Chapter I: Part 1

PETER PARLEY’S ANNUAL.

PETER PARLEY’S

ANNUAL

1855

NEW YORK
EVANS & DICKERSON.
697 BROADWAY
]

PETER

PARLEY’s ANNUAL.

A Christmas and New Year’s Present

FOR

YOUNG PEOPLE.

NEW YORK:
EVANS AND DICKERSON, 697, BROADWAY.

MDCCCLV.

Contents.

PROSE.

PAGE

An Adventure with a Bear 92
A few words about the Egyptians, Ancient and Modern 142
” ” Soluble Glass 221
A Mysterious Adventure 135
A Touch with the Brigands 19
A Visit to the Royal Polytechnic Institution 205
Boiling Springs 224
Cardinal Wolsey 83
Christmas Day at the Diggings 200
Exploits in the Desert 9
Glastonbury Abbey, with the Story of King Arthur 217
Gustavus Vasa 30
Jack and Jill 243
Juvenile Day at the Hall 171
Manufacture of Ropes 188
Oranges and Lemons; or, the Bells of St. Clement’s 71
Passage of the Desert 212
San Rosalia 196
Sledging 7
Something about Boiling Springs 224
” ” the Chinese 116
Something more about the Chinese 234
” about Lighthouses 97
” ” the Old Abbeys and Castles of England 61
” ” Ships and Shipping 178
” ” the Turkish Provinces 55
Story of the American Sea Serpent 227
Story of an Anchorite 1
The Boy Bachelor; or, Something about Cardinal Wolsey 83
The Two Middies; or, a Fearful Encounter with a Shark 259
The Town Pump: a Story of the Cow with an Iron Tail 34
The Youthful Nelson 42
The Old Abbeys and Castles of England 104
The Queen at Spithead: Review of the Fleet 110
The Rain; or, the Child, the Fairy, and the Magic Bird 156
The Regimental Goat 153

POETRY.

The Electric Telegraph 169
The Owl 202
The Sailor’s Grave 5
The Willow Tree 152

Preface.

Holiday faces! Aye, they are bright, shining, and beautiful as dewdrops glistening in the morning’s splendour—stars sparkling in a clear midnight sky—flowers lit up by the summer’s sun. It makes the heart of poor old PETER PARLEY glad when he sees them—whether they belong to young or old, to rich or to poor, it is one of my chief delights. I do assure you, my young friends, that a good deal of my _parleying_ has to do with HOLIDAY FACES. I see them again and again, year after year, and they make me feel young again; and, like the old rustic of the Suffolk poet, Bloomfield, I am often ready to jump with joy when I see the cabs and coaches, post-chaises and omnibuses, crowded, inside and outside, with school children, going home for the Holidays. Old as I am growing, I still feel that I belong to the order of light hearts and merry looks—to the heraldry of smiling faces—and my escutcheon is charged with “nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.”

Hurrah, then, for the Holidays, say I! Be cheerful, my young friends—not more for the sake of being merry, than for the sake of being serious again at the proper time. Unbend the bow and loosen the string, that both string and bow may have more force when again brought into action! Make the air ring then, I say, with the Holiday Cheer of Merry Christmas time! Sing, and skip, and dance, and play, like “lambkins by the hill side,” and let love reign in all your hearts, a perpetual sunshine, from year to year, and from youth to age, until you are as old as your ever sincere

And Affectionate Friend,

_Peter Parley_.

Story of an Anchorite.

Among the many celebrated ruins of Abbeys in Ireland, is that of Foune, or Fowne, in the county of Westmeath, Leinster. This Abbey is situated on the north-side of the hill or rising ground, which interposes between it and Lough Larne. It was a Priory of Canons, built by St. Fechin, about the year 630. For although the oldest and most authentic Irish records were written between the tenth and twelfth centuries, yet some of them go back, with some consistency, as far as the Christian era; but there is no evidence that the Irish had the use of letters before the middle of the fifth century, when Christianity and Christian literature were introduced by St. Patrick. The new faith did not flourish till a century later, when St. Columba erected monasteries. The Abbey presents a large pile of simple, unadorned masonry. The chapel is still in a tolerable state of preservation, so is also the chapel tower. The valley in which this Abbey is placed must, in the time of its prosperity, have been a delightful retreat. The outline is still good, and nothing is wanting but a little more wood to render it an attractive spot in modern days.

The town is said to have been, anciently, a University of Literature, and the name signifies in the Irish tongue, “the Town of Books:” and the above-mentioned lake (Lough Larne) “the Lake of Learning.” This town was not only the mart of learning, but of devotion—there being in it the ruins of no less than three parish churches; and here lived a famous anchorite, of whom Sir Henry Piers—who wrote an amusing description of the county of Westmeath—gives the following account:—

“This religious person, in his extremity, maketh a vow never to go out of his doors all his life-time, and accordingly here he remains pent up all his days; every day he sayeth mass in the chapel, which also is part of, nay, almost all his dwelling-house—for there are no more houses, but a very small castle, wherein a tall man can hardly stretch himself at length if he be laid down on the floor, nor is there any passage into the castle but through the chapel. He hath servants that attend him at his call in an out-house, but none lieth within the church but himself. He is said, by the natives—who hold him in great veneration for his sanctity—every day to dig, or rather scrape—for he useth no other tools but his nails—a portion of his grave, being esteemed of so great holiness—as if purity and sanctity were entailed on his cell; he is certainly visited by those of the Romish religion who aim at being esteemed more devout than the ordinary amongst them.

