Chapter V

I could tell you a great deal more about the Indians, especially of the Cherokees, Creeks, Chickasaws, and other tribes, which have been removed by the government of the United States to a fine country northwest of Louisiana, where they have schools and churches, and cultivate their lands, and live much like white people. But I am afraid I am making too long a story. I shall, therefore, tell you something of certain queer tribes that seem to be a mixture of the American Indian and Esquimaux, and then proceed to other countries.

NOOTKA SOUND.

Let us cross to the western side of the continent of America. Here, far to the northwest, we find Nootka Sound, which is a bay in the Pacific Ocean, discovered by captain Cook, in 1778. Around this bay live a set of people, who in some respects differ from the North American Indians, though they have many traits in common with them.

On board one of the vessels which first entered Nootka Sound, in 1778, was John Ledyard, one of our own countrymen. He resided in Hartford some time after his return, where he wrote an account of his voyage. That account I have seen, and in it he speaks of the inhabitants who live round the Sound.

He says that the people there resemble the Indians on this side of the Rocky Mountains. They are tall, robust, and well made; but in this last respect, they do not equal the Indians farther east. Some of the women, however, appeared quite handsome.

They have large and full faces, high and prominent cheek bones, small and black eyes, broad and flat noses, thick lips, and teeth of the most brilliant whiteness. They fill their hair with oil, paint, and the down of birds. They also paint their faces with red, blue, and white colors. They look odd enough.

Some accounts represent them to be a quiet, peaceable people; but others say that they are bold and ferocious. They give some evidence of being rather a wise people,――they do not talk much; but, perhaps, it is because they have not many ideas. This last, I think, is true, for they have no books, and no means of knowing much.

I am sorry to add, that they are said to be cannibals; that is, they eat human flesh. Ledyard saw, when he was there, not only human skulls and bones for sale; but, also, human flesh ready cooked. This made the sailors shudder, and well it might.

The only inhabited parts of the Sound are two villages, containing about two thousand people. Their houses are made of very long and broad plank, resting upon the edges of each other, fastened together by means of withes, and supported by posts.

As you enter one of their houses, you find benches raised on the sides of the room. These are covered with mats, upon which the family sit and sleep. The fireplace is in the middle of the floor, but they have neither hearth nor chimney.

They have very fine furs; and when Captain Cook was there, he purchased some, not thinking they were very valuable, but when he arrived in China, he sold skins, which cost but sixpence, for a hundred dollars. Since Captain Cook’s time, many vessels have been to Nootka Sound after furs, and made their voyages very profitable.

I will only add, that Nootka Sound lies west of Boston, about three thousand miles. But should any of my readers over go thither, they will probably go by water. In this case, if they sail from New York, they will proceed south along the American coast, round Cape Horn, and then north to the Sound. The voyage will take them about five months, and they will sail not less than fifteen thousand miles.

ONALASKA.

Before we return to the eastern side of the continent, we must notice the people who inhabit the Fox Islands, the largest of which is called Onalaska. This island lies in the Pacific Ocean, at some distance from the peninsula of Alaska, as you may perceive by looking on a map.

This island, also, was first discovered by Captain Cook, in 1778. The inhabitants here are described as being in stature about middle size, with full round faces, flat noses, black eyes and hair, but no beard; for this they pluck out by the roots as soon as it begins to grow. Their skin is quite dark, but is rendered still more so by the manner in which they live.

The inhabitants appear to be good-natured and benevolent; but if their anger is once roused, it is not easily allayed. Their common dress, in rainy weather, is a garment, made of the entrails of the sea-dog. This secures them against the rain. In dry and cold weather, they wear a garment made of feathers, curiously sewed together, and which costs a person sometimes a whole year’s labor. Their hats are made of wood, and very much resemble an umbrella.

They are quite fond of ornaments, particularly beads, and small ivory figures cut from the teeth of the sea-cow, and with the bristles of the sea-lion’s beard――all of which they put upon their hats. The women ornament themselves with rings upon their fingers, and with belts of glass beads upon their wrists and ankles.

The houses in which they dwell are large holes, dug in the ground, and covered with a roof, over which earth is thrown, and grass grows upon it. In the centre of the roof a hole is cut. This is all the door, window, and chimney which they have. They enter the house, and go out of it, by means of an upright post, with pins in it. Their habitations are generally filthy places. They are filled with the smoke of burnt oil, which they use for light and cooking. They live principally upon fish and sea-dogs.

The canoes of these people are very ingenious. They build a wooden frame, which they cover with sea-dogs’ skins. They are light, and are pushed forward in the water with amazing rapidity.

