Chapter IX (3)

I know not from what cause, but, during the whole of the day, I was in a very abstracted and desponding state of mind, and began to regret that I had agreed to take the body through the mediation of the old woman, whom I almost conceived to be in league with Beelzebub himself.

The day had been exceedingly sultry, and toward evening the sky became overcast with huge masses of dark clouds. The wind, at intervals, moaned fitfully, and as it swept through the long corridors of the building, strongly resembled the mournful and pitiful tones of a human being in distress. The trees that stood in front of the house ever and anon yielded to the intermitting gusts of wind, and bowed their heads as though in submission to a superior power. There was no human being to be seen out of doors, and the cattle, shortly before grazing upon some distant hills, had already been removed. The river flowed sluggishly past, its brawling breaking occasionally upon the ear when the wind was inaudible. Suddenly the wind ceased, and large drops of rain began to fall; presently afterward, it came down in torrents. It was a fearful night. Frequent peals of thunder smote upon the ear; now it seemed to be at a distance, now immediately overhead. Vivid flashes of lightning were at intervals seen in the distant horizon, illumining for a moment, with supernatural brilliancy, the most minute and insignificant objects. In the midst of the tempest, I fancied I heard a rumbling noise at a distance. It grew more distinct; the cause of it was rapidly approaching. I looked earnestly out of the window, and I thought I could discern a moving object between the interstices of the trees. I was not mistaken. It was the vehicle conveying the dead body. It came along at a rapid pace. It was just in the act of turning an angle of the road, when a tree, of gigantic proportions, was struck by the electric fluid to the ground. The horse shied, and the car narrowly escaped being crushed beneath its ponderous weight. The men drove up to the entrance, and speedily took the box containing the body from the car, and placed it in a room which I showed them into. I directed them to take the body out of the box, and place it upon a deal board, which I had laid horizontally upon a couple of trestles. The corpse was accordingly taken out. It was that of a finely-grown young man. I laid my hand upon it; it was still warm, and I fancied I felt a slight pulsation about the region of the heart. Anxious to dismiss the men as soon as possible, and fearing that the old woman might be imposing upon me, I asked the price.

“_Siebzig Thaler, mein Herr_,” said the man.

“_Danke, danke—tausendmal_,” said he, as I counted the money into his hand.

At this instant a vivid flash of lightning illumined, for a second or two, the livid and ghastly corpse of the man, rendering the object horrible to gaze upon.

“_Gott im Himmel! was für ein schrecklicker Stürm!_” exclaimed the man to whom I had paid the money.

In a few minutes the men departed, and I stood at the window watching them, as they drove furiously away. At length they disappeared altogether from my view.

I was now alone in the house. The storm was as furious as ever. I had never before felt so wretched. I was restless and uneasy, and a thousand dark thoughts flitted across my distracted brain as I wandered from room to room. It was already quite dark, and I was at least a couple of miles distant from any living soul. The frequent flashes of lightning, the loud peals of thunder, the dead body of the man, and my own nervous and superstitious temperament, constituted a multitude of anxieties, fears, and apprehensions, that might have caused the stoutest heart to quail beneath their influence. I seated myself in the sitting-room that had been provided for me, and took up my _meerschaum_, and endeavored to compose myself. It was, however, in vain. I was exceedingly restless, and I know not what vague and indefinable apprehensions entered my imagination. Whenever I have felt a presentiment of evil, it has invariably been followed by some danger or difficulty. It was so in the present instance. I drew the curtains in front of the windows, for I could not bear to look upon the storm that was raging with unabated vehemence out of doors, and I drew my chair closer to the fire, and sat for a considerable time. At length, between ten and eleven o’clock, I took from a small cabinet a bottle containing some excellent French brandy. I poured a portion of it into a tumbler, and diluted it with warm water. I took two or three copious draughts, which I thought imparted new life to my frame.

