Chapter IX

_Completion of my education.--Manly sports.--An accident.--The
bed of pain.--Recovery from sickness.--A new companion._

In the last chapter I have given an account of a day in spring. I might now proceed to relate the adventures and amusements of a day in summer, then of autumn, and lastly of winter; and each of these, it would appear, had its appropriate occupations and diversions. But I am afraid that I shall weary my readers with long stories. I shall therefore proceed with matters more immediately affecting my fortunes, and tending to get to the end of a long journey.

I must go forward to the period when I was about sixteen years of age, and when I had finally taken leave of the school. I had passed through the branches taught there at the time; but these were few, as I have already stated, and I was far from having thoroughly mastered even them. I had, in fact, adopted a habit of skimming and slipping along, really learning as little as possible. Not only was I indulged by my uncle and his household, but there was a similar system of tolerance extended toward my faults and follies, even by the schoolmaster. It is true that sometimes he treated me harshly enough; but it was generally in some fit of spleen. If he was gloomy and tyrannical to the school, he was usually lenient to me. He even excused my indolence, and winked at my neglect of study and duty.

It would seem that such general favor, should cultivate in the heart of a youth only kind and generous feelings; but it was not so with me. The more I was indulged, the more passionate and headstrong I grew; and perhaps, in this, I was not unlike other young people. It seems that there are wild passions in our very nature, which are like weeds, ever tending to overgrow the whole soil. These passions need to be eradicated by constant care and correction, just as weeds must be pulled up by the roots and thrown away. Of what use is it to plant a garden, if you do not hoe it and rake it, thus keeping the weeds down, and allowing the proper plants to flourish? And of what advantage is it to go to school, to be educated, if the thorns and briers of vice and passion are not destroyed, and the fruits and flowers of truth and virtue cultivated and cherished?

Being no more a school-boy, I now thought myself a man. Bill Keeler had left my uncle, and was apprenticed to a shoemaker; but in the evening I often contrived to meet him, and one or two other companions. Our amusements were not such as would tell well in a book. Too often we went to the bar-room of my uncle’s inn, and listened to the vulgar jokes and coarse fun that were always stirring there, and sometimes we treated each other with liquor. I cannot now but wonder that such things should have given me any pleasure; but habit and example have a mighty influence over us. Seeing that others drank, we drank too, though at first the taste of all spirits was odious to me. I got used to it by degrees, and at last began to like the excitement they produced. And strange to say, the bar-room, which originally disgusted me, became rather a favorite place of resort. I was shocked at the oaths and indecency for a time; the huge puddles of tobacco spittle over the floor, and the reeking flavors of tobacco smoke and brandy, disgusted me; the ragged, red-nosed loungers of the place, the noise, the riot, the brutality, which frequently broke out, and which was called by the soakers, having a “good time,” were actually revolting; but my aversion passed away by degrees. Under the strong infection of the place, I partially adopted its habits; I learned to smoke and chew tobacco, though several fits of nervous sickness warned me of the violence I was doing to my nature. I even ventured to swear occasionally; and, if the truth must be told, I followed out, in various ways, the bad lessons that I learnt.

It is painful to me to confess these things, but I do it for the purpose of warning those for whose benefit I write, against similar errors. Wherever young people go frequently, there they are learning something; and as a bar-room is a place to which young men are often tempted, I wish to advise them that it is a school, in which profanity, coarseness, intemperance, and vice, are effectually taught. It is a seminary where almost every thief, robber, counterfeiter, and murderer, takes his first and last lesson. A man who loves a bar-room where liquors are sold, has reason to tremble; a young man who loves bar-room company, has already entered within the very gate that leads down to ruin. That I have escaped such ruin myself, is attributable to the kindness of Providence, rather than to any resistance of evil which originated in my own breast. If Heaven had deserted me, I had been lost forever.

It was one night after we had been drinking at the tavern, that my companions and myself issued forth, bent on what was called a _spree_. Our first exploit was to call up the doctor of the village, and ask him to hasten to Miss Sally St. John, who has been noticed before in these memoirs, insinuating that she was desperately ill. Our next adventure was to catch the parson’s horse in the pasture, and tie him to the whipping-post, which stood on the green before the meeting-house. We then proceeded to a watermelon patch, and, prowling about among the vines, selected the largest and finest, and ripping them open, strewed the contents over the ground. We then went to a garden belonging to a rich old farmer, who was celebrated for producing very fine pears. The window of the proprietor looked out into the garden, and as he had the reputation of exercising a vigilant watch over his fruit, we felt the necessity of caution. But we were too much elated by our liquor and success in sport, to be very circumspect. We got over the tall picket fence, and two or three of us ascended one of the trees. We had begun already to pluck the fruit, when the window of the old farmer slid silently upward, and a grizzled head was thrust out. It was soon withdrawn, but in a few moments the barrel of a long gun was pushed forth, and a second after it discharged its contents, with a sound which, at that silent hour, seemed like the voice of thunder.