CANADA.

It is a long distance from the island of Onalaska to Canada; but as _we_ travel, we are soon there. Canada now belongs to Great Britain, and there are many English, Scotch and Irish people resident there; but it was first settled by the French, and there are more French than there are English. Some Americans, also, have settled there, for the purpose of trade.

The English and American inhabitants of Canada are intelligent and polished people, resembling the higher classes in England and America. These live principally in the large towns and cities.

The common people, or true Canadians, are French. They speak the French language; but it has lost much of its purity. Few among them know how either to read or write. They are, however, quite an honest, hospitable, and inoffensive people. They are very poor; and no wonder they are so, for they are a very lazy people. They seem to have few wants, and to be quite happy, and contented with their condition. Within a few years they have improved somewhat; but it will be a long time before they make much advance.

At an early period of life, the Canadian is healthy and robust; but he soon looks old and sallow, owing to his exposure to the weather, and the toils of the field. This is also true of the women, many of whom are quite handsome when young; but they soon fade. Both men and women frequently live, however, to advanced age.

Canada is a cold country. The winters are long and severe. The inhabitants protect themselves when they go abroad, by means of furs, in which they envelop themselves. They travel, during the cold season, in a kind of sledge, or open carriage, called a cariole. In these, they glide over deep snows and frozen rivers, with surprising celerity.

At the beginning of winter, the farmers, who are called _habitants_, kill hogs, cattle, and poultry, sufficient to serve them till spring, as well as to supply the markets. The carcasses they store in their garrets, where they soon become frozen, and keep without injury; or they bury them, and dig them out as wanted. Vegetables are preserved in a similar manner. The French Canadians are chiefly Roman Catholics; the other inhabitants are of various sects.

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I DON’T WANT TO GO!――A curious incident occurred near Paris, not long since, in consequence of a balloon starting on its own hook, without the consent of the proprietor. A large concourse of people had assembled to see an æronaut take flight for the regions of upper air, but, unfortunately, before he took his seat in the car, the ærostat got loose, and the grappling-hook, which was dangling from the machine, hitched into the indescribables of a boy, who was gazing, open-mouthed, at the ascending mass, and carried him up willy-nilly.

The women screamed and fainted, but the lad, who seemed to have been a hero in his way, clasped the rope tightly with his hands and his feet, and, with an awful rent in his aforesaids, was introduced by his inflated companion into the _upper circles_. After a short voyage, the balloon descended, and deposited the little fellow safe and sound on the firm earth.

A Chinese Dandy.

The following description of a Chinese exquisite, is from a new work on China, by P. Dobel, formerly Russian Consul to China, and a resident in that country for seven years:――

“His dress is composed of crapes and silks of great price, his feet are covered with high-heeled boots of the most beautiful Nankin satin, and his legs are encased in gaiters, richly embroidered, and reaching to the knee. Add to this an acorn-shaped cap of the latest taste, an elegant pipe, richly ornamented, in which burns the purest tobacco of the Fokien, an English watch, a toothpick suspended to a button by a string of pearls, a Nankin fan, exhaling the perfume of the tcholane, (a Chinese flower,) and you will have an exact idea of a fashionable Chinese.

“The Chinese dandy, like dandies of all times and all countries, is seriously occupied with trifles. He belongs either to the Quail Club or the Cricket Club. Like the ancient Romans, the Chinese train quails, quarrelsome birds, intrepid duellists, whose combats form the subject of senseless wagers. In imitation of the rich, the poorer Chinese place at the bottom of an earthen basin, two field crickets. These insects they excite and provoke, until they grow angry, attack each other, and the narrow field of battle is soon strewed with their claws, antennæ and corselets.

“There is between the Chinese and the old Romans as great a difference as there is between the combats of the crickets and the terrible combats of the gladiators.”

A Thrilling Narrative.

The town of St. Etienne, in the department of the Loire, has acquired, by its manufactures of iron and silk, the appellation of the Birmingham and Coventry of France. Though very far from contemptible, it is however, at most, only a miniature likeness of the two celebrated towns to which it is compared. For its prosperity, it is indebted to the circumstance of iron oar and coal being abundant in its vicinity. Among the coal mines in its immediate neighborhood, is that of Bois Monzil, the scene of the event which is now to be described.

On the 2d of February, 1831, about eight in the morning, when there were twenty-six men at work, a sudden detonation was heard, instantly followed by the roar of water, rushing from the adjoining pit. The cry of alarm was quickly spread through the mine, but only ten of the laborers were able to reach the entrance. One of them was driven forward with such violence, by the condensed air and the torrent, that his escape was miraculous; another was so terrified, that he hurried forward, without thinking to disencumber himself of a sack of coals which he had upon his shoulders; a third, who possessed both presence of mind and humanity, snatched up a boy of eleven years old and bore him away in his arms.