I was in this way occupied, when a sudden noise in a corner of the room caused a feeling of horror to thrill through my whole system. I sprang upon my legs in a moment; my eyes stared wildly, and every limb in my body shook as though with convulsions. For a moment, I stood still, steadfastly fixing my eyes upon the place from whence the noise proceeded. All was quiet. I heard nothing save the beating of the rain against the windows, and low peals of distant thunder. I walked across the room, and I discovered that a riding-whip had fallen from the nail from which it had been suspended. Satisfied that there was no occasion for alarm, I resumed my seat, and indulged in fresh draughts of brandy-and-water. A few minutes elapsed, and a noise similar to the last filled me with new apprehensions. I sprang again from my seat. The pulses of my heart beat quickly. I gazed wildly about me. I could see nothing—hear nothing. I walked a few paces, and found an empty powder-flask upon the floor; it had fallen from a shelf upon which I had placed it in the morning. I was much alarmed; I reeled like a drunken man, and my mind was filled with the most horrible forebodings. I drank the diluted spirit more freely than usual, and stood awaiting the issue. Another article in a few minutes fell from the wall. I now knew what to expect. I had frequently read of this species of disturbance before. It was what, is called in Germany the _Poltergeist_. In a few minutes, the greatest uproar manifested itself. The pictures fell from the walls, the ornaments from the shelves; the jugs, glasses, and bottles leaped from the table; the chairs, &c., by some unseen and infernal agency, were overturned. I ran about like one beside himself; I tore my hair with agony; I groaned with mental affliction; and my heart cursed the devil incarnate that had brought all this misery to pass. It was the woman; I was convinced of it. She, she alone, could conceive and hatch such monstrous and nefarious stratagems. I knew not what to do—whither to fly. The uproar continued. In my distraction, I ran from place to place. I entered the room where the corpse lay. Merciful God! I discovered, by the glimmering light from the other chamber, that it had changed its position. I had laid it upon its back. Its face was now turned downward! My cup was full—my misery complete. I returned to the room I had just quitted. The disturbance had in some measure abated. I was thankful that it was so, and I proceeded to place the tables, chairs, &c., in their usual position. While I was thus engaged, the tumult commenced afresh. No sooner had I placed a chair in an upright direction, than it was immediately overturned; no sooner had I suspended a picture from the wall, than it was again upon the floor. What was I to do? How was I to escape the horrible spells with which the archfiend had encompassed me? I could not leave the place on account of the storm; and even if I had done so, it was not possible that I could gain admittance into any habitation at that late hour of the night. Wretch that I was! What crime had I committed, wherein had I erred, that I should be visited with so unaccountable and terrible a calamity? My presence seemed to arouse the malignity of the _Poltergeist_, and I deemed it expedient to leave the room. I was afraid to enter that in which the dead (?) man lay, lest I should be exposed to further causes for alarm. There was certainly a room in the higher part of the building in which I had been accustomed to sleep; but I dared not venture there in my present state of mind. I entered an adjourning corridor, and paced up and down for a few minutes, but the air was chilly, and I was in total darkness. The disturbance ceased as soon as I had quitted the room. I could not remain where I was, so I re-entered it, but my return was only the signal for fresh disasters. The uproar was resumed with tenfold energy. However much my heart might revolt from it, there was no other course open than to go into the room where the dead body lay. In the condition of one who is driven to the last stage of desperation, I walked, with as much fortitude as I could command, into that chamber. God of Heaven! I had no sooner reached the threshold than I started back with affright. I will not dwell upon that horrible scene; I will not minutely detail the agony I endured. The corpse sat upright! I drew the chamber-door quickly after me and staggered into the next apartment. Powerless and overcome, I fell to the ground.

When I recovered, it was day. The light was streaming into the chamber, and the storm had subsided. Fresh marvels were to be revealed. I was no longer in the room in which I had been on the preceding night. I was in bed, in the chamber where I had hitherto slept! How came I hither? I knew not. I pressed my hand to my brow, and strove to collect my scattered senses. I was bewildered and confused, and could only account for the marvelous transition to which I had been exposed, by some remarkable agency, altogether intangible to my senses, and utterly beyond the power of my understanding to comprehend.

I descended, as soon as I was dressed, to breakfast, of which I sparingly partook. I was pale and agitated. My sitting-room was in its usual state of order. I did not venture into the other apartment, neither did I speak to the woman touching the spectacles I had witnessed.

Hoffmeister returned in the evening, some days sooner than he expected. He observed my altered appearance, and said—

“_Was fehlt dir? Du bist krank, nicht wahr?_”

“_Nein; ich bin recht wohl, Gott sei dank_.”

I could not, however, convince Hoffmeister that nothing had happened. I was not disposed to reveal to him what I had witnessed, for I knew he would treat the matter with unbecoming levity. His opinions were very different from mine upon these subjects.

Hoffmeister appeared much depressed in spirits himself. I inquired the cause, but he evaded the question. I concluded that his journey to Berlin had not been attended with satisfactory results, for I could conjecture no other cause for his unhappiness. We retired to rest early, for Hoffmeister appeared fatigued. I proposed that we should sleep together, which my friend gladly assented to.

I was much surprised, when I awoke on the following morning, to find myself alone. What had become of Hoffmeister? Had he, too, been under the domination of some evil power? I knew he was not an early riser, and his absence, therefore, astonished and agitated me. I dressed myself hastily, and immediately went in search of him. I wandered about the adjacent grounds, but he was not there. I could not rest till I had found him. I had known him for many years, and had always loved and esteemed him. He was, till lately, my constant companion—my bosom-friend—in a word, my _alter ego_.

I resolved to extend my search. I swiftly passed through the avenue of trees, crossed the bridge, and it was not long before I had gained the summit of the road that led into the valley. I stood for a while gazing around me. I gazed earnestly at the dilapidated and time-worn walls of the old castle, in which I had witnessed so many marvelous and horrible sights. I shuddered when I reflected upon them. I resumed my journey, and at length reached a village a few miles distant from my former abode. I walked quickly forward, and on my way met several persons who saluted me, whom I did not remember to have seen before. What could they mean by taking such unwarrantable liberties with me? They did not appear to be drunk, nor to have any intention of insulting me. It was odd—unaccountable. I hurried on. My head began to swim; my eyes were burning hot, and ready to start from their sockets. I was wild—frantic.