“Every visitant, at his departure, leaveth his offering, or as they phrase it, ‘devotion,’ on his altar; but he relieth not on this only for a maintenance, but hath those to bring him in the devotions of those whose piety is not so fervent as to invite them to do the office in person; these are called his ‘proctors,’ who range all the counties in Ireland to beg for him, whom they call the ‘holy man in the stone.’ Corn, geese, turkeys, hens, sheep, money, and whatnot, nothing comes amiss, and nowhere do they fail altogether, but something is had, insomuch, that if his ‘proctors’ deal truthfully, nay, if they return him but a tenth part of what is given for him, he may doubtless fare as well as any priest of them all. The only recreation this poor prisoner is capable of, is, to walk on his terrace, built over the cell where he lies, if he may be said to walk, who cannot in one time stretch forth his legs four times.”

Such, my young friends, is the story of an Anchorite. It is well for us that we live in times when such nonsense is not tolerated. An attempt was made, some years ago, by a poor half-witted creature, called the “Shottisham Angel,” to revive this kind of imposture among credulous persons, but timely exposure frustrated the attempt.

The Sailor’s Grave.

Dark flew the scud along the wave,
The booming thunders rolled on high;
“All hands aloft, the storm to brave”—
At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry.

On deck sprung every soul apace,
But one—bereft of human joy—
Within a hammock’s narrow space
Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.”

Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail,
The first was he of all the crew
On deck to spring—to trim the sail—
To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew.

Now “fever dire” had seized a form
Which nature cast in happiest mould;
The bell struck midnight through the storm,
The last—the death-knell tale is told.

“Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear,
“Before my spirit mounts the skies—
Are there no friends or messmates near
To close, with looks of love, my eyes?”

All hands aloft—loud blows the wind,
Surrounding billows loudly roar;
He gave one sigh, and sank resigned
To hope, and think, and love no more.

The morning sun in glory rose,
The gale was hushed, and still’d the wave;
The sea boy found his last repose,
And in the ocean’s breast a grave.

Sledging.

Sledging is a very pretty pastime in cold weather, and in Poland, Russia, Holland, and other northern countries, it is the regular mode of travelling during the long frosts that annually prevail in those regions. A couple of rein-deer yoked to a sledge can travel more than a hundred miles in a day, with a load of half-a-ton.

In fine weather, on a good snowy road, there is something delightfully exhilirating in sledge travelling, snugly enveloped in furs, whilst

“The vault is blue,
Without a cloud, and white without a speck.”

The traveller glides swiftly over the level snow, enlivened by the tinkling of a sonorous bell attached to an arch that rises off the head of the centre horse; for sometimes three horses abreast are used in sledges, and cheered or soothed, as his mood may be, by the wild yet plaintive song of the driver.

The traveller is laid in the sledge like a child in his cradle. He holds the rein or puller, which is fastened to the deer’s or horse’s head, on his right thumb. When the driver is ready to start, he shakes the rein, and the animal springs forward with great speed. He directs his course by the rein and by the voice; he sings to him as he goes along; speaks kindly to him—and cheers him on his way. He never strikes or hurts him, for he loves the animal too much to be cruel to him.

The Laplanders, Russians, Poles, and other nations are thus enabled to travel in winter, by night and by day, when the whole country far and wide is entirely covered by snow, and scarcely a hut or tree is to be seen, and they travel from one part of the country to another with great speed. In the Royal Palace of Sweden is a portrait of a rein-deer which is described as having travelled with despatches eight hundred miles in forty-eight hours.

It was a very pretty thing to see our beloved Queen and family “sledging,” because it shows that the Queen has courage, and a love of amusement; and should this winter be a cold one, Peter Parley hopes to see Her Majesty again in her sledge.

Exploits in the Desert.

The deserts of Southern Africa are immense and formidable, rarely trod by the foot of civilised man. They present features the most wild, and at times, the most sublime that can be imagined; but man has a great knack of destroying the grand, and blotting out the wonderful. South Africa, in its central parts, abounds in features well calculated to inspire grand ideas, and to call forth all the powers of the mind in heroic exploits among the wild beasts of the desert. Here roam, in all their native freedom, bisons, blesboks, and springboks in millions; and among them prowls the lion, in all his fierce dignity of bearing, with his attendant the jackall, who follows and precedes his footsteps. The blesbok is one of the true antelopes, and is as large as a fallow deer, and all its motions and paces are full of grace and elegance; these have also a pecularity of manner (whence their name), of jumping up into the air, like so many fleas, when they first dart off into rapid motion; thus they scour the vast plains in myriads, and may be seen for miles, as if the whole desert was endowed with motion.