Eight individuals perished. Some of them were swept away by the deluge――but at least one of them had to endure a lingering death. He was heard for some hours knocking against the sides of his prison; at the end of that time the knocking ceased――the flood had overwhelmed him. The remaining eight workmen were fortunate enough to reach a gallery on a higher level; but, as it had no other outlet than that by which they entered, their fate was certain, unless the water should recede, or their friends could open a passage through the rock beneath them.

On hearing of the accident, the engineers of the mine hastened with their assistants to the spot. Thirty hours elapsed before the miners could penetrate into some of the lower galleries from which the water had retired. They repeatedly called aloud to their lost companions, but no voice was heard in reply. They then struck with their pickaxes upon the roof, and after several fruitless trials, they were rejoiced to hear an equal number of answering knocks.

Measures were immediately adopted for opening a communication with the imprisoned men; the principal of them were the boring a hole through the rock, in the supposed direction whence the sound came, and the forming of an inclined tunnel. But there was much difficulty in ascertaining the point to which they ought to direct their efforts; for the sound of their blows on the roof, far from offering a certain criterion, or at least a probable one, seemed each time to excite fresh doubts. The rock, too, was so hard and thick, that the gunpowder employed in blasting it produced but a trifling effect; nor could the pumps be got to work, and they were therefore obliged to resort to the slow and incompetent method of forming a line of men from the gallery to the mouth of the mine, and passing the buckets from hand to hand.

The persons who were thus employed, had to work upon a rapid slope, in a crouching posture, with the water dropping all round them, and generally rising up to the middle of their bodies. They had to endure that which was still worse to men not devoid of humanity. The wives of the hapless miners had heard that all hope was not extinct, and they hastened to the spot. With heart-rending cries, and shedding tears alternately of despair and hope, they exclaimed, “Are they _all_ there? Where is the father of my children? Is _he_ amongst them, or has he been swallowed up by the waters?”

When it became known at St. Etienne and its vicinity, that there was a prospect of saving a part of the victims, the whole of the National Guards, and several hundreds of miners and other persons, thronged to lend their assistance. The pumps were now got to work, and the line of men with buckets was consequently discontinued. Yet, notwithstanding the number of additional hands, the work proceeded but slowly. Such was the flinty hardness of the rock, that frequently the tools either broke, or remained immovably fixed in the stone. The water also filtered in rapidly through the perforation which they were making, and seemed to threaten another irruption.

It was now Sunday, and the spirits of the workmen began to flag. On the following day an alarming incident occurred which spread a general panic. A terrific noise was heard, which was prolonged in echoes throughout the mine. When their terror had sufficiently subsided to allow of their investigating its cause, they found that an enormous mass of rock had fallen into one of the draining wells. Though this fall was attended by no bad consequences, the workmen were so much disheartened by it, that it required much management to bring them back to their labors, and revive their courage and perseverance.

By dint of persuasion and argument, the superintendents at length prevailed on the men to make a vigorous effort. In a very short time, that effort was crowned with success. The instrument of one of the miners penetrated into the shut-up gallery, and was drawn from his hands by the poor imprisoned miners. But the man who had thus been the first to open a way into their dungeon, was still more unfortunate than they were. At the moment when hope dawned to them, it set forever to him. He was the father of one of the men who had disappeared in the mine. His paternal feelings seemed to have endowed him with superhuman strength. Night and day he quitted his work only for a few minutes to return to it with redoubled vigor.

One absorbing thought occupied his whole soul; the idea that his son, his _only_ son, was with those who were heard from within. In vain he was solicited to retire; in vain they strove to force him from labors too fatiguing for his age. “My son is among them,” said he; “I hear him; nothing shall prevent me from hastening his release;” and from time to time he called on his son, in accents that tore the hearts of the bystanders. His first question, on the instrument being drawn from his hand, was, “My child!” His Antoine was no more; he had been drowned.