I was on the tree, with my back to the marksman, and presented a fair target to his aim. At the very instant of the discharge, I felt a tingling in my flesh; immediately after a dizziness came over my sight, and I fell to the ground. I was completely stunned, but my companions seized me and hurried me away. Clambering over stone walls, and pushing through a nursery of young trees, they secured their retreat. At a safe distance the party paused, and after a little space I recovered my senses. I found myself in great pain, however, and after a little examination it appeared that my left arm was broken. As carefully as possible I was now taken toward my home. It was about midnight when we reached it, and my uncle, being informed that I was hurt, attempted to come to me. But he had been in bed but a short time, and according to his wont, about this period, he had taken a “night-cap,” as he called it, and was utterly incapable of walking across the floor. Some of the people, however, were got up, and one went for the physician. The answer returned was, that some madcaps had been there and played off a hoax upon the doctor, and this application was no doubt intended as another, and he would not come. I therefore lay till morning in great distress, and when at last the doctor came, he found that not only my arm was broken, but that my back was wounded, as if I had been shot with bullets of salt! Several small pieces of salt were actually found imbedded in my skin!

I was hardly in a state to give explanations; in fact, my reason already began to waver. Strange visions soon flitted before my eyes: an old grizzled pate seemed bobbing out of a window, and making faces at me; then the head seemed a watermelon with green eyes; and then it turned into a bell-muzzled fowling-piece, and while I was trying to look down its throat, it exploded and scattered my brains to the four winds! Here my vision ended, and with it all remembrance. I fell into a settled fever, and did not recover my senses for two weeks. When my consciousness returned, I found myself attended by a man of the village, named Raymond, a brother of the minister, and whom I had long known. He was sitting by my bedside, with a book in his hand; but as I opened my eyes, I noticed that, while he seemed to be reading, his eyes were fixed on me with an anxious interest. In a moment after he spoke. “Are you better, Robert?” said he, in a tone of tenderness. I attempted to reply, but my tongue refused to move. Raymond saw my difficulty, and coming to the bedside, told me to remain quiet. “You have been ill,” said he, “very ill, but you are better. Your life depends upon your being kept perfectly quiet.”

Thus admonished, I closed my eyes, and soon fell asleep. The next day I was much better, and entered into some conversation with Raymond, who I then found had been my regular attendant. The physician soon after came, and pronounced me out of danger. “You are better, my young friend,” said he; “I think you are safe; but this getting salted down like a herring, and tumbling off of pear trees at midnight, is an awkward business, and cannot be often repeated with impunity.” This latter remark being uttered with a significant smile, recalled to my mind the occasion of my sickness, and a sudden blush of shame covered my face. Raymond noticed my confusion, and by some remark immediately diverted my attention to another topic.

In a few days I was able to sit up in my bed, and was nearly free from pain. My arm, however, was still useless, and I was in fact very feeble. I could talk with Raymond, however, and as his conversation was always engaging, the time did not pass heavily. Raymond was a man of extensive reading, and great knowledge of the world, but, owing to excessive sensitiveness, he had settled into a state of almost complete imbecility. He thought and spoke like a philosopher, yet in the active business of life, in which he had been once engaged, he had entirely failed. He was indeed regarded in the village as little better than insane or silly. He had no regular employment, and spent his time almost wholly in reading--his brother, the minister, having a good library. As he was very kind-hearted, however, and possessed a good deal of medical knowledge, he was often employed in attending upon sick persons, and for his services he would never receive any other compensation than his own gratification, in the consciousness of doing good, might afford.

It was a mercy to me that I fell into the hands of poor Raymond, for my mind and heart were softened by my sickness, and by the humiliation I felt at having been detected in a disgraceful act, and so signally punished. His counsel, therefore, which was full of wisdom, and which he imparted in a way, at once to instruct and amuse, sunk into my mind like the seed sown in spring time, and upon a prepared soil; and I have reason to believe that I may attribute not only the recovery of my body from disease, but the correction of some of the vices of my mind, to his conversations at my sick bedside. I believe I cannot do my readers a better service than to transcribe some of these conversations, as nearly as my memory will restore them, and this I shall do in a subsequent chapter.

Toucan

Is the name of the bird whose picture is here given. I beg my reader not to laugh at his enormous bill, for it is such as nature has given him, and he is no more to blame for it than a person with a long nose, is to blame for having such a one. Bonaparte said that a man with a long nose almost invariably possessed good sense; and this holds true in respect to the toucan; for I assure you he is a very clever fellow in his way. I will tell you all about him and his family.

The toucans are natives of South America, and are very abundant in the forests of Brazil. They only dwell in the warm parts of the country, and they select those portions which are the richest in their productions. It is among spicy groves, and where fruits and flowers are to be found at all seasons of the year, that the toucan family have chosen to make their home. Surely this seems a mark of their sagacity.

The toucan is about eighteen inches in length, and its general color is black, though it is marked with crimson and yellow, and is a very stylish bird. The bill is almost as long as the body, but it is less bony than the bills of other birds; it is, in fact, a great part of it but a thin paper-like substance. Those portions which need to be strong are not solid bone, but consist of two thin laminæ, sustained by bones within, and crossing each other like the timbers which support the sides and roof of a house.