The springboks, which, in equal numbers, frequent the same immense plains, make away in every direction over the wildest part of the country, sometimes with flying bounds (beautifully exhibiting the long, snowy white hair, with which their backs are adorned), and at others, walking carelessly and slowly out of the hunter’s way, scarcely deigning to look at him. Black bisons also cover the entire length and breadth of this wild country, and may be seen in herds, averaging from fifty to sixty, wheeling about in endless circles, and performing the most extraordinary variety of intricate evolutions round the hunter on every side. While he is riding round to take a shot at some of the herd in front of him, other herds are charging down right and left; and having described a number of circular movements, they take up positions upon the very ground across which the hunter rode only a few minutes before. Throughout the greater part of the plains frequented by blesboks, numbers of sun-baked hills, or mounds of clay, formed by the white ants, occur, the average height of which are from three to four feet. These ant-hills are generally distant from each other from about one to three hundred yards, and are of great service to the hunter, as he can conceal himself from observation behind them, when he advances to the attack.

It was amid these scenes that, a few years ago, Gordon Cumming luxuriated as a hunter, and noble and not a few, are the trophies of this modern Nimrod—as may be seen at the Exhibition of his Game, in the Museum, near Hyde Park. Overpowered with the sports of the gun and the chase, he had laid down for a brief repose behind one of the ant-hills already alluded to; but he had not slept long before he was aroused by a strange, multitudinous pattering of feet. On raising his head, he saw to his utmost horror, on every side, nothing but savage wild dogs, chattering and growling. On his right and on his left, stood two lines of these ferocious-looking animals, cocking their ears and stretching their necks to have a look at him; while two large apes, with which there were at the least forty more, kept dashing backwards and forwards within a few yards of him, chattering and growling with the most extraordinary volubility. He expected no other fate than to be instantly torn to pieces and consumed; his blood seemed to run cold, and his hair bristled on his head. However, he had presence of mind to consider that the human voice and a determined bearing might overawe them; and, accordingly, springing to his feet, he stepped on one of the ant-hills, and drawing himself to his full height, he waved his coarse blanket with both hands, at the same time addressing the assembly in a loud and solemn manner. This had the desired effect: the wild dogs removed to a more respectful distance, barking at him the while. Upon this, he snatched up his rifle and began loading, but before this was accomplished, the entire troops had pushed away, and did not return.

“The next night,” this enterprising traveller says, “was a memorable one, as being the first on which he had the satisfaction of hearing the majestic thunder of the lion’s roar.” There was no one near to tell him that this was the roar of a lion; but he seemed to know by instinct that it could be nothing else. This roar consists, at times, of a low, deep moaning, repeated five or six times, ending in faintly audible sighs; at other times, he startles the forest with loud, deep-toned, solemn roars, repeated five or six times, in quick succession, each increasing in loudness, to the third or fourth, when his voice dies away in five or six low, muffled sounds, very much resembling distant thunder. At times, a troop may be heard roaring in concert, one assuming the lead, and two, three, or four more regularly taking up their parts, like persons singing a catch; but on no occasion are their voices heard to such perfection as when two or three strange troops of lions approach a fountain to drink at the same time. When this occurs every member of each troop sounds a bold roar of defiance at the opposite parties; and when one roars all roar together, and each seems to vie with his comrades in the intensity and power of his voice. As a general rule, lions roar during the night; but in distant and secluded situations, they may be heard roaring as late as nine o’clock in the morning. It often happens that, when two male lions meet at a fountain, a terrific combat ensues, which not unfrequently ends in the death of one of them.

The habits of the lion are strictly nocturnal. During the day, he lies concealed beneath the shade of some low, bushy tree, or wide-spreading bush, either in the level forest or on the mountain side. He is also partial to lofty reeds, or fields of long, rank, yellow grass. From these haunts he sallies forth when the sun goes down, and commences his nightly prowl. When he is successful in his beat and has secured his prey, he does not roar much that night, unless some rash intruders approach him, when the case will be very different.

Lions are most active and daring during dark and stormy nights. Mr. Cumming noticed a fact with regard to their hour of drinking, which is worthy of record. They seem unwilling to visit the fountain during good moonlight. Thus, when the moon rose early, lions deferred their hour of watering until late in the morning; and when the moon rose late, they drank at a very early hour in the night. When a thirsty lion comes to the water, he stretches out his massive arms, lies down on his breast to drink, and makes a loud, lapping noise in drinking, not to be mistaken; he continues lapping up the water a long while, and four or five times during the process he pauses for half a minute, as if to take breath. One thing conspicuous about them is their eyes, which, in a dark night, glow like two balls of fire.