I reached the shop of an apothecary, and stepped in to ask for water, to quench my thirst. The man smirked, and asked me how I was. I told him, I did not know him; but he persisted in saying he had been in my company only a night or two before. I was confounded. I seized the glass of water he held in his hand, and took a hearty draught, and precipitately departed. I traveled on. I was bewildered—in a maze, from which I found it impossible to extricate myself. I made inquiries about my friend, but the people stared and laughed, as though there was something extraordinary about me. I wandered about till nightfall, and at last found shelter in a cottage by the road-side, which was inhabited by an infirm old woman.

The next day I returned to the village. I called upon a gentleman with whom I was intimately acquainted. I thought he might be able to give me some tidings of my friend. When I was ushered into his presence he did not know me. I was incredulous. Was I no longer myself? Had I changed my identity? Whence this mystery? I was unable to fathom it. I handed my card to him; he looked at it, and returned it, saying he did not know Mr. Hoffmeister. The card was that of my friend. How it had come into my possession I knew not. I apologized for the error, and informed him that my name was not Hoffmeister, but Heinrich Gottlieb Langström. My surprise may be conceived, when he informed me Langström—in fact, that I myself was dead, and that my body had been found in the stream that flowed past the village the day previously! I was ready to sink through the floor, and could not find language to reply to the monstrous falsehood. I rushed from his presence, feeling assured that some conspiracy was afoot to drive me mad. I must have become so, or I never would have been exposed to the extraordinary delusion to which I afterward became a victim.

I entered a house of public entertainment, and determined to solve this dreadful enigma. I was, unfortunately, acquainted with the doctrines of Pythagoras, and, at the time to which I refer, no doubt insane.

I requested to be shown into a room, where I could arrange my dress. I was conducted into a chamber, in which all things necessary for that purpose were provided. My object, however, was of greater consequence than this. I wished to unravel the strange mystery that surrounded me—to discover, in a word, whether I were really myself, or some other person. There was no way of freeing myself from this horrible suspense and uncertainty than by examining my features in the looking-glass. There was one placed upon a dressing-table, but I shrank from it as though it had been a demon. I dreaded to approach it; I feared to look into it, lest it should confirm all the vague and monstrous misgivings that agitated my mind. I regarded it as the arbiter of my destiny. It possessed the power either to transport me with happiness, or to plunge me into utter, irretrievable misery. In that brief moment I endured an age of agony and suspense. With a faltering step, with a whirling brain, I advanced toward the glass. I stood opposite to it; I looked into it. Distraction! horror of horrors! It was not my own face I beheld! I swooned—fell backward.

When I recovered, I found myself in the arms of a man, who bathed my temples with water. I quickly made my escape from the house. I was pale and haggard, like one stricken with some sudden and grievous calamity. I fancied, as I passed along, that the passengers whom I met stared at me, laughed in my face, and seemed to consider my misfortune a fit subject for their mirth and ridicule. Every hubbub in the street, every screeching voice that assailed my ear, I conceived to be attributable to my horrible transformation. I was afraid to look around; I dared not arrest my progress for a moment, lest any of the mocking fiends should make sport of my unhappy situation, and drive me to some act of desperation. On, on, I hurried. I gained the fields. Thank Heaven! the village lay at a distance behind me. The haunts of men were no place for me. I was something more than mortal. I had undergone a change, of which I had never conceived myself susceptible. I sped forward; naught could impede my course. My only relief was in action. Any thing to dissipate the thoughts that flitted across my distracted brain. Bodily pain might be endured—fatigue, hunger, any corporeal suffering; but to think, was death—destruction. Oh! could I have evaded thought for one moment, what joy, what transport! I fled onward; there was no time to pause—to consider. The sun had already sunk behind the hills, and night was about to spread her mantle o’er the earth, when I threw myself down, exhausted and overpowered. Slumber sealed my eyes, and I lay upon the ground, an outcast of men, an isolated and wretched being, to whom the common lot of humanity had been denied.

I will hurry this painful narrative to a close. I have but a vague idea of the events that occurred during the next few weeks. I remember being told, as I lay in bed, by a young woman who attended me, that I had been found by some workpeople, on the night above referred to, in the vicinity of my former residence, and conveyed thither, and that I had been attacked by the brain fever, and that my life had been despaired of by my medical attendant.

The body which had been found in the stream, and which was supposed to be mine, was that of my dear friend, Hoffmeister. In his agitation, previously to his committing the dreadful act of suicide, he had inadvertently mistaken my garments for his own.

When I became convalescent, I determined upon leaving, as soon as possible, the scene of my recent suffering. Before doing so, I proceeded to the village which I had previously visited. I called upon the gentleman who had not recognized me on a former occasion; but, strange to say, he now remembered me perfectly, and received me very kindly indeed. I referred to the circumstance of our late interview, but he had no recollection of it. While we were thus conversing, a third person entered the room, the very image of my friend, and who, it appeared was his brother. An explanation at once ensued.