For four days, medical men had been present in the mine, to be ready to give their aid, as soon as a passage should be opened. They now directed soup to be introduced through a tube, and air to be forced into the gallery by means of bellows. Food was, however, by no means the most urgent want of the captives; light was what they first and most pressingly requested. A tinder-box was conveyed to them, but the vitiated air of their dungeon rendered it of no use. At first, they seemed to be strengthened by the soup, of which they had made their oldest and weakest companions the earliest partakers; but afterwards it had a contrary effect. They therefore for the present rejected the nourishment which was occasionally supplied, and expressed but one wish, which was that their friends would make haste. Yet one at least there was, who had not lost all his gaiety. This was a man, named Fereol. When he was asked what day he thought it was, be replied, “Sunday;” and upon being told it was Monday, he rejoined, “Ah, I ought to have known that――for yesterday we indulged ourselves by tippling freely――of water.”

But though some of them retained their cheerfulness, the strength of all was rapidly failing. Their utterance grew gradually more faint; and about six in the evening, the last words that could be distinguished were, “Brothers, make haste.” By ten in the evening, they had broken through sixteen feet of solid rock, and liberated the captives. Looking more like spectres than human beings, the miners, one by one, slowly traversed the gallery, and emerged into open air, which they had so recently almost despaired of ever breathing again. From the mouth of the mine to the temporary residence allotted them, the whole way was illuminated. The engineers, the pupils, and the workmen, with the National Guard under arms, were drawn up in two lines to form a passage; and thus, in the midst of a religious silence, did these poor fellows traverse an attentive and sympathizing crowd, who, as they passed along, inclined their heads, as a sort of respect and honor to their sufferings.

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GENEROSITY is a pleasant, agreeable, fascinating virtue; justice is more stern, but must be regarded as the higher virtue of the two.

Demosthenes.

This greatest of the Grecian orators was born about 385 or 384 years before Christ, when Athens had reached the zenith of her literary, and had passed that of her political glory. Juvenal has represented him slightingly as the son of a blacksmith, the fact being that the elder Demosthenes was engaged in various branches of trade, and among others was owner of a sword manufactory. His maternal grandmother was a Thracian woman, a circumstance noticeable because it enabled his enemies, in the spirit of exaggeration and ill-will, to taunt him as a barbarian and hereditary enemy of his country――for the Greeks in general regarded the admixture of barbarian, that is, other than Greek blood, with the same sort of contempt and dislike as do the whites of America the taint of African descent.

Being left an orphan when seven years old, Demosthenes fell into the hands of dishonest guardians, who embezzled a large portion of the property which his father had bequeathed to him. His constitution appears to have been delicate, and it may have been on this account, that he did not attend the gymnastic exercises, which formed a large portion of the education of the youths in Greece; exercises really important where neither birth nor wealth set aside the obligation to military service common to all citizens; and where, therefore, skill in the use of arms, strength, and the power to endure fatigue and hardship, were essential to the rich as well as to the poor. It may have been on this account that a nickname expressive of effeminacy was bestowed on him, which was afterwards interpreted into a proof of unmanly luxury and vicious habits; indeed, the reproach of wanting physical strength stuck by him through life, and apparently not undeservedly. Another nickname that he obtained was that of “Viper.” In short, the extant anecdotes tend pretty uniformly to show that his private character was harsh and unamiable.

His ambition to excel as an orator is said to have been kindled by hearing a masterly and much admired speech of Callistratus. For instruction, he resorted to Isæus, and, as some say, to Isocrates, both eminent teachers of the art of rhetoric. He had a stimulus to exertion in the resolution to prosecute his guardians for the abuse of their trust; and having gained the cause, B. C. 364, in the conduct of which he himself took an active part, recovered, it would seem, a large part of his property. The orations against Aphobus and Onetor profess to have been delivered in the course of the suit; but it has been doubted, on internal evidence, whether they were really composed by him so early in life.

Be this as it may, his success emboldened him to come forward as a speaker in the assemblies of the people: on what occasion, and at what time, does not appear. His reception was discouraging. He probably had underrated, till taught by experience, the degree of training and mechanical preparation requisite at all times to excellence, and most essential in addressing an audience so alive to the ridiculous and so fastidious as the Athenians. He labored also under physical defects, which almost amounted to disqualifications. His voice was weak, his breath short, his articulation defective; in addition to all this, his style was thought strained, harsh, and involved.

Though disheartened by his ill success, he felt, as Sheridan is reported to have expressed himself on a similar occasion, that it was in him, and it should come out; beside, he was encouraged by a few discerning spirits. One aged man, who had heard Pericles, cheered him with the assurance that he reminded him of that unequalled orator; and the actor Satyrus pointed out the faults of his delivery, and instructed him to amend them. He now set himself in earnest to realize his notions of excellence; and the singular and irksome method which he adopted, denoting certainly no common energy and strength of will, are too celebrated and too remarkable to be omitted, though the authority on which they rest is not free from doubt. He built a room under ground, where he might practise gesture and delivery without molestation, and there he spent two or three months together, shaving his head that the oddity of his appearance might render it impossible for him to go abroad, even if his resolution should fail. The defect in his articulation he cured by reciting with small pebbles in his mouth. His lungs he strengthened by practising running up hill, while reciting verses. Nor was he less diligent in cultivating mental, than bodily requisites, applying himself earnestly to study the theory of the art, as explained in books, and the examples of the greatest masters of eloquence. Thucydides is said to have been his favorite model, insomuch that he copied out his history eight times, and had it almost by heart.