Having determined upon a lion hunt, Captain Cumming, with a few riders, dashed on to the immense plain. As he proceeded, thousands upon thousands of blesboks darkened the ground. “After a ride of some miles, the lion’s roar was heard, and we soon discovered a dead wild bull, newly killed by a lion, and half eaten. His large and striking foot-prints were deeply marked in the sand. We felt convinced the lion was somewhere near us, but before we could track him out, the night came on, and the most furious thunder-storm I ever knew. The most vivid flashes of lightning followed one another in quick succession, accompanied by terrific peals of thunder, and the sky was black as pitch. The whole plain was soon a sheet of water. About midnight, however, we heard the lion roar, about a mile off. We then rose, and saddled our horses. We rode forward towards the lion’s feasting-place. As the light broke upon us, we slackened our pace, and rode slowly up the middle of the vast level plain towards the carcase of the wild beast, with large herds of springbok, blesbok, and quaggas on every side. Suddenly I observed a number of vultures seated on the plain, about a quarter of a mile a-head of us, and close behind them stood a huge lioness, eating a blesbok she had just killed. She was assisted in her repast by about a dozen jackals, which were feasting along with her in the most friendly and confidential manner. Directing my followers’ attention to the spot, I remarked, ‘I see the lion!’ to which they replied, ‘Whar! whar! yah, Almagty, dat is he!’—and instantly wheeling about their horses, they were about to fly. At the same moment the lioness moved off at a rapid pace. I was determined to have a shot at her. The first move was to bring her to bay, and not a second was to be lost. Spurring my good and lively steed, and shouting to my men to follow, I flew across the plain, and soon gained upon her. This was to me,” says the bold hunter, “a joyful moment, and I at once made up my mind that she or I should die.

“The lioness was a full-grown beast, and the bare and level nature of the plain added to her imposing appearance. Finding that I gained upon her, she reduced her pace from a canter to a trot, carrying her tail slackened behind her, and slewed a little to one side. I shouted loud to her to halt, as I wished to speak with her; upon which she suddenly pulled up, and got upon her haunches like a dog, with her back towards me, not even deigning to look round. She then appeared to say to herself, ‘Does that fellow know who he’s after?’ Having thus sat for half a minute, as if involved in thought, she sprang to her feet, and facing about, stood looking at me for a few seconds, moving her tail slowly from side to side, showing her teeth and growling fiercely. She next made a short run forward, making a loud rumbling noise like thunder. This she did to intimidate me, and to show her ‘monkey’ was up. My Hottentots now came on, and we all three dismounted, and drawing our rifles from our holsters, we looked to see if the powder was up to the nipples, and put on our caps. While this was doing, the lioness sat up, and showed evident signs of uneasiness. She looked first at us, and then behind her, as if to see if the coast was clear; after which she made a short run towards us, uttering her deep-drawn, murderous growl. Having secured the three horses to one another by the reins, we led them on, as if we intended to pass her, in the hope of obtaining a broadside. My men, as yet, had been steady, but they were in a precious ‘stew,’ their faces having assumed a ghastly paleness, and I had a painful feeling that I could place no reliance on them.

“‘Now then for it—neck or nothing! she is within sixty yards of us, and she keeps advancing.’ We turned the horses’ tails to her. I knelt on one side, and taking a steady aim at her breast, let fly. The ball cracked loudly on her tawny hide, and crippled her in the shoulder; upon which she charged with an appalling roar, and, in the twinkling of an eye, she was in the midst of us. She sprung upon Colesberg, one of my men, and fearfully lacerated his ribs and haunches with her horrid teeth and claws; the worst wound was on the haunch, and was most hideous. I was very cool and steady, and did not feel in the least degree nervous, having, fortunately, great confidence in my own shooting; and when the lioness sprang upon my man, I stood out from the horses, ready with my second barrel for the first chance she should give me of a clear shot. This she quickly did, for seemingly, satisfied with the revenge she had now taken, she quitted Colesberg, and slewing her tail to one side, trotted sulkily past within a few paces of me. Taking one step to the left, I pitched my rifle to my shoulder, and, in another second, the lioness lay stretched upon the plain a lifeless corpse.

“We now skinned the lioness, and cut off her head; and, having placed our trophies on our horses, we made for the camp. Before we had proceeded a hundred yards from the carcass, upwards of sixty vultures, whom the lioness had often fed, were feasting on her remains. We led poor Colesberg slowly home, where, having washed his wounds and carefully stitched them together, I ordered the cold water cure to be adopted. Under this treatment the wounds rapidly healed, and he soon recovered. When the shades of evening set in, terror seemed to have taken possession of the minds of my followers; and they swore that the mate of the lioness, on finding her bones, would follow in our spoer, and revenge her death. Under these circumstances, they refused to remain about the waggons or in the tent after the sun went down; and having cut down the rafters and cupboards of the house for fuel, they kindled a large fire in the kitchen, where they took up their quarters for the night.”

A Touch with the Brigands.