These matters I have thought it necessary to explain. There are, however, occurrences in the narrative, of which I can give no solution, though I may premise, that my conviction is, that those which took place in the village, arose from natural causes, with which I am nevertheless unacquainted. The body of the man, who, I have reason to believe, was not quite dead when he was brought to me, I conveyed with me to Berlin. The old woman I never again beheld.

THE SUN. (FROM CHAMBERS’S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.)

Of all the links in the stupendous chain of the cosmos, the sun, next to our own planet, is that which we are most concerned in knowing well, while it is precisely that which we know the least. This glorious orb has always been involved in the deepest mystery. All that had been revealed to us concerning it, till very recently, was derived from the observations and deductions of the elder Herschel. His discovery of a double luminous envelopment, at times partially withdrawn from various portions of the sun’s surface, afforded, on the whole, a satisfactory explanation of the numerous spots that are always seen on his disk. This glimpse merely of the external changes which happen on his surface made up the sum of our knowledge of that great luminary on which the animation of our planetary system depends! One main cause of this utter ignorance on the subject, besides its own intrinsic difficulty, lay in the comparatively slight attention it had always received from astronomers generally. No individual observer ever thought of devoting himself to the solar phenomena alone, while the public observatories confined themselves to merely observing the sun’s culmination at noon, or to ascertaining the exact duration of its eclipses.

We knew, from the observations of Cassini and Herschel, that the spots on the sun’s disk are not alike numerous every year; and Kunowsky particularly drew the attention of astronomers to the fact, that while in the years 1818 and 1819 very large and numerous ones appeared, some visible even to the naked eye, very few, on the contrary, and those of but trifling size, were seen in the years 1822-1824. But it was reserved for the indefatigable Schwabe of Dessau, who has devoted himself for a long series of years to this one single object, to establish the fact of these spots observing a certain periodicity. Among the results of his labors—for as yet we have only his brief announcements to the scientific world in the “Astronomical Notices”—are the following: 1. That the recurrence of the solar spots has a period of about ten years; 2. That the number of the single groups of one year varies at the minimum time from twenty-five to thirty, while in the maximum years they sometimes rise to above three hundred; 3. That with their greater abundance is combined also a greater local extension and blackness of the spots; 4. That at the maximum time, the sun, for some years together, is never seen without very considerable spots. The last maximum appears to have been of a peculiarly rich character, as, from February, 1837, till December, 1840, solar spots were visible on every day of observation; while the number of groups in the former of those years amounted to 333.

But if a single individual, by observations continued unbroken for entire decenniums, has thus revealed to us the most important fact hitherto known relating to the sun, there are other questions not less important which can only find their solution in the careful observation of a rarely-occurring interval of perhaps one or two minutes. The splendor of the sun is so amazingly great, as to preclude us entirely from perceiving any object in his immediate proximity unless projected before his disk as a darkening object. At ten, or fifteen degrees even from the sun, when this luminary is above the horizon, all the fixed stars vanish from the most powerful telescopes. We are therefore in utter ignorance whether the space between him and Mercury is occupied or not by some other denizen of the planetary system. To enable us to explore the sun’s immediate proximity, we require a body that shall exclude his rays from our atmosphere, and yet leave the space round the sun open to our view. Such an object can of course be neither a cloud nor any terrestrial object, natural or artificial, since parts of the atmosphere will exist behind it which will be impinged on by the sun’s rays. Only during a total eclipse can these conditions be fulfilled, and even then but for a very brief interval, which may still be lost to the observer through unfavorable weather or from too low a position of the sun.

Notwithstanding that this rare and precarious opportunity is the only possible one we possess of becoming better acquainted with the physical nature of the great luminary of day, astronomers never availed themselves of it for any other purpose than the admeasurement of the earth, which might have been done as well, if not better, during any planetary eclipse. This error or indifference, whichever it may have been, can not, however, be laid to the charge of our living astronomers. The 8th of July, 1842—the day on which the last total eclipse of the sun took place—witnessed the most distinguished of these assembled for the purpose of making, for the first time, observations calculated to afford us some insight into this greatest mystery of the celestial world. This eclipse was total on a zone which traversed the north of Spain, the south of France, the region of the Alps and Styria, and a portion of Austria, Central Russia and Siberia, terminating in China; so that the observatories of Marseilles, Milan, Venice, Padua, Vienna, and Ofen, all supplied with excellent telescopes, and in full activity, came within its range; while many astronomers, at whose observatories the eclipse was not visible, set out for places situated within the zone just described. Thus Arago and two of his colleagues repaired to Perpignan, Airy to Turin, Schumacker to Vienna, Struve and Sehidloffsky to Lipezk, and Stubendorff to Koerakow. Most of them were favored by the weather. Let us now see what the combined endeavors of these practiced and well-furnished observers have made us acquainted with.