Meanwhile, his pen was continually employed in rhetorical exercises; every question suggested to him by passing events served him for a topic of discussion, which called forth the application of his attainments to the real business of life. It was perhaps as much for the sake of such practice, as with a view to reputation, or the increase of his fortune, that he accepted employment as an advocate, which, until he began to take an active part in public affairs, was offered to him in abundance.

Such was the process by which he became confessedly the greatest orator among the people by whom eloquence was cultivated, as it has never been since by any nation upon earth. He brought it to its highest state of perfection, as did Sophocles the tragic drama, by the harmonious union of excellences which had before only existed apart. The quality in his writings which excited the highest admiration of the most intelligent critics among his countrymen, in the later critical age, was the Protean versatility with which he adapted his style to every theme, so as to furnish the most perfect examples of every order and kind of eloquence.

Demosthenes, like Pericles, never willingly appeared before his audience with any but the ripest fruits of his private studies, though he was quite capable of speaking on the impulse of the moment in a manner worthy of his reputation. He continued to the end of his career to cultivate the art with unabated diligence, and even in the midst of public business, his habits were known to be those of a severe student.

The first manifestation of that just jealousy of Philip, the ambitious king of Macedon, which became the leading principle of his life, was made B. C. 352, when the orator delivered the first of those celebrated speeches called Philippics. The word has been naturalized in Latin and most European languages, as a concise term to signify indignant invective.

From this time forward, it was the main object of Demosthenes to inspire and keep alive in the minds of the Athenians a constant jealousy of Philip’s power and intentions, and to unite the other states of Greece in confederacy against him. The policy and the disinterestedness of his conduct have both been questioned; the former, by those who have judged, from the event, that resistance to the power of Macedonia was rashly to accelerate a certain and inevitable evil; the latter, by those, both of his contemporaries and among posterity, who believe that he received bribes from Persia, as the price of finding employment in Greece for an enemy, whose ambition threatened the monarch of the East. With respect to the former, however, it was at least the most generous policy, and that of the elder Athenians in their most illustrious days, not to await the ruin of their independence submissively, until every means had been tried for averting it; for the latter, such charges are hard either to be proved or refuted. The character of Demosthenes certainly does not stand above the suspicion of pecuniary corruption, but it has not been shown, nor is it necessary or probable to suppose, that his jealousy of Philip of Macedon was not in the first instance far-sighted and patriotic. During fourteen years, from 352 to 338, he exhausted every resource of eloquence and diplomatic skill to check the progress of that aspiring monarch; and whatever may be thought of his moral worth, none can undervalue the genius and energy, which have made his name illustrious, and raised a memorial of him far more enduring than sepulchral brass.

In 339, B. C., Philip’s appointment to be general of the Amphyctionic League gave him a more direct influence than he had yet possessed; and in the same year, the decisive victory of Cheronea, won over the combined forces of Thebes, Athens, &c., made him master of Greece. Demosthenes served in this engagement, but joined early in the flight, with circumstances, according to report, of marked cowardice and disgrace. He retired for a time from Athens, but the cloud upon his character was but transient; for shortly after he was entrusted with the charge of putting the city in a state of defence, and was appointed to pronounce the funeral oration over those who had been slain. After the battle of Cheronea, Philip, contrary to expectation, did not prosecute hostilities against Athens; on the contrary, he used his best endeavors to conciliate the affections of the people, but without success; the party hostile to Macedon soon regained the superiority, and Demosthenes was proceeding with his usual vigor in the prosecution of his political schemes, when news arrived of the murder of Philip, in July, 336.

The daughter of Demosthenes had then lately died; nevertheless, in violation of national usage, he put off his mourning, and appeared in public crowned with flowers, and with other tokens of festive rejoicing. This act, a strong expression of triumph over the fall of a most dangerous enemy, has been censured with needless asperity; the accusation of having been privy to the plot for Philip’s murder beforehand, founded on his own declaration of the event some time before intelligence of it came from any other quarter, and the manifest falsehood as to the source of the information, which he professed to derive from a divine revelation, involves, if it be judged to be well founded, a far blacker imputation.