It is now several years ago since the author of this “little episode in his life” was travelling in Spain. “I was,” says he, “on the road between Madrid and Bayonne, where the road was rugged, the mountains high, the rivers loose, and the people poor. There were a good many passengers in the rumbling old coach—six within, and ten or twelve on the outside, behind-side, and fore-side of the vehicle. My companions were—a French opera-singer; an old clergyman, who had returned from Rome through Spain, after having embraced the Catholic faith; a French clown, named Moliere, who was, in Paris, said to be equal to one Joe Grimaldi (of facetious memory); an old lady, with her lap-dog and a monkey in a box, attended by her servant, companion, and myself; so that the carriage was almost as infinite in variety as Noah’s Ark, only on a smaller scale.

“The other passengers I could tell but little of. Some, however, were Frenchmen, and others either Italian or Spanish; but there was one who struck my attention by the rotundity of his person, who seemed to have been formed much upon the principle of apple-dumplings or a humming-top. This gentleman, broad, round, thick, and lumpy, was a taciturn Dutchman.

“Now, in the part of Spain to which I have alluded, there is a set of people (Knights of the Moor, as Falstaff calls them), who make the mercurial art of robbery a profession—who pass for the most _cavalleros_ (gentleman-like) men. They are the padrones of old Castille. These brigands had, in the most polite manner imaginable, attacked several pleasure and business parties, with great benefit to themselves and discomfiture to their victims. The government, which in these countries, do everything, but nothing well, had our coach escorted by cavalry, as far as Baitroget; also certain stages between Arendo and Burgos. But when we got into one of the most cut-throat looking places, about three leagues from Orendo, at the cut-throat time in September of about eight in the evening, when the gloaming was fully set, and the moon had risen with a sickly, comsumptive aspect, our ‘John,’ or rather the head postillion was suddenly stopped short; a chain was immediately entangled in the wheel, the traces were cut, and both the postillions were pulled off their horses and thrown on the ground by a couple of surly, well-dressed brigands; while four others, two on each side, came to the carriage, and called upon the conductor and the people in the char-a-banc, as well as those in the coach, and those above, to come down and be robbed in a quiet way. One of the brigands had a hand-lantern, which he thrust into the ”interior“ of our vehicle. The old lady with her lap-dog gave a most piercing shriek, as did her waiting-woman, while the dog barked so furiously, that the brigand seemed excessively savage, and gave the yelping cur such a blow with the lantern, that it knocked the light out, and we were in a moderate degree of darkness. In a few moments, however, we felt the rough hands of two of the brigands, who pulled us out of the coach, and told us to lay down on our faces; the French opera-dancer appealed to their feelings as gentlemen, not to injure female delicacy, and to preserve the old lady, her waiting-woman, and herself from any unnecessary violence. The clown made a sudden summersault over the heads of the brigands, which astonished them to such a degree, that they thought they had come in contact with the Prince of Evil himself; while the Dutchman from the roof laid groaning and trembling all over like a jelly, and imploring for mercy. The other travellers were put _hors de combat_ without ceremony, and the whole group presented as pretty a picture of still life as can well be imagined.

“The driver and postillions had their hands bound behind with strong cords; these necessary precautions were soon exercised on us. The clown’s hands were tied—and so were his legs; and in addition to tying the hands of the old lady and her maid, a couple of gags were obliged to be put into their mouths to prevent their ‘sweet voices’ from disturbing the harmony of the scene. The captain of the band, a fine handsome fellow, with beard enough to stuff a sofa, called upon us, in very bad Castillian, to declare what money we had, and where it was—adding, that if we did not tell the truth, we should be cut-throated or burned. He interrogated us with all the acuteness of Mr. Pegler, (one of the best detectives, and also one of the best of men), frequently changing his tone and accent. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Whence do you come?’ ‘Where are you going?’ were questions put to us, and if we had the misfortune to belong to any place near the haunts of the brigands, or had happened to know the person of any of them, we should have been inevitably assassinated. In fact, a poor postillion was so served only three months before by these very identical brigands, because he happened to be acquainted with one of them.

“They inquired of us whether we were Englishmen, or Americans, for if we had been the former, we should have been completely stripped. The Spanish lower order of people imagine that the clothes of the English and Americans are stitched with gold thread. The lady with the lap-dog, and her maid, unwittingly said they were English, and I, scorning to tell a lie, even in such a case, said that I was from Middlesex, which the chief brigand, whose geography was something like that of the pope, seemed to think an outlandish place, somewhere in the extreme corner of the earth. All these necessary preliminaries being gone through, the picturesque gentlemen began plundering the coach, throwing down and breaking, or ripping open with their long knives, all the boxes, trunks, bags, and packages. Knowing that they could not get at mine without a great deal of trouble, I looked up and told them that I would open my trunk and give them all the money it contained, if they would unbind my hands, for they had drawn the cord so tight that I was in great pain. They consented, and brought my trunk to me. The money they found in it did not satisfy them. They left me in the hands of one of their band, a young man not more than twenty years of age, who continued to search my trunk, while an older and fiercer brigand watched my looks with his carbine levelled at me. The young man, although he made use of the coarsest oaths and other expressions, which beautifully illustrates the fact, that every variety of human speech can be adapted to blaspheme the ”good God who made us,“ was not so savage as the rest, and this was evidently his first expedition. He carried neither carbine nor sword, and the only weapon he had was a Catalonian knife stuck in his belt. Everything he saw in my trunk caused him surprise and wonder. He asked me to tell him the age of each. On finding some rosaries, he exclaimed—‘Ah, you are a priest!’ I told him no, but had bought the rosaries at a fair at Madrid as curiosities. He, however, with great devotion kissed the crosses suspended to them with other emblems, but finding they were of silver, he broke the stones, letting them all fall to the ground. He carefully picked them up, and again kissed each bead and emblem, but at the same time renewed his oaths at his awkwardness. He secured these, and everything else he thought valuable, between his shirt and his skin, but my clothes and linen he put into a large sack, which appeared to be the common receptacle. I had also some small knives and daggers. He asked what I did with them. I told him they had been sold to me as having been worn by the Manolas of Spain under their garters. At this he laughed, and throwing two of them to the ground to me, he put the rest into his private magazine.