First, as regards the obscurity, it was so great, that five, seven, and in some cases as many as ten stars were visible to the naked eye. A reddish light was seen to proceed from the horizon—that is, from those regions where the darkness was not total—and by this light print of a moderate size could, with a little difficulty, be read. Such plants as usually close their petals at night were seen in most places to close them also during the eclipse. The thermometer fell from 2 to 3 degrees of Reaumur, and in the fields about Perpignan a heavy dew fell. A change in the color of the light, and consequently of the enlightened objects, was noticed by many, although they were not agreed in their description of it. But this diversity may have been caused by the nature of the air at different places being probably different, and the degree of obscurity very unequal. At Lipezk, where the eclipse lasted the longest, being 3 minutes and 3 seconds, a darkness similar to that of night set in, and there the eclipse began exactly at noon.

The effect of the eclipse on the animal creation was similar to what had been observed before in the like circumstances: they ceased eating; draught animals suddenly stood still; domestic birds fled to the stables, or sought other places of shelter; owls and bats flew abroad, as if night had come on. Of three lively linnets, kept in a cage, one dropped down dead. The insect world too was greatly affected; ants stopped in the midst of their labors, and only resumed their course after the reappearance of the sun; and bees retreated suddenly to their hives. A general restlessness pervaded the animal world; and only those places which were situated more on the boundary of the zone, and where the obscurity was consequently less complete, formed an exception.

During the total eclipse, the dark moon which covered the sun’s disk appeared surrounded with a brilliant crown of light or halo. This halo consisted of two concentric belts, of which the inner one was the lightest, and the external less brilliant, and gradually fading. In the direction of the line which connected the point of the commencement of the total eclipse with that of its termination, two parabolic pencils of light—some observers say several—appeared on the halo. Within it also light intervolved veins were observable. The breadth of the inner halo was from 2 to 3 minutes; that of the external one from 10 to 15 minutes; the pencils of light, on the other hand, extended as far as from 1 to 1½ degree; by some they were traced even to 3 degrees. The color of the halo was of a silvery white, and exhibited a violent undulating or trembling motion, its general appearance varying in the briefest space. The light of the halo was intensest near the covered solar rim. Its brilliance at Lipezk was so great, that the naked eye could hardly look on it, and some of the observers almost doubted whether the sun had really altogether disappeared. At Vienna, Milan, and Perpignan, on the contrary, the observers found the light of the halo resembling that of the moon toward its full. Bell, at Verona, who found time to estimate its intensity, ascertained it to be one-seventh of that of the full moon. Its first traces were noticed from 3 to 5 seconds before the entrance of the entire eclipse; in like manner, its last vestiges disappeared only some seconds after the eclipse was over. Vivid, however, as its light was, the halo cast but an extremely faint shadow. Some, indeed, who particularly directed their attention to it, could not detect any. But this might have been owing to those places on which the shadows would have fallen being faintly illumined by the reddish light of the horizon before mentioned. In other respects, during the progress of the eclipse, before and after its maximum, not the least change was observable in the uncovered part of the sun’s disk. The cusps were as sharp and distinctly-marked as possible, the lunar mountains were projected on the sun’s surface with the most beautiful distinctness and precision, and the color and brilliance of his disk, in the proximity of the moon’s rim, were in no way diminished or altered. In short, nothing was seen which could be referred in the smallest degree to a lunar atmosphere.

All these phenomena, striking as they were, were such as the assembled observers were prepared for; for they were such as had already been noticed during previous eclipses of the sun. But there was one of quite a different character, as mysterious as it was novel to them. This was the appearance of large reddish projections within the halo on the dark rim. The different observers characterized it by the expressions—“red clouds, volcanoes, flames, fire-sheaves,” &c.; terms intended of course merely to indicate the phenomenon, and not in any way to explain it. The observers differed in their reports both with respect to the number of these “red clouds,” as well as to their apparent heights. Arago stated that he observed two rose-colored projections which seemed to be unchangeable, and a minute high. His two colleagues also saw them, but to them they seemed somewhat larger. A fourth observer saw one of the projections some minutes even after the eclipse was over, while others perceived it with the naked eye. Petit, at Montpellier remarked _three_ protections, and even found time to measure one of them. It was 1-3/4 minute high. Littrow, at Vienna, considered them to be as high again as this; and stated “that the streaks were visible before they became colored, and remained visible also after their color had vanished.” The light of these projections was soft and quiet, the projections themselves sharp, and their form unchanging till the moment of their extinction. Schidloffsky, at Lipezk, thought he perceived a rose-colored border on the moon in places where these red clouds did not reach; but could not be certain of the fact, on account of the shortness of the time.

These projections or red clouds, mysterious and unexpected as they were to men who directed their attention for the first time to the purely physical phenomena concerned, were in fact, after all, nothing altogether new. The descriptions given by astronomers of earlier eclipses of the sun had been forgotten or overlooked. Stannyan, for instance, in his relation of that of the 20th May, 1706, says, “The egress of the sun from the moon’s disk was preceded on its left rim, during an interval of six or seven seconds, by the appearance of a bloodred streak;” and Nassenius, during a total eclipse of the sun observed on the 13th of May, 1733, mentions having seen “several red spots, three or four in number, without the periphery of the moon’s disk, one of them being larger than the others, and consisting, as it were, of three parallel parts inclining toward the moon’s disk.” It is clear, therefore, that earlier observers had witnessed the same phenomenon, although they were unable to offer any explanation of it. It seems, however, no unreasonable conclusion to come to, that these projections or red clouds, as well as the halo with its pencils of light before spoken of, are something without the proper solar photosphere, but not forming, as this does, one connected mass of light. What further can be known concerning this _something_ must be left to future ages to discover.

THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS. (FROM DICKENS’S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.)

A traveler, from journeying
In countries far away,
Repassed his threshold at the close
Of one calm Sabbath day;
A voice of love, a comely face,
A kiss of chaste delight,
Were the first things to welcome him
On that blessed Sabbath night.

He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,
And conjured up mixed memories
Of gay and gloomy days;
And felt that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,
Can e’er forego, can e’er forget,
The quiet joys of home.

“Bring me my children!” cried the sire,
With eager, earnest tone;
“I long to press them, and to mark
How lovely they have grown;
Twelve weary months have passed away
Since I went o’er the sea,
To feel how sad and lone I was
Without my babes and thee.”

“Refresh thee, as ’tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful wife,
The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;
“Refresh thee, husband of my heart,
I ask it as a boon;
Our children are reposing, love;
Thou shalt behold them soon.”

She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;
He sat down blithely at the board,
And all for her sweet sake;
But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again affection’s fountain flowed;
Again its voice was heard.

“Bring me my children, darling wife
I’m in an ardent mood;
My soul lacks purer aliment,
I long for other food;
Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep,
I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before the hour of sleep.”

“I have a question yet to ask;
Be patient, husband dear.
A stranger, one auspicious morn,
Did send some jewels here;
Until to take them from my care,
But yesterday he came,
And I restored them with a sigh:
—Dost thou approve or blame?”

“I marvel much, sweet wife, that thou
Shouldst breathe such words to me;
Restore to man, resign to God,
Whate’er is lent to thee;
Restore it with a willing heart,
Be grateful for the trust;
Whate’er may tempt or try us, wife,
Let us be ever just.”

She took him by the passive hand.
And up the moonlit stair,
She led him to their bridal bed,
With mute and mournful air;
She turned the cover down, and there,
In grave-like garments dressed,
Lay the twin children of their love,
In death’s serenest rest.

“These were the jewels lent to me,
Which God has deigned to own;
The precious caskets still remain,
But, ah, the _gems_ are flown;
But thou didst teach me to resign
What God alone can claim;
He giveth and he takes away,
Blest be His holy name!”

The father gazed upon his babes,
The mother drooped apart,
While all the woman’s sorrow gushed
From her o’erburdened heart;
And with the striving of her grief,
Which wrung the tears she shed.
Were mingled low and loving words
To the unconscious dead.

When the sad sire had looked his fill,
He vailed each breathless face,
And down in self-abasement bowed,
For comfort and for grace;
With the deep eloquence of woe,
Poured forth his secret soul,
Rose up, and stood erect and calm,
In spirit healed and whole.

“Restrain thy tears, poor wife,” he said,
“I learn this lesson still,
God gives, and God can take away,
Blest be His holy will!
Blest are my children, for they _live_
From sin and sorrow free,
And I am not all joyless, wife,
With faith, hope, love, and thee.”

THE TEA-PLANT. (FROM HOGG’S INSTRUCTOR.)

Hid behind the monster wall that screens in the land of the Celestials from the prying eye of the “barbarian,” the Tea-plant, in common with many things peculiar to those regions, remained long unknown to Europeans, and the snatches of information brought home by early travelers concerning it, were, in too many cases, of that questionable and contradictory kind, so characteristic, even in the present day, of the writings of those who travel in Eastern lands. Tea has now become a general article of domestic consumption in every household of our country having any pretension to social comfort, as well as in that of every other civilized nation, and, indeed, the _tea-table_ has no mean influence in refining the manners and promoting the social intercourse of a people. Important, however, as this universal beverage has become as an essential requisite to the social and physical comfort of all classes and conditions of civilized society, yet our knowledge of the plant from which it is produced is still very imperfect; and this, notwithstanding the fact that we have had tea-plants growing in our hothouses since the year 1768. Speaking of the introduction of the plant to this country, Hooker says—“It was not till after tea had been used as a beverage for upwards of a century in England, that the shrub which produces it was brought alive to this country. More than one botanist had embarked for the voyage to China—till lately a protracted and formidable undertaking—mainly in the hope of introducing a growing tea-tree to our greenhouses. No passage across the desert, no Waghorn-facilities, no steam-ship assisted the traveler in those days. The distance to and from China, with the necessary time spent in that country, generally consumed nearly three years! Once had the tea-tree been procured by Osbeck, a pupil of Linnæus, in spite of the jealous care with which the Chinese forbade its exportation; and when near the coast of England, a storm ensued, which destroyed the precious shrubs. Then the plan of obtaining berries was adopted, and frustrated by the heat of the tropics, which spoiled the oily seeds, and prevented their germination. The captain of a Swedish vessel hit upon a good scheme: having secured fresh berries, he sowed these on board ship, and often stinted himself of his daily allowance of water for the sake of the young plants; but, just as the ship entered the English Channel, an unlucky rat attacked his cherished charge and devoured them all!” So much, then, for the early attempts to introduce the tea-shrub to Europe: often, indeed, is the truth exemplified that

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gee.”

