BERTHA’S VISIT. (continued 2)

There was a very plentiful dinner, set on tables under a clump of trees; and the good farmer seemed to feel real delight in making his hard-working labourers eat heartily. Two fiddlers were playing all the time, to enliven them; and the ale and cider were abundantly circulated. When the repast was finished, the more active sports began; and nothing could be prettier than the different groups of dancers, or more laughable than the attempts to jump through a ring, and hop in a sack.

Under the trees, most of the older people sat comfortably, talking; though some, excited by the general joy, took part in the dance, and others presided at a wrestling match. Each of those men who had been more particularly engaged in getting in the harvest, had his hat ornamented with a large bunch of wheat; but the leader, or captain of the sports, was actually crowned with a whole sheaf. He was carried round the tables on the shoulders of his comrades, and the sports began by dancing round him in a general ring; at last he gave the signal, when they suddenly separated, and each fixed on his favourite damsel.

Dame Moreland gave us some nice syllabub; and, highly gratified with the whole scene, we left her and her happy guests, in the midst of their merriment.

My uncle met there an old acquaintance, whom he had not seen or heard of for several years. When he knew him, this gentleman was in the fashionable world, but now he seems completely a farmer. He is much altered: my uncle did not recollect him; but he had so much the look and language of a gentleman, that my uncle’s attention was attracted. His manner, to the inferior society he was with, was mild and good humoured, without any appearance of proud condescension, or of too great familiarity. My uncle spoke of him two or three times on our way home, as if he was surprised at finding him in his present situation.

28th. Sunday.—My uncle was speaking, this morning, of the general character of the Christian religion, as being so directly contrary to fanaticism and imposture. This is particularly marked, he says, by the manner in which it explains the obligations that arise from the different relations of civil society. He remarked, that “the chief object of every religious system, founded on imposture, has been to use its spiritual influence in acquiring political authority, and to consecrate the legislator by investing him with the sanctity of the priest or the prophet. But Christianity, in this respect, in its original simplicity, stands totally free from all suspicion. The kingdom of our Saviour and his apostles was, literally, ‘not of this world;’ and in no instance whatever did they claim or exercise any degree of political power, or encroach, in the least, on the authority of the magistrate. Christianity released none from their duties, public or domestic;—they were still to be discharged by all persons, and not only with equal fidelity, but with more exalted views; no longer ‘as pleasers of men, but as servants of God.’

“It seems almost surprising,” said my aunt, “that enthusiasm, or rather bigotry, should ever have crept in amongst the professors of a religion that is so mild and so moderate in all its doctrines.”

“Every line of the gospel,” said my uncle, “expresses the same calm and merciful spirit, with which our Saviour checked the intemperate zeal of his disciples, who would have called fire from heaven on the Samaritans, for refusing to receive him. And take notice, that his heavenly wisdom not only prohibits every species of persecution, but reprobates all those overbearing feelings which leads to discord of every kind. How strongly do St. Paul’s precepts enforce this forbearing principle! In the language of a heart overflowing with benignity, he says, ‘Why dost thou judge thy brother; for we shall all stand at the judgment-seat of God. We that are strong, ought to bear the infirmities of the weak. Wherefore, receive ye one another as Christ also received us.’”

I am very careful, dear Mamma, to write down as much as I possibly can of our Sunday morning conversations, because I know they will interest you particularly; and it is very pleasant to me to trace in these opinions of my uncle and aunt the very same sentiments which you have so often impressed on your little Bertha.

Aug. 29.—My uncle went to-day to bespeak some baskets from the blind man whom I mentioned before, and who I found out has a sick old wife, who cannot get out of bed. We all begged of course to accompany him. We found the old man sitting on a little bench at his door, talking earnestly to his daughter. She looked disturbed, and when we spoke to her, I observed that her colour rose and fell rapidly; my uncle asked if she was ill, or if we came at an inconvenient time?

“No, no, sir