“I hoped to make something of my grand brigand, but while I was talking to him the captain came up suddenly, and struck me with violence on the back of the neck with the butt-end of his carbine, saying, in a furious tone, ‘You are looking in his face that you might be able to recognise him!’ He then seized me by the right arm, while another took my left, and they again bound them behind my back. In my bad Spanish, I assured them I was a foreigner from the remote county of Middlesex; but they would not have cared had I been Joseph Hume himself, and threw me down like a sheep tied fast together ready for the slaughter, upon the body of the Hollander, who roared out loudly, and shook most convulsively all over, imploring the brigands not to kill him, for that he had several bills to take up on the 10th proximo at Amsterdam; beside which he had a wife, six children, and two sisters-in-law dependent upon him for support, and an aged mother and two children of a deceased brother. One of the brigands laughed at hearing all this, although he could not understand it in High-Dutch; but I, who knew a little of the language, ventured to translate it for him, which made the chief brigand laugh ten times more. Taking one of the crucifixes found on me he held it before his eyes, and told him to be at once a Catholic, and he would spare his life. ‘Kiss the cross,’ he said ‘or I will cut your throat!’ This was a plain and simple proposition, and the method of its solution freely given. However, much to the honour and glory of the Dutchman, he resolutely refused to do any such thing, and told the brigand that ‘he might kill him if he liked, and that God would take care of all those dependent upon him;’ and when the cross was again presented to his lips, the burly Dutchman turned himself right over on his side, and the ground on which he lay being upon a slight declivity, he began to roll, and his descent being accelerated as he moved downwards, he in a few seconds obtained such a velocity, as to roll down the incline with a rapidity most wonderful—the brigands pausing in their work at so strange a sight, and laughing immoderately.

“The next work of our friends was upon the French opera-dancer, and the old lady and her female companion, who had all been passed at the first movement, and who lay groaning, weeping, sobbing, and rolling about in the utmost trepidation. The dancing lady had fainted two or three times, and finding no one to attend upon her, had come to again of her own accord, till at last, upon one of the brigands approaching her, she went off in apparently a dead swoon. But these kind of things were nothing in the eyes of the bravos, who proceeded to strip her of her outward silk, and to rifle her of all her secret treasures, which had been stowed away in various parts of her inner dress. These consisted of various sums of money, stitched amid wadding and padding, trinkets, love-tokens, charms, bank-notes, &c.; but the brigands were particularly amazed when, upon turning madam over, they found a long, hard roll behind the lady, which was, ostensibly, a padding-machine made to keep the dress from falling down, and for making it to display itself with grace and dignity rearwards; this was manufactured entirely of Napoleons and French bank-notes, the former making up the more substantial part of the article alluded to, and the latter lining the outstanding portion. The fun and frolic of the brigands at this discovery were immense; they joked, they leaped, they danced, they swore, and committed many wild pranks in the joy of their discovery, and falling upon the old maid and her waiting-woman in the same way, they proceeded to unroll them both, as carefully as Professor Owen would an Egyptian mummy, but not finding the same treasures, they cursed and swore in the most vociferous manner, giving the old lady many a good cuff, and behaving to her companion with the same rough ceremony. At this time others of the brigands were knocking the carriage to pieces, and having fallen upon the box containing the monkey, with a blow demolished its upper postern, and in a moment—in less than the twinkling of an eve—out popped the imprisoned monkey, who, immediately leaping on to the shoulder of the nearest brigand, took hold of him by the ear, which it bit in two, and flying from his shoulder to the next, made a laceration of the second brigand’s nose, who, finding himself thus suddenly attacked by what was not very discernable in the moon-light, threw himself down, roaring out his ‘Aves,’ thinking that an imp of the Prince of Darkness was suddenly upon him. In vain did the other brigands make slashes and stabs at the monkey, who ran upon the shoulders of the next one, between the legs of another, up the back of a third, down the breast of a fourth, and kept the whole in perpetual alarm, till at last the poor wretch, having had one or two unlucky knocks, made his escape to some distance, where he sat chattering defiance, and picking up some stones, threatened to throw them at his pursuers.