The Chinese tea-plants are neat-growing shrubs, with bright glossy green leaves, not unlike those of the bay; or a more exact similitude will be found in the garden camellia, with the _leaves_ of which, however, many of our readers may not have acquaintance, although the _flowers_ are well known, being extensively used in decorating the female dress for the ball-room in the winter season. The tea-plants are nearly allied to the camellia, and belong to the same natural order: indeed, one species of the latter—the _Camellia sasanqua_ of botanists—is cultivated in the tea-grounds of China, on account of its beautiful flowers, which are said to impart fragrance and flavor to other teas.

Comparatively few scientific naturalists have had sufficient opportunities of studying the tea-producing plants in their native _habitats_, or even in the cultivated grounds of China, and consequently a great difference of opinion has all along existed, as to whether tea is obtained from one, two, or more distinct species of _Thea_. This question is getting day by day more involved as new facts come to light; and, indeed, cultivation seems to have altered the original character of some forms of the plant so much, that the subject bids fair to remain an open question among European botanists for ages to come. The two tea-plants which have been long grown in British gardens, and universally supposed, until within the last few years, to be the only kinds in existence, are the _Thea bohea_ and the _Thea viridis_. The former was, until recently, very generally believed to produce the black tea of commerce, and the latter the green tea; but recent travelers have clearly shown that both _black_ and _green_ tea may be, and are, obtained from the same plant. The difference is caused by the mode of preparation; but it will be afterward seen that very important discrepancies occur between the accounts of this operation given by different observers. Certain it is, that the extreme caution with which the Chinese attempt to conceal a knowledge of their peculiar arts and manufactures from European visitors—and in none is their anxiety to do so more strikingly evinced than in the case of the culture and preparation of tea—tends greatly to frustrate the endeavors of the scientific traveler to acquire accurate information on this point.

In the present state of our knowledge, it is quite impossible to say how many species or varieties of the tea-plant are grown in China. They are now believed to be numerous, although the two kinds to which we have referred are those most extensively cultivated. They have long been allowed to rank as distinct species in botanical books, and grown as such in our greenhouses; but some acute botanists have, at various times, suggested that they might be merely varieties of one plant. Such was the opinion of the editor of the “Botanical Magazine,” when he figured and described the Bohea variety (t. 998). Professor Balfour (“Manual of Botany,” § 793) enumerates three species—the two already mentioned, and one called _Thea Assamica_, being the one chiefly cultivated at the tea-grounds of Assam. Most of our readers may be aware that the cultivation and manufacture of tea has been successfully introduced to Northern India. A “Report on the Government Tea Plantations in Kumaon and Gurwahl, by W. Jameson, Esq., the superintendent of the Botanical Gardens in the North-Western Provinces,”(5) has just reached us. In that report—to which we will have occasion afterward to refer—there are “two species, and two well marked varieties” described. Some of these do not appear to have been at all noticed by other writers, although, from specimens of the plants, which we have examined, from the tea-grounds, they appear sufficiently distinct to warrant their being ranked as separate species; and there are, indeed, some botanists who would at once set them down as such.

Having disposed of the question of _species_ in such manner as the unsatisfactory state of botanical knowledge on this point will admit, we shall now proceed to communicate some information respecting the culture of the tea-plant, and the manner in which its leaves are made available for the production of the beverage of which the female portion of the community, and more particularly _old wives_ (of both sexes), are believed to be so remarkably fond.

The tea-plants are grown in beds conveniently formed for the purpose of irrigating in dry weather, and for plucking the leaves when required. The Chinese sow the seed thus: “Several seeds are dropped into holes four or five inches deep, and three or four feet apart, shortly after they ripen, or in November and December; the plants rise up in a cluster when the rains come on. They are seldom transplanted, but, sometimes, four to six are put quite close, to form a fine bush.” In the government plantations of Kumaon and Gurwahl, more care seems to be bestowed in the raising of the plants, whereby the needless expenditure of seeds in the above method is saved. The seeds ripen in September or October, and in elevated districts, sometimes so late as November. In his report, Mr. Jameson mentions that, when ripe, the seeds are sown in drills, eight to ten inches apart from each other, the ground having been previously prepared by trenching and manuring. If the plants germinate in November, they are protected from the cold by a “_chupper_,” made of bamboo and grass—a small kind of bamboo, called the ringal, being found in great abundance on the hills, at an elevation of 6000 to 7000 feet, and well adapted for the purpose; these _chuppers_ are removed throughout the day, and replaced at night. In April and May, they are used for protecting the young plants from the heat of the sun, until the rains commence. When the plants have attained a sufficient size they are transplanted with great care, a ball of earth being attached to their roots. They require frequent waterings, if the weather be dry. During the rains grass springs up around them with great rapidity, so as to render it impossible, with the usual number of hands, to keep the grounds clean. The practice, therefore, is merely to make a “_golah_” or clear space round each plant, these being connected with small water channels, in order to render irrigation easy in times of drought. The plants do not require to be pruned until the fifth year, the plucking of leaves generally tending to make them assume the basket shape, the form most to be desired to procure the greatest quantity of leaves. Irrigation seems absolutely essential for the profitable cultivation of the tea-plant, although, on the other hand, land liable to be flooded during the rains, and upon which water lies for any length of time, is quite unsuitable for its growth. The plant seems to thrive in a great variety of soils, but requires the situation to be at a considerable altitude above the sea level.