Whether or not it were of his own procuring, the death of Philip was hailed by Demosthenes as an event most fortunate for Athens, and favorable to the liberty of Greece. Thinking lightly of the young successor to the Macedonian crown, he busied himself the more in stirring up opposition to Alexander, and succeeded in urging Thebes into that revolt, which ended in the entire destruction of the city, B. C. 335. This example, as it well might, struck terror into Athens. Alexander demanded that Demosthenes, with nine others, should be given up into his hands, as the authors of the battle of Cheronea, and of the succeeding troubles of Greece; but finally contented himself with requiring the banishment of Charidemus alone.

Opposition to Macedon was now effectually put down, and until the death of Alexander we hear little more of Demosthenes as a public man. During this period, however, one of the most memorable incidents of his life occurred in that contest of oratory with Æschines, which has been more celebrated than any strife of words since the world began. The origin of it was as follows. About the time of the battle of Cheronea, one Ctesiphon brought before the people a decree for presenting Demosthenes with a crown for his distinguished services; a complimentary motion, in its nature and effects very much like a vote of parliament declaratory of confidence in the administration. Æschines, the leading orator of the opposite party, arraigned this motion, as being both untrue in substance and irregular in form; he indicted Ctesiphon on these grounds, and laid the penalty at fifty talents, equivalent to about $45,000. Why the prosecution was no long delayed, does not clearly appear; but it was not brought to an issue until the year 330, when Æschines pronounced his great oration “against Ctesiphon.” Demosthenes defended him in the still more celebrated speech “on the crown.” These, besides being the most admirable specimens of rhetorical art, have the additional value, that the rival orators, being much more anxious to uphold the merits of their own past policy and conduct, than to convict or defend the nominal object of prosecution, have gone largely into matters of self-defence and mutual recrimination, from which much of our knowledge of this obscure portion of history is derived. Æschines lost the cause, and not having the votes of so much as a fifth part of the judges, became liable, according to the laws of Athens, to fine and banishment. He withdrew to Rhodes, where he established a school of rhetoric.

Demosthenes roused the Athenians against Antipater the successor of Alexander in Greece, but when that general triumphed, he fled to Calmesia, and took refuge in a temple. He retired into the inner part of the building, on pretence of writing a letter, where he took poison and speedily died.

Such was the life of Demosthenes, the greatest orator Greece ever produced, and one of the most famous that ever lived.

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Man is made to live on the earth, but to regard heaven as his resting place. He must keep both objects in view: if he forgets heaven, he imitates the brutes which perish; if he forgets the earth, he will tumble into the first ditch that lies across his path.

Walking on Stilts.

In some countries the inhabitants walk on stilts from necessity. In England, boys do so for fun; and it is astonishing with what agility, after a very short practice, they do so. Any boy may make his own stilts; nothing is required but a pair of poles, about six or seven feet long, upon which some broad pieces of leather or iron hoop are nailed for the feet, so as to leave the top of the stilt within a few inches of the arm-pit. The boy may at first place his foot-holds very low, till he can balance himself, and then raise them every few days, till he obtains a complete command over them. I have known boys who had great command over stilts, to wade through rivers three or four feet deep; which would be of some importance in certain situations, to which all are subject, as by such aids small rivers might at any time be crossed, and life even saved in a case of necessity.

I once, however, knew a boy, who, having attained this art in great perfection, was not content with amusing himself in a rational and innocent manner, but set his wits to work to frighten two of his playfellows, a little boy and girl, who lived in the neighborhood. He had often heard foolish people talk of ghosts, and thought it would be good fun to make one; so he got a large white tablecloth, and having scraped out the inside of a turnip, so as to leave nothing but the rind, he cut two holes for eyes, made an enormous mouth with gnashing teeth; in this he put a lantern, and putting himself on his stilts, which made him seven feet high, and fastening the turnip lantern to his hat, he sallied forth into a by-lane, where he knew his play-fellows were to pass.

After a while he heard their footsteps, and then he made himself ready by pulling his white garment about him, and placing himself under the shade of an old tree. Then he gave a loud, unearthly groan, and with a slow and measured step came forth. It was nearly dark, and a little girl and boy came gaily on, singing and dancing. But the moment the little girl saw the supposed spectre, she gave a thrilling scream, and dropped senseless on the ground. Her brother, poor fellow, who at once saw the trick, ran towards the spectre, and with a blow of a stick which he held in his hand, felled him to the ground. He then ran to his sister, but she was insensible. After a while, assistance came; but when they had taken the little girl home, and put her to bed, they found that her senses had fled forever. The fright had turned her brain, and she became an idiot, and did not live many years.