“The trunks, boxes, bales, and packages, having by this time been thoroughly ransacked, the next object of the brigands was to burn the carriage, in the hope of obtaining, by this means, all the concealed treasures it contained in its various hiding places which are so difficult to find out. Accordingly, straw, stubble, and dried boughs were procured, and a quantity being placed underneath the old vehicle, it was very soon under the horrifying process, and the flames rose up bravely, throwing a broad red light on the surrounding scenery, and the ungagged ladies uttered many loud screams and interjections. The brigands set themselves quietly down by the fire, and watched the progress of the flames upon each part of the burning carriage, having the satisfaction to see several pieces of gold, in the shape of Napoleons, fly out as the parts separated, which they snatched eagerly from the fire with their daggers, and often burnt their fingers to secure. Just as the blaze was at its proudest height, and the brigands were at the full point of triumph, a tremendous discharge of musketry was heard close behind, and three of the robbers fell wounded. The others sprang up, levelled their carbines, and fired in the direction of the noise. Another rapid but irregular discharge, then an immediate onslaught, for, by the light of the moon which then broke out rather brightly, was seen coming onwards some twenty armed cavaliers, who rushed upon the brigands, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, and immediately a most furious combat between the two parties took place. The brigands fought desperately, and their assailants bravely. The three women screamed lustily. I looked on quietly, as did the Dutchman who had rolled to the bottom of the slope. In less than half-an-hour, five of the brigands had been shot down, the rest had dispersed; in the meantime, the carriage had been carefully consumed, and the cavaliers stood victors over five dead brigands, eight bound men, and three bound women. Of course the bound were soon unbound, and then we discovered to whom we had been indebted for our delivery.

“And this was to no less a person than our clown. He had been bound hand and foot at the first, but having, by virtue of his profession, been enabled to walk on his back without any aid from his legs, he had shuffled or wriggled himself off, in the confusion, to a considerable distance without being observed, and when sufficiently away from the daggers of his enemies, managed to get clear of his bandages, and running off in the direction we had left, had the good luck to come up with our escort, which had halted at a kind of halfway-house below us and the nearest town, for the purpose of watering their horses and _come_-ing themselves; and being somewhat overtaken with the delectable comforts of the hostlery, had stayed much longer than their commission gave them licence to do. Here our clown found them, and they immediately gave chase and came up in the ‘nick of time’ described.

“As soon as the whole of our party could be collected together, we were put one behind each of the cavaliers, and picking up our scattered matters, and robbing the dead bodies of the fallen brigands of that which belonged to us, we all proceeded back to the small village of Orguillas, about half a league from where we had been stopped, and here we were all shown into the ‘venta’ of the village, which consisted of little more than a kitchen with four bare walls, where we laid down, like so many pigs, among the straw till the morning, when we were taken before the Alcade, who gravely heard our depositions, took them down, examined our cavaliers, and told us for our especial benefit that we must find our way back to Madrid as we could. So getting away from the village, and plenty of straw in, then we set off as quickly as bad horses, bad drivers, and bad roads would allow us, and reached the chief city of Spain in the most deplorable plight imaginable. So ended my acquaintance with Spanish Brigands.”

Gustavus Vasa.

There is nothing which delights me more, my young friends, than to tell you tales of the Great and Good; and among many, who are truly great and good in the pages of history, few stand more pleasingly prominent than Gustavus I., King of Sweden. He was one of those great men whom nature so seldom produces, and who appears to have been endowed by her with every quality becoming a sovereign. His handsome countenance and noble bearing prepossessed all persons in his favour; his artless eloquence was irresistible; his conceptions were bold, and his indomitable spirit brought them to a happy issue. He was intrepid and yet prudent, full of courtesy in a rude age, and as virtuous as the leader of a party can be.

When the tyrant, Christian II. of Denmark, sought to make himself master of the throne of Sweden, Gustavus resolved to save his country from the oppressor; but the execution of his plans was interrupted, as Christian seized his person and kept him prisoner at Copenhagen, as a hostage, with five other heroic Swedes. When at last, in 1519, he heard of the success of Christian, who had nearly completed the subjugation of Sweden, he resolved, although still immured in a loathsome dungeon, to deliver his country. Gustavus escaped to Lubeck, but soon found that the Danes were after him, which obliged him to assume the habit and manners of a peasant. In this disguise he travelled on foot among the plains and mountains as a fugitive, and frequently walked fifty miles in a day, from place to place, to elude his pursuers. When he became familiar with his disguise, and the rude language of the peasantry, he became very bold. He passed several times through the Danish army; when that army was looking out for him, by its scouts, in every direction, he passed through the midst of it in a waggon of hay, and proceeded to an old family castle at Sudermania. He dispatched letters to his friends in the hope of arousing them to the recovery of their liberties; but, meeting with little success among the great, he next tried the peasantry. He visited their villages by night, harangued them at their festive assemblies, but without effect—as they uniformly told him it was in vain for them to attempt to better their condition, for peasants they were and peasants they must remain.