According to Mr. Jameson, the season for picking the leaves commences in April and continues until October, the number of gatherings varying, according to the nature of the season, from four to seven. So soon as the new and young leaves have appeared in April, the first plucking takes place. “A certain division of the plantation is marked off, and to each man a small basket is given, with instructions to proceed to a certain point, so that no plant may be passed over. On the small basket being filled, the leaves are emptied into another large one, which is put in some shady place, and in which, when filled, they are conveyed to the manufactory. The leaves are generally plucked with the thumb and forefinger. Sometimes the terminal part, of a branch having four or five young leaves attached, is plucked off.” The old leaves, being too hard to curl, are rejected as of no use; but all new and fresh leaves are indiscriminately collected.

The _manufacture_ of the different varieties of tea has been the subject of much difference of opinion. It has been supposed by some writers, as we have already mentioned, that _green_ tea was solely obtained from the Thea viridis, and _black_ tea from the Thea bohea, while others have asserted, that the different kinds of the manufactured article are equally produced by both plants. Facts seem now to be quite in favor of the latter opinion, and, indeed, Mr. Fortune, while on his first botanical mission on account of the Horticultural Society of London, ascertained, by visiting the different parts of the coast of China, that the _Bohea_ plant was converted into both black and green tea in the south of China, but that in all the northern provinces he found only _Thea viridis_ grown, and equally converted into both kinds of tea. Mr. Ball (the late inspector of teas to the East India Company in China), in a work entitled “An Account of the Cultivation and Manufacture of Tea in China,” fully confirms the fact that both the green and black teas are prepared from the same plant, and that the differences depend entirely on the processes of manufacture. It is, of course, possible that particular varieties of the same plant, grown in certain soils and situations, may be preferred by the Chinese manufacturers for the preparation of the black and green teas, and the various kinds of both known in commerce. It has been stated by some that the _young leaves_ are taken for green tea, and the older ones for the black varieties; this is the popular notion on the subject, but probably it has no foundation.

Although it _now_ seems somewhat generally agreed that both green and black teas are made from the leaves of the same plant, yet the various writers on the subject are at considerable variance as to the mode in which the difference of appearance is brought about. Some assert that the _black_ being the natural colored tea, the beautiful green tinge is given to the _green_ tea by means of substances used for the purpose of dyeing it; while others hold that the green hue depends entirely on the method of roasting.

Among the formers Mr. Fortune, whose account of the “Chinese Method of Coloring Green Tea,” as observed by him, is published in a former number of the INSTRUCTOR (NO. 240, page 91). From that account, it would appear that the coloring substances used are gypsum, indigo, and Prussian blue, and “for every hundred pounds of green tea which are consumed in England or America, the consumer really eats more than half a pound” of these substances. We hope now to present our tea-drinking readers with a more pleasing picture than this; to show that indeed there is not “death in the cup,” nor aught else to be feared. We therefore proceed to explain the modes of manufacture, as detailed by Mr. Ball. And, firstly, the _manufacture_ of _black_ tea. The leaves, on being gathered, are exposed to the air, until they wither and “become soft and flaccid.” In this state they soon begin to emit a slight degree of fragrance, when they are sifted, and then tossed about with the hands in large trays. They are then collected into a heap, and covered with a cloth, being now “watched with the utmost care, until they become spotted and tinged with red, when they also increase in fragrance, and must be instantly roasted, or the tea would be injured.” In the first roasting, the fire, which is prepared with dry wood, is kept exceedingly brisk; but “any heat may suffice which produces the crackling of the leaves described by Kæmpfer.” The roasting is continued till the leaves give out a fragrant smell, and become quite flaccid, when they are in a fit state to be rolled. The roasting and rolling are often a third, and sometimes even a fourth time repeated, and, indeed, the process of rolling is continued until the juices can no longer be freely expressed. The leaves are then finally dried in sieves placed in drying-tubs, over a charcoal fire in a common chafing-dish. The heat dissipates much of the moisture, and the leaves begin to assume their black appearance. Smoke is prevented, and the heat moderated, by the ash of charcoal or burnt “paddy-husk” being thrown on the fire. “The leaves are then twisted, and again undergo the process of drying, twisting, and turning as before; which is repeated once or twice more, until they become quite black, well-twisted, and perfectly dry and crisp.”