I have intimated that the toucans are pretty sensible birds, and I shall now attempt to prove it. As their legs are very short and far apart, they cannot walk very well on the ground, so they spend a great portion of their time upon the wing, or upon the trees. They have strong, sharp claws, well fitted for climbing; so they are very much addicted to hopping about among the branches of trees, and they may be often seen, like woodpeckers, running up and down the trunks. It is for this climbing propensity that they have got the name of _Zygodactilic_ birds,--a long word, which no doubt signifies a great deal.

Another proof of the good sense of the toucan is furnished by his always sitting and flying with his head to the wind when it blows hard--for the reason, that, if he presented the broadside of his proboscis to the gale, it would bother him to keep himself from being completely blown away. Beside this proof of his sagacity, I may add, that the toucan holds the monkeys, who are very abundant and troublesome in his country, in great detestation; and well he may, for the monkey is fond of birds’ eggs, and is a great robber of birds’ nests. Now the toucan likes eggs himself, and the plundering monkey often deprives the toucan of his breakfast, by getting at the nest first. It is not wonderful that squabbles often ensue between these rival thieves--for two of a trade can never agree, you know. Of course, the robbers care as little for the poor bird that is robbed, as lawyers for their clients--but they think a great deal of themselves, and when interest is touched, they resent it manfully. There is something in a monkey and a toucan over a bird’s nest that seems like two lawyers over a case. Their mutual object is to eat up the eggs, but it makes a mighty difference which gets them. If the monkey gets the case, toucan gives him a tweak with his enormous bill, which gripes like a pair of tongs. If toucan gets the case, monkey slaps him across his beak with the palm of his hand, and often with such force as to make toucan scream outright. It must be admitted that if toucan has a large bill to bite with, he also presents an ample mark for the revenge of monkey. Whether these squabbles show the good sense of toucan, I will not decide, but he can plead the example of one of the learned professions, that of the law, which ranks among the first in society, and exerts more influence over mankind than all others put together.

Another evidence of toucan’s good sense is this,--that he eats everything he likes, if it suits his constitution. There is a delicious little fruit in his native clime, called toucan-berry, which is good for his health, so he feasts upon it when he can get it. He also eats eggs, as I have said; and, in short, he diversifies, and amplifies his pleasures, like civilized men, by fruit, flesh, fowl, or vegetable, if it agrees with him.

I do not know that I need to say more at present, than that toucan does not choose to take the trouble of making nests of stems and twigs, like some other birds, but selects his dwelling in the holes of trees, so that he may have a roof to shelter him from the storm--a preference which again marks his civilization.

The Newfoundland Dog.

Of all animals, the dog is most attached to man. His affection is not general, but particular. He does not love all mankind, as a matter of course, for in his natural state he is a wild and savage creature. In Asia, dogs are often outcasts, prowling around cities, and feeding upon offal and dead carcasses. They seem to be, if uncivilized, cousins to the wolf, and near relatives to the hyena. It is in Asia, where the dog is a persecuted, and therefore a skulking kind of animal, that he is the emblem of meanness and cowardice. There, where the people worship power and seem to think little of justice, the lion, a sly, prowling, thieving creature, is the common emblem of courage and greatness.

But here, where the dog is cherished and taken to a home, he seems to have a new character and a redeemed nature. He fixes his heart upon some _one_, and is ready to run, jump, bark, bite, dig, work or play, to give pleasure to him. He seems to live for his master--his master is his deity. He will obey and defend him while living--he will lie down and die by his master’s grave. It is related of Bonaparte, that one night, after a fight, he was walking by the moonlight over the field of battle, when suddenly a dog sprung out from the cloak beneath which his dead master lay, and then ran howling back to the body, seeming at the same time to ask help for his poor friend, and to seek revenge. Bonaparte was much affected by the scene, and said that few events of his life excited a deeper feeling in his breast than this.

There are at least thirty different kinds of dogs,--some large, some small, some fierce, some gentle, some slender and graceful, some sturdily made and very powerful. There is the lap-dog, with a soft, lustrous eye and silken skin, fit to be the pet of a fine lady--and there is the fierce bull-dog, that will seize a bull by the nose and pin him to the ground. There is the greyhound, that is so swift as to outstrip the deer, and the patient foxhound, that follows reynard with a keen scent, till at last his fleetness and his tricks can avail him nothing, and he surrenders to his fate.

But amid all this variety, the Newfoundland dog is the best fellow. He is, in the first place, the most intelligent, and in the next, he is the most devoted, attached, and faithful. When the people came from Europe to America, they found this fine breed of dogs with the Indians of Newfoundland and the vicinity. They are large, shaggy, webfooted, and almost as fond of the water as the land. They possess great strength, and have a countenance that seems to beam with reason and affection. I give you the portrait of one of these creatures, to prove what I say. There are many pleasant tales of this creature, well authenticated, of which I shall now tell you a few.

One day, as a girl was amusing herself with an infant, at Aston’s Quay, near Carlisle bridge, Dublin, and was sportively toying with the child, it made a sudden spring from her arms, and in an instant fell into the Liffey. The screaming nurse and anxious spectators saw the water close over the child, and conceived that he had sunk to rise no more. A Newfoundland dog, which had been accidentally passing with his master, sprang forward to the wall, and gazed wistfully at the ripple in the water, made by the child’s descent. At the same instant the child reappeared on the surface of the current, and the dog sprang forward to the edge of the water.