Be careful then, my young friends, never to play upon the fears or feelings of your companions. It is not only very wicked, but cruel in the extreme; and as the consequences may be serious, guard yourself against every temptation of the kind. A sudden start at the word “Boo,” has been known to produce severe illness; and it is by no means an uncommon thing to hear of persons meeting with sudden death through fright.

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It is pleasant to some persons to give; but if one gives only to gratify himself, he is merely selfish, and can claim no praise.

[For Merry’s Museum.]
THE LITTLE SOLDIER.

(Concluded.)

MR. MERRY:

Your young readers will remember, I hope, that they left our
“little soldier” at the commencement of his journey
homewards. Weak and faint from his long confinement in the
hospital, without money, and with the sad prospect of two
hundred miles on foot before him, it seemed impossible to
him that he could ever accomplish the journey. But “home,”
that blessed word, at mention of which, “the _sailor_,
clinging to the dripping yard-arm,” feels a glow of rapture,
filled the heart of the _soldier_ with hope, and he
proceeded on. Children of the present day, cannot imagine
the change which has been made in the country since that
period. What was at that time a “wilderness,” has now become
a “fruitful field;” and where our tired soldiers at the
close of the day sheltered themselves beneath some large
tree, may now be seen the splendid hotel, inviting the
traveller to comfort and rest. Then, too, at the nightfall,
where _our_ two friends heard only the mournful note of the
“whip-poor-will,” may now be heard the shrill whistle of the
locomotive, as it scuds over mountain and valley with the
speed of thought. I cannot take time to give the details of
adventures which cheered and discouraged our friends from
day to day. They found great difficulty in supplying
themselves with food; and I think it was in some lonely
place, on this journey, that the sick soldier was fortunate
enough to catch a young woodpecker, and he said nothing
could be more delicious than the little bird. He pulled out
the feathers, and ate it _just as it was_! He said it was
meat and drink too, for the blood was warm! If I am not
mistaken, it was three or four weeks after they left New
York, that the two friends reached a village, called
Farmington, in the State of Connecticut. They had been a
long time coming a short distance, as the strength of the
little soldier had been gradually failing during the journey
thus far. Just at dark, after a day of great suffering from
exhaustion and fatigue, they came to a house which stood on
an eminence rather difficult of ascent. Here, the poor
fellow’s courage failed, and he said to his companion, “Let
me stop at the foot of this hill and _die_. I can never
reach the house,”――and he sank upon the ground, entirely
overcome. His companion, however, had strong confidence that
if he could have food and rest, he would soon be restored.
He accordingly went to the door of the house, which was
opened by a very respectable middle-aged woman. He proceeded
to an inner room, where an old man was sitting, reading the
Bible. He made as earnest an appeal as he could for the
friend he had left in the road; but the thought of having
such a burden upon them, (for they were rather poor,) seemed
more than they could bear. Now, whether the old gentleman
happened to be reading in Matthew, the passage, “Inasmuch as
ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto
me,” I cannot say; but he did not hesitate long. “Let him
come in,” said he; “we will do the best we can for him.”
Here, then, new courage came to him, and, with the utmost
exertion, he reached the door. The _table_ was spread for
the evening meal; and such a sight our “little soldier” had
not seen since he left his father’s house, where was “bread
enough and to spare.” He has been heard to say often, that
at no other period in his life, was he ever so much
overcome, as at the sight of that table! He wept and sobbed
like an infant. The utmost caution was needed, or he would
no doubt have sacrificed his life in the indulgence of his
appetite. At this house he remained several weeks,――and I
would to God that this account might fall into the hands of
some of the descendants of that pious family. The man was
named Thomas Cowles. A maiden daughter kept the house, and
took care of her father. They were unwearied in their
attentions to the invalid, and he began to recruit at once.
His companion came on to their native place, and a brother
of the sick soldier immediately started on horseback for
him, with money to remunerate the family who had shown him
so much kindness. When the young soldier came to take his
leave, which he did with many tears, the good people refused
all compensation. Now, I hope, Mr. Merry, some of your young
readers will know why this was. Our “little soldier” loved
and feared God. They had taken “sweet counsel together,” and
felt that they had their reward. Many years after these
events occurred, and after the little traveller had been in
the service of his Divine Master a long time, an opportunity
was given to send to this daughter, who had survived her
father several years. With deep emotion he took from his
library a handsome volume, and presented it to Miss Cowles,
with the simple quotation, “I was a stranger, and ye took me
in.”

