described, over which we led our steeds. Arrived at the other side, we entered a long avenue of trees, sufficient to admit of two horsemen riding abreast. When we had gained the extremity of the avenue, the road diverged to the left, and became tortuous and intricate in its windings. It was in a bad state of repair, for the building had not been inhabited by any body but an old woman for a great number of years. We at length arrived in front of the entrance. As I gazed upon the dilapidated structure, I did not for a moment dream of the suffering and misery I was to undergo beneath its roof. We dismounted and gave our horses into the charge of a man who worked about the grounds during the day-time. We were no sooner admitted into this peculiar-looking place, than a circumstance occurred which plunged me into the greatest distress of mind, and aroused a host of the most painful and agonizing reminiscences. I conceived the event to be ominous of disaster; and so it proved. I recognized, in the woman who admitted us, that execrable being who had already so deeply injured my family, and to whose infernal machinations I unhesitatingly ascribed the idiocy and death of my dearly beloved sister. She gazed earnestly upon me, and seemed to recognize me. This discovery caused me the greatest uneasiness. I hated the sight of the woman; I loathed her; I shuddered when I was in her presence; and a vague, undefinable feeling took possession of me, which seemed to suggest that she was something more than mortal. I know not what evils I anticipated from this discovery. I predicted, however, nothing so awful, nothing so horrible, as what actually befell me.

I took the earliest opportunity of speaking alone with this woman.

“My good woman,” I said to her, “I shall not suffer you to remain here at night.”

“Why not, sir?” she asked.

“There are certain insuperable objections, the nature of which you may probably surmise.”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Then your memory is short.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“It is not of any consequence.”

After some further altercation, she consented to submit to the terms dictated to her.

On the following day, my friend Hoffmeister returned to Berlin, where he had some business to transact, on which depended much of his future happiness. He promised to pay me another visit in the course of a week or ten days.

I spent the first three or four days very comfortably, though I was still very nervous, and in a weak state of health. On the morning of the fifth day, the old woman (who had by some means discovered my profession) asked me if I required a subject for the purpose of dissection. This was what I had long been seeking for, but my efforts to obtain one had hitherto been fruitless. I asked the sex, and she informed me it was a male. I was delighted with the offer, and at once acquiesced in the terms. Toward nightfall it was arranged that the corpse should be conveyed to the castle.