Whilst the animal was descending, the child again sunk, and the faithful creature was seen anxiously swimming round and round the spot where it had disappeared. Once more the child rose to the surface; the dog seized him, and with a firm but gentle pressure bore him to land without injury. Meanwhile a gentleman arrived, who, on inquiry into the circumstances of the transaction, exhibited strong marks of sensibility and feeling towards the child, and of admiration for the dog that had rescued him from death.

The person who had removed the babe from the dog turned to show the infant to this gentleman, when it presented to his view the well-known features of his own son! A mixed sensation of terror, joy, and surprise, struck him mute. When he had recovered the use of his faculties, and fondly kissed his little darling, he lavished a thousand embraces on the dog, and offered to his master a very large sum (five hundred guineas) if he would transfer the valuable animal to him; but the owner of the dog (Colonel Wynne) felt too much affection for the useful creature to part with him for any consideration whatever.

A gentleman who lived at a short distance from a village in Scotland, had a very fine Newfoundland dog, which was sent every forenoon to the baker’s shop in the village, with a napkin, in one corner of which was tied a piece of money, for which the baker returned a certain quantity of bread, tying it up in the napkin and consigning it to the care of the dog.

At about equal distances from the gentleman’s mansion there lived two other dogs; one a mastiff, which was kept by a farmer as a watch-dog; and the other a stanch bull-dog, which kept watch over the parish mill. As each was master over all the lesser curs of his master’s establishment, they were severally very high and mighty animals in their way, and they seldom met without attempting to settle their precedence by battle.

Well, it so happened that one day, when the Newfoundland dog was returning from the baker’s with his charge, he was set upon by a host of useless curs, who combined their efforts, and annoyed him the more, that, having charge of the napkin and bread, he could not defend himself, and accordingly got himself rolled in the mire, his ears scratched, and his coat soiled.

Having at length extricated himself, he retreated homeward, and depositing his charge in its accustomed place, he instantly set out to the farmer’s mastiff. To the no small astonishment of the farmer’s family, instead of the meeting being one of discord and contention, the two animals met each other peacefully, and after a short interchange of civilities, they both set off towards the mill. Having engaged the miller’s dog as an ally, the three sallied forth, and taking a circuitous road to the village, scoured it from one end to the other, putting to the tooth, and punishing severely, every cur they could find. Having thus taken their revenge, they washed themselves in a ditch, and each returned quietly to his home.

One day a Newfoundland dog and a mastiff, which never met without a quarrel, had a fierce and prolonged battle on the pier of Donaghadee, and from which, while so engaged, they both fell into the sea. There was no way of escape but by swimming a considerable distance. The Newfoundland, being an expert swimmer, soon reached the pier in safety; but his antagonist, after struggling for some time, was on the point of sinking, when the Newfoundland, which had been watching the mastiff’s struggles with great anxiety, dashed in, and seizing him by the collar, kept his head above the water, and brought him safely to shore. Ever after the dogs were most intimate friends; and when, unfortunately, the Newfoundland was killed by a stone-wagon passing over his body, the mastiff languished, and evidently lamented his friend’s death for a long time.

A Thames waterman once laid a wager that he and his dog would leap from the centre arch of Westminster bridge, and land at Lambeth within a minute of each other. He jumped off first, and the dog immediately followed; but as it was not in the secret, and fearing that its master would be drowned, it seized him by the neck, and dragged him on shore, to the no small diversion of the spectators.

A native of Germany, when travelling through Holland, was accompanied by a large Newfoundland dog. Walking along a high bank which formed the side of a dike or canal, so common in that country, his foot slipped, and he fell into the water. As he was unable to swim, he soon became senseless. When he recovered his recollection, he found himself in a cottage, surrounded by peasants, who were using such means as are generally practised in that country for restoring suspended animation. The account given by the peasants was, that as one of them was returning home from his labor, he observed, at a considerable distance, a large dog in the water, swimming, and dragging and sometimes pushing something that he seemed to have great difficulty in supporting, but which, by dint of perseverance, he at length succeeded in getting into a small creek.

When the animal had pulled what it had hitherto supported as far out of the water as it was able, the peasant discovered that it was the body of a man.

The dog, having shaken himself, began industriously to lick the hands and face of his master; and the peasant, having obtained assistance, conveyed the body to a neighboring house, where, the usual means having been adopted, the gentleman was soon restored to sense and recollection. Two large bruises with the marks of teeth appeared, one on his shoulder, and the other on the nape of his neck; whence it was presumed that the faithful animal had seized his master by the shoulder and swam with him for some time, but that his sagacity had prompted him to let go his hold and shift his grasp to the neck, by which means he was enabled to support the head out of the water. It was in the latter position that the peasant observed the dog making his way along the dike, which it appeared he had done for the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, before he discovered a place at which it was possible to drag his burden ashore. It is therefore probable that the gentleman owed his life as much to the sagacity as to the fidelity of his dog.

These stories will do for the present; but I must add, that the celebrated Lord Byron had a Newfoundland dog, which he loved very much, and when the animal died, he had a marble monument placed over his grave, and the following words were inscribed upon it:--

Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning
Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.

The Mysterious Artist.