Should any one of the name meet with this account――a branch
of that family――“may the Lord bless them seven fold,” for
their father’s sake.

A SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER.

――――

To make room for the remainder of the story of “The Little Soldier,” we are obliged to defer our Correspondence until the next number.

The Goldfinch.

THE MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM, BY GEORGE J. WEBB.

[Music:] Vivace.

Goldfinch, pride of woodland glade,
In thy jet and gold ar-rayed;
Gentle bird, that lov’st to feed
On the thistle’s downy seed;
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.
Freely frolic, lightly sing,
In the sunbeams spread thy wing;
Spread thy plumage trim and gay,
Glitt’ring in the noontide ray.

Fickle bird, forever roaming,
Endless changes ever loving,
Now in orchards gaily sporting,
Now to flowery fields resorting;
Chasing now the thistle’s down,
By the gentle zephyr blown,
Lightly on thou wing’st thy way,
Always happy, always gay.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII. JUNE, 1844. No. 6.

une, the first of the summer months, presents us with many interesting things. The meadows are now covered with flowers in full bloom: the forests have put on their beautiful garments of green: the birds are busy in tending their young; the mornings are ushered in with silvery dews, and the evenings come like a soft veil thrown over the cradle of her children, by the gentle hand of nature, to make their slumbers sweet and secure.

The farmer is now busy in gathering his crop of hay,――though, as he swings his scythe, he unhappily disturbs many a pretty nest of the meadow lark, the sparrow, and the boblink. How the latter does sing “Get out o’ the way old Dan Tucker,”――as the mowers intrude upon his dominion! However, it is better that Bob should be disturbed now and then, than that the cattle should starve, and every body go without milk and meat.

But let us go to some field, where the mower has not yet appeared. Let us stop and listen to Bob――with his white nightcap on. What a set of names he has got――boblink――bob o’ lincoln――skunk black bird――and rice bird. He seems to have as many names as those rascals who are sent to the state’s prison, yet he has no other quality in common with pick-pockets and counterfeiters. He is no thief, for what he takes he takes in open day; he is no pick-pocket, for while the cat-bird filches cherries, strawberries, raspberries, and grapes, Bob is content with the waste seeds of the meadows. He is no counterfeiter,――no, he is a downright fellow, and is never ashamed of his name. Meet him where you will, he springs into the air, and seems to give you a challenge in the following words――

“Jem Richardson, Jem Richardson,――get away――yet away: it’s very disagreeable of you to trouble us: get away! get away!”

Different people fancy the boblink to say different things. A girl of sixteen blushes at his open, impertinent calling out the name of her lover, which she supposed a secret to every one but herself; the miser thinks his song like the jingling of keys; a tory fancies that the rogue calls him a whig; a whig, that he reviles him as a tory; a boy going home from school, imagines that he is mocking him for spelling the word _jingo_, with two gs――and a town-meeting orator, regards him as a lecturer upon that species of eloquence which at town-meetings is usually displayed――a succession of nasal, brassy sounds, with very little sense.

But let us leave boblink to pursue his cheerful, happy life, and look at that bird with long legs and a sly appearance, stealing through the grass. He is a meadow lark,――and a magnificent bird, streaked with gray and brown upon the back, with a breast of bright yellow. See! he is very timid, and has already flown. Alas, his flesh is excellent, and man has taught him that there is danger in his near approach. Yet listen to his clear, shrill note, as he flies in the air. See! there he lights on the topmost bough of yonder apple-tree. How plaintive, yet how beautiful, his prolonged note! He is not, however, so sweet a singer as the lark of Europe.

Let us take a stroll in yonder thicket. How still and secluded is this little dell. Not a sound is to be heard. Hush! I heard a rustle among the bushes! Oh, it is a brown thrush; there he sits, trying to hide himself behind the oak leaves. He has a nest near, and being engaged in important business, does not wish to be disturbed. He will not speak to you till evening. If you are then within a quarter of a mile, you will hear his song. It consists of imitations and variations that might put Ole Bull to the blush. Some passages are exquisitely beautiful, and would excite the envy of that conceited bird, the English talk so much of,――the nightingale,――a bird, that is so solicitous to be heard, that it will sing only in the night, when all honest birds are asleep.

We will say no more of this month, after introducing to you the following description of it, in the oldest English lay extant:

“Summer is yeomen in――
Loud sing cuckoo;
Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,
And springeth the weed new.”

――――

THE NEW KING.――The king of the Sandwich Islands has so much improved in his condition since he signed the pledge, that the people call him THE NEW KING.

Inquisitive Jack.