Gustavus next determined to try the miners of Delacarlia. He penetrated the mountains of that remote province, and was obliged, for a scanty subsistence, to enter himself as a common labourer at a mine. Here he worked within the dark caverns of the earth; but the fineness of his linen soon led some of his fellow labourers to suspect that he was more than what he seemed.

By the advice of a friend, at whose house he concealed himself, Gustavus repaired to Mira, where an annual feast of the peasantry was held. There, as his last resource, he displayed with so much mature eloquence and energy the miseries of his country and the tyranny of Christian, that the assembly instantly determined to take up arms and adopt him as their leader. While their hearts were overflowing with an ardent patriotism, Gustavus led them against the governor’s Castle, which they stormed, and took or destroyed the whole garrison. Success increased his forces; multitudes were eager to enlist under the banner of the conquering hero, Gustavus. At the head of his little army, he overran the neighbouring provinces—defeated the Archbishop of Upsala, and advanced to Stockholm. Christian, who had in vain attempted to stop the progress of Gustavus, by the threat of massacreing his mother and sisters, at length put the dreadful menace into execution. This cruel deed only animated Gustavus to a bloody revenge, and warmed more fiercely the blood of his devoted followers.

Gustavus now went forward only to triumph, and, having overcome all opposition, he assembled the states of Sweden at Wadstena, where he received the title of Administrator of the Kingdom, and in 1523 they proclaimed him King. He then set himself zealously to work in the reformation of the abuses both of Church and State. The Lutheran religion began to gain ground; the Scriptures were preached; the lazy drones of the church were shorn of their wealth, and compelled to do their duty; and, while the Danes were completely expelled from Sweden, Gustavus conquered all the internal treacherous enemies of Freedom. Although Sweden was a “limited monarchy,” so great a faith had the people in the justice and love of freedom which Gustavus possessed, that they granted him almost unlimited powers, and this power he never used in the least, but for the good of his country. He perfected the legislation, softened manners, encouraged industry and learning, and extended commerce. After a glorious reign of thirty-seven years, he died in 1560, at the age of seventy, leaving behind him a character, which the brave boys of England may love and venerate.

The Town Pump.

A STORY OF THE COW WITH AN IRON TAIL.

Noon by the Town Clock; noon, by the shadow of the blessed sun on the dial face, on the face of the Town Pump. High, hot, scorching, melting, smelting noon. Noon, by the thermometer at eighty-two degrees; noon, by the whirr of the dragon-fly,[A] and the quivering haze over the meadow; noon, by heat without and heat within, and by every melting moment. Come, then, my younkers, fresh from school, where you have been turning over dictionaries and spelling, with sweaty fingers—come and take another lesson. Come and shake hands with the Town Pump!

[A] The dragon-fly _rests_ at noontide, and flies most actively towards sundown.

How do you do, my young gentlemen? Take hold of my iron hand. Welcome to you all; I am not above shaking hands with the meanest of you, although I am a public character. Some people have dignified me with the name of Town Treasurer; and not an improper title either, as I am the guardian of the best treasure the Town has: whoever has a draught upon me will be sure to get it honoured, which cannot be said of every Treasurer. The Overseers of the Town ought to make me their Chairman, since I have the best interests of the Town’s people at heart. I am at the head of the Fire Department, and one of the Physicians of the Board of Health. I ought to be dubbed High Constable also, as I am the best Justice of the Peace; for whosoever taketh my cool advice will seldom fall into black eyes or bloody noses: and, in this my magisterial capacity, I think myself as useful as a dozen policemen at least. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person in the Municipality; a Mayor in my own right; and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, downright-and-upright motion of my arm in the cause of sobriety and virtue, and by the copious and impartial discharge of my duty. Summer and winter few seek my aid in vain; for all day long I am sure to be found at my post, ready to welcome all comers with a pure and delightful glass, sparkling like the diamond, or the light of gladness in a good man’s eye.

Let me be the Cup-bearer to the State; for I ought to be, by virtue of the iron goblet chained round my waist, and I can sing, with swanging jingle—

“Let’s quaff the goblet full and bright,
And see it in the soul’s best light!—”

and be a water-Anacreon. I am the wisdom that crieth out in the streets, “Will no man regard me?” Yes; I am sure some will. Here is the _aqua vitæ_, the pure blood of the earth, the distilled juices of heaven. Walk up, gentlemen and children! walk up! Here is the true elixir of life, the _primum mobile_ of existence—the spring of springiness in the joints—the fountain of Diana herself—chaste, pure, and holy! Come and taste the unadulterated ale of Father Adam! Here you can have it pure, or mixed with sunshine, or bubbling with cheerful looks—all without stint—by the hogshead or single glass; and all for love, and nothing to pay! The only untaxed article in the kingdom; think of that! Walk up! walk up! friends and neighbours, and help yourselves.