One beautiful summer morning, about the year 1630, several youths of Seville, in Spain, approached the dwelling of the celebrated painter Murillo, where they arrived nearly at the same time. After the usual salutations, they entered the studio or workshop of the artist. Murillo was not yet there, and each of the pupils walked up quickly to his easel to examine if the paint had dried, or perhaps to admire his work of the previous evening.

“Pray, gentlemen,” exclaimed Isturitz angrily, “which of you remained behind in the studio last night?”

“What an absurd question!” replied Cordova; “don’t you recollect that we all came away together?”

“This is a foolish jest, gentlemen,” answered Isturitz. “Last evening I cleaned my palette with the greatest care, and now it is as dirty as if some one had used it all night.”

“Look!” exclaimed Carlos; “here is a small figure in the corner of my canvass, and it is not badly done. I should like to know who it is that amuses himself every morning with sketching figures, sometimes on my canvass, sometimes on the walls. There was one yesterday on your easel, Ferdinand.”

“It must be Isturitz,” said Ferdinand.

“Gentlemen,” replied Isturitz, “I protest--”

“You need not protest,” replied Carlos; “we all know you are not capable of sketching such a figure as that.”

“At least,” answered Isturitz, “I have never made a sketch as bad as that of yours; one would think you had done it in jest.”

“And my pencils are quite wet,” said Gonzalo in his turn. “Truly, strange things go on here in the night.”

“Do you not think, like the negro Gomes, that it is the Zombi, who comes and plays all these tricks?” said Isturitz.

“Truly,” said Mendez, who had not yet spoken, being absorbed in admiration of the various figures which were sketched with the hand of a master in different parts of the studio, “if the Zombi of the negroes draws in this manner, he would make a beautiful head of the virgin in my Descent from the Cross.”

With these words, Mendez, with a careless air, approached his easel, when an exclamation of astonishment escaped him, and he gazed with mute surprise at his canvass, on which was roughly sketched a most beautiful head of the virgin; but the expression was so admirable, the lines so clear, the contour so graceful, that, compared with the figures by which it was encircled, it seemed as if some heavenly visitant had descended among them.

“Ah, what is the matter?” said a rough voice. The pupils turned at the sound, and all made a respectful obeisance to the great master.

“Look, Senor Murillo, look!” exclaimed the youths, as they pointed to the easel of Mendez.

“Who has painted this? who has painted this, gentlemen?” asked Murillo, eagerly; “speak, tell me. He who has sketched this virgin will one day be the master of us all. Murillo wishes he had done it. What a touch! what delicacy! what skill! Mendez, my dear pupil, was it you?”

“No, Senor,” said Mendez, in a sorrowful tone.

“Was it you then, Isturitz, or Ferdinand, or Carlos?”

But they all gave the same answer as Mendez.

“It could not however come here without hands,” said Murillo, impatiently.

“I think, sir,” said Cordova, the youngest of the pupils, “that these strange pictures are very alarming; indeed, this is not the first unaccountable event which has happened in your studio. To tell the truth, such wonderful things have happened here, one scarcely knows what to believe.”

“What are they?” asked Murillo, still lost in admiration of the head of the virgin by the unknown artist.

“According to your orders, Senor,” answered Ferdinand, “we never leave the studio without putting everything in order, cleaning our palettes, washing our brushes, and arranging our easels; but when we return in the morning, not only is everything in confusion, our brushes filled with paint, our palettes dirtied, but here and there are sketches, (beautiful ones to be sure they are,) sometimes of the head of an angel, sometimes of a demon, then again the profile of a young girl, or the figure of an old man, but all admirable, as you have seen yourself, Senor.”

“This is certainly a curious affair, gentlemen,” observed Murillo; “but we shall soon learn who is this nightly visitant.” “Sebastian,” he continued, addressing a little mulatto boy of about fourteen years old, who appeared at his call, “did I not desire you to sleep here every night?”

“Yes, master,” said the boy, timidly.

“And have you done so?”

“Yes, master.”

“Speak, then; who was here last night and this morning before these gentlemen came? Speak, slave, or I shall make you acquainted with my dungeon,” said Murillo angrily to the boy, who continued to twist the band of his trowsers without replying.

“Ah, you don’t choose to answer,” said Murillo, pulling his ear.

“No one, master, no one,” replied the trembling Sebastian with eagerness.

“That is false,” exclaimed Murillo.

“No one but me, I swear to you, master,” cried the mulatto, throwing himself on his knees in the middle of the studio, and holding out his hands in supplication before his master.

“Listen to me,” pursued Murillo. “I wish to know who has sketched the head of this virgin, and all the figures which my pupils find here every morning, on coming to this studio. This night, instead of going to bed, you shall keep watch; and if by to-morrow you do not discover who the culprit is, you shall have twenty-five strokes from the lash--you hear! I have said it; now go, and grind the colors; and you, gentlemen, to work.”

From the commencement till the termination of the hour of instruction, Murillo was too much absorbed with his pencil to allow a word to be spoken but what regarded their occupation, but the moment he disappeared, the pupils made ample amends for this restraint, and as the unknown painter occupied all their thoughts, the conversation naturally turned to that subject.

“Beware, Sebastian, of the lash,” said Mendez, “and watch well for the culprit. Give me the Naples yellow.”

“You do not need it, Senor Mendez; you have made it yellow enough already; and as to the culprit, I have already told you that it is the Zombi.”

“Are these negroes fools or asses, with their Zombi?” said Gonzalo, laughing; “pray what is a Zombi?”

“Oh, an imaginary being, of course. But take care, Senor Gonzalo,” continued Sebastian, with a mischievous glance at his easel, “for it must be the Zombi who has sketched the left arm of your St. John to such a length that, if the right resembles it, he will be able to untie his shoe-strings without stooping.”

“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Isturitz, as he glanced at the painting, “that the remarks of Sebastian are extremely just, and much to the point.”

“Oh, they say that negroes have the faces of asses, and the tongues of parrots,” rejoined Gonzalo, in a tone of indifference.

“With this distinction,” observed Ferdinand, “that the parrot repeats by rote, while Sebastian shows judgment in his remarks.”

“Like the parrot, by chance,” retorted Gonzalo.

“Who knows,” said Mendez, who had not digested the Naples yellow, “that from grinding the colors, he may one day astonish us by showing that he knows one from another.”

“To know one color from another, and to know how to use them, are two very different things,” replied Sebastian, whom the liberty of the studio allowed to join in the conversation of the pupils; and truth obliges us to confess that his taste was so exquisite, his eye so correct, that many of them did not disdain to follow the advice he frequently gave them respecting their paintings. Although they sometimes amused themselves by teasing the little mulatto, he was a great favorite with them all; and this evening, on quitting the studio, each, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder, counselled him to keep a strict watch and catch the Zombi, for fear of the lash.

(_To be continued._)

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 2.

Among my schoolmates, there were two boys who were always inseparable, yet they were as unlike each other in all respects as can well be conceived; What strange sympathy united them so closely, was to us all a matter of wonder; yet their friendship continued to increase, and the one seemed ever unhappy when absent from the other. Bill Hardy was a stout, hearty little fellow, fond of active and athletic sports, and ever the foremost in all feats of daring and mischief. If there was a battle to be fought with the butcher’s saucy imp, or the blacksmith’s grim-faced apprentice, who but Bill was thrust forward as the ready champion. And many a hard-fought contest did he wage with them, and many a black eye did he give and receive in his wars. But his spirit was ever unconquerable. If he received from their wicked fists a sound drubbing to-day, he was nothing loth to-morrow to try his luck again; and thus, by dint of persevering courage, he often contrived by a lucky blow to win a victory over his more powerful adversaries. Often did the graceless youth return to his widowed mother with a disfigured face, and with torn garments, and, after receiving her gentle reprimand, promise better things for the future; but with the next morning’s sun all his good resolutions vanished, and his repentant promises were forgotten. He seemed to overflow with the very spirit of fun and mischief. It was his delight to fasten a tin kettle to the tail of any vagabond dog in the streets, and send him howling with terror from one end of the village to the other. He enjoyed also great satisfaction in worrying every luckless cat that he could lay his hands on; and every poor broken-down horse in the pasture could attest to the weight of his arm and the sharpness of his heel. No unfortunate little bird could find a perch for its nest high enough to be safe from his marauding fingers, for he would fearlessly clamber to the very tops of the highest tree, like a squirrel, and scale the most dangerous precipice, in pursuit of his prey.

Little Jemmy Galt, on the contrary, though he accompanied his friend Billy in all his ramblings, never took an active part or interest in them. He was of a much more quiet and gentle nature, and endeavored to restrain his friend in his thoughtless pranks. He used especially all his little powers of persuasion with him to prevent him from engaging in his frequent pitched battles; but when his remonstrances were all in vain, he barely stood by him, holding his cap and jacket during the contest, and anxiously acting the good Samaritan, in arranging the disordered dress, and removing the stains of dirt and blood from his friend. This truly kind and humane nature often served to check the cruel propensities of his friend, and saved many a poor bird or animal from torture. But if the spirited Billy carried away the palm in the pastimes of the fields and woods, his quiet comrade was no less distinguished and pre-eminent in the school-room; for here his studious habits and intelligent mind gave him a marked precedence. And here his skill in mastering a difficult task enabled him to reward the protecting services of his friend, by helping him through the slough of many a tough sum in the arithmetic, or many a deep bog in grammar, from which less acute Billy was vainly endeavoring to extricate himself. It seemed to be a mutual alliance, in which the one was to fight the battles of the other in return for the intellectual aid rendered him in the school-room.

I happened one bright holiday afternoon to overhear a conversation between them, which may well serve to illustrate their several minds. The subject of their discussion related to the choice of their future profession in life, and the selection of each was such as I should have readily anticipated.

“It is my wish and intention,” said Bill, “to be a sailor. That is the profession that my poor father loved and followed, and nothing but the sea and a ship will ever satisfy my mind. To be sure, you may say that he, poor man, was lost, together with all who sailed with him, on a distant coast, and in a dreadful tempest, but that is no reason why I should meet with the same misfortune. How many there are who sail the ocean for a good long life-time in perfect safety, and at length, after earning a heap of gold and silver, die quietly in their beds at home, mourned and respected by all who knew them. I never look on those rusty old pistols and cutlass in our parlor, which my father always prized so dearly, without a keen desire to pack them away in a chest of my own, and hasten away to B., and enter upon my voyagings in one of those noble ships that you may always see there at the wharves. And then, when I look at those beautiful sea-shells that adorn our mantel, and the shark’s jaw, and the whale’s spine, and the stuffed flying-fish, I feel the strongest inclination to sail myself to foreign shores, and gather such curiosities with my own hands, and bring them home, to still further adorn our little room. Heigho! I wish I had a pea-jacket and was bound for sea to-morrow!”

“I regret,” said master Jemmy, “the choice you have made; for I think you are about to devote yourself to a hard and dangerous life. Far better were it for you to hold the plough than the rudder, to plough up the rich furrows of the farm, than the rough billows of the ocean. Consider how many privations you will have to endure, and what perils you must face. Think of the dark, stormy nights at sea, with the wild winds howling through the rigging, the mast creaking, and bending, and ready to break, and the torn sails flapping and struggling to break free from your feeble grasp. Then will come the pelting rain, and the blinding snow, and the sharp sleet, and the blood will freeze in your veins, and every limb become benumbed with the cold. Then you must endure the sharp and bitter taunts and execrations of your officers, and, after a hard and thankless struggle with the storm, creep to your wet and cheerless hammock, in the dark and comfortless forecastle, and sigh for death, or lament that you ever left the warm fireside and the kind friends of your country home. I have no taste myself for such a boisterous life, and prefer to cultivate my mind, and devote myself to some gentler and more studious employment. How pleasant to stand at the bar and plead the case of some forlorn body, falsely accused, or to visit and heal at the sick bed, or to minister in the sacred desk, or even to preside over the little school in some humble village. Such is the height of my ambition.”

“You present to my view,” said Bill, “only the dark side of the picture. Think, on the contrary, of the brave, stout ship, with all its gaudy streamers flying from each spiring mast, all its snow-white canvass bellying on the tall spars, the fresh breeze blowing us on our course, and the bright and boundless sea smiling, and shining, and rolling around the bow. Then think of the visit to the green islands of the Bermudas and Madeira, and all the fruit-bearing isles of the West Indies. Think of the glorious gallop among the mountains and plantations of Cuba. There the loveliest fruits grow as plentifully as the apples in our orchard, and you have only the trouble to help yourself to the plantain, the banana, the pine-apple, the orange, and the melon. Think of the delicious groves of palm and lemon that cover the land, filled with numberless birds of the richest plumage. Then also what famous shores may we not visit in our voyagings. We may drop anchor at Liverpool and London, and view without cost all the wonders of those mighty cities; view the multitudes of strange faces, and elegant shops, and splendid edifices, palaces, halls, and churches--view at pleasure the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, and all the noble parks of London. Then also we may touch at Havre, or Rochelle, or Marseilles, and take a trip to gay and lively Paris, and visit Versailles, the Tuilleries, the Boulevards, and the Palais Royal; or perhaps touch at Leghorn, and thence make a trip to the Leaning Tower of Pisa--of which we have a print in our school-room--or ride over to Florence and see the beautiful Duomo, and all the rare palaces and galleries of the Medici, of whom we read in our school history;--or perhaps sail into the glorious bay of Naples, and ascend to the very summit of Mount Vesuvius, and bring home to the good folks of our village specimens of the sulphur from the very crater of the burning mountain;--or even ride over to old Rome itself, and visit the Vatican, with all its fine pictures, and the great St. Peter’s, which is said to be bigger than all the churches of Massachusetts put together. Then also we may sail up the blue Mediterranean, and visit Sicily and Malta, and Athens, and all the isles of Greece, and cast anchor off Smyrna and Constantinople, or coast along the shores of Syria, or sail up the harbor of Alexandria and take a look at the Nile, the Desert, and the Pyramids, and get a glimpse of Mehemit Ali himself, in the midst of his wild Egyptian guards. What could you desire better than all that? And all this I can enjoy by only going to sea as a sailor. Then also I can sail across the Pacific and Indian oceans, and take a look at the wonders of Bombay, Madras, Manilla, Calcutta, and Canton, and walk the streets of Pekin itself.”

After some further conversation the two friends parted. Each of the little fellows followed in course of time their several inclinations. Jemmy, after many struggles against poverty, overcame all difficulties, and at length quietly settled down as the “orthodox preacher” in a pleasant, quiet, and happy little village of New England, where he married a pretty little wife, and reared up a thriving and numerous progeny, who, I hope, are following in the good example set before them by their amiable parent. Master Billy had his wish and went to sea, where he was tossed and knocked about by the winds and waters for many a year, and, after rising to the command of a ship, finally retired from the service, and purchasing a farm with the fruits of his hard earnings, quietly settled down as a parishioner of his boyhood’s friend. He several times, however, suffered shipwreck; and at one time nearly lost his life while out in a whaleboat, engaged in that perilous fishery; was once taken by pirates, and had nearly been compelled to “walk the plank.” But he luckily escaped all these perils, and now loves to recite them over to his listening neighbors; but he never omits to confess the errors of his boyhood, and to declare that the habits he then formed had nearly proved fatal to his success in life.

(_To be continued._)

Egyptian Schools.

Among the people of Egypt, parents seldom devote much of their time or attention to the education of their children; generally contenting themselves with instilling into their young minds a few principles of religion, and then submitting them, if they can afford to do so, to the instruction of a schoolmaster. As early as possible, the child is taught to say, “I testify that there is no deity but God; and I testify that Mohammed is God’s apostle.” He receives also lessons of religious pride, and learns to hate the Christians, and all other sects but his own, as thoroughly as does the Moslem in advanced age. Most of the children of the higher and middle classes, and some of those of the lower orders, are taught by the schoolmaster to read, and to recite the whole, or certain portions of the Koran, by memory. They afterwards learn the most common rules of arithmetic.

Schools are very numerous, not only in the metropolis, but in every large town; and there is one, at least, in every large village. Almost every mosque, public fountain, and drinking place for cattle in the metropolis, has a school attached to it, in which children are instructed at a very trifling expense; the fickee or master of the school receiving from the parent of each pupil about three cents of our money, or something more or less, every Thursday.

The master of a school attached to a mosque or other public building in Cairo, also generally receives yearly a piece of white muslin for a turban, a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes; and each boy receives at the same time a linen skull-cap, eight or nine yards of cotton cloth, half a piece of linen, and a pair of shoes, and in some cases from three to six cents. These presents are supplied by funds bequeathed to the school, and are given in the month Ramadan. The boys attend only during the hours of instruction, and then return to their homes.

The lessons are generally written upon tablets of wood painted white, and when one lesson is learnt, the tablet is washed, and another is written. They also practise writing upon the same tablet. The schoolmaster and his pupils sit upon the ground, and each boy has his tablets in his hands, or a copy of the Koran, or one of its thirty sections, on a little kind of desk made of palm sticks. All who are learning to read, recite their lessons aloud, at the same time rocking their heads and bodies incessantly backwards and forwards; which practice is observed by almost all persons in reading the Koran, being, thought to assist the memory. The noise may be imagined.

The schoolmasters in Egypt are mostly persons of very little learning; few of them are acquainted with any writings except the Koran, and certain prayers, which, as well as the contents of the sacred volume, they are hired to recite on particular occasions. I have read of a man, who could neither read nor write, succeeding to the office of a schoolmaster in some village. Being able to recite the whole of the Koran, he could hear the boys repeat their lessons; he employed the head boy in school to write them, pretending that his eyes were weak. A few days after he had taken this office upon himself, a poor woman brought a letter for him to read from her son, who had gone on a pilgrimage. The fickee pretended to read it, but said nothing; and the woman, inferring from his silence that the letter contained bad news, said to him, “Shall I shriek?” He answered, “Yes.” “Shall I tear my clothes?” “Yes.”

So the woman returned to her house, and, with her assembled friends, performed the lamentation, and other ceremonies usual on the occasion of death. Not many days after this, her son arrived, and she asked him what he could mean by causing a letter to be written stating that he was dead. He explained the contents of the letter, and she went to the schoolmaster and begged him to inform her why he had told her to shriek and to tear her clothes, since the letter was to inform her that her son was well and arrived at home.

Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows futurity! How could I know that your son would arrive in safety? It was better that you should think him dead, than be led to expect to see him, and perhaps be disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with him praised his wisdom, exclaiming, “Surely, our new fickee is a man of unusual judgment.” And for a while, he found that he had raised his reputation by this trick.

Varieties.

Admiral Duncan addressed his officers, who came on board of his ship for instructions, previous to the engagement with Admiral De Winter, in the following words: “Gentlemen, you see a severe winter approaching. I have only to advise you to keep up a good fire.”

* * * * *

“Come in,” as the spider said to the fly.

“Come on,” as the man said to his boot.

“You make me blush,” as the lobster cried out in the boiler.

* * * * *

“Do you think that these creatures have any feeling?” said an inquisitive consumer of oysters to a well known wit. “Feeling!” replied his friend; “to be sure they have. Did you never hear them crying about the streets?”

* * * * *

Two or three weeks ago, Theodore Hook dined with a Mr. Hatchett. “Ah, my friend,” said his host, depreciatingly, “I am sorry to say that you will not get to-day such a good dinner as our friend L. gave us.” “Certainly not,” replied Hook; “from a hatchet you can expect nothing but a chop.”

THE BOY AND THE LARK.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; BY G. J. WEBB.

“Who taught you to sing, my pretty, sweet birds?
Who tuned your melodious throats?
You make all the woods and the vallies to ring,
You bring the first news of the earliest spring,
With your loud and your silvery notes.

“Who painted your wings, my pretty, sweet birds,
And taught you to soar in the air?
You rise and you dart through the region of light,
You look down on man from your loftiest height,
And your hearts know no troublesome care.

“And where are your fields, my beautiful birds?
And where are your houses and barns?
You sow not the ground, and you reap not the corn,
You spring from your nests at the earliest morn,
But you care not about the wide farms.”

“’Tis _God_,” said a lark, that rose from the turf,
“Who gives us the good we enjoy;
He painted our wings, and he gave us our voice,
He finds us our food, and he bids us rejoice;--
We’re his creatures, my beautiful boy.”

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME II.--No. 2.

The Siberian Sable-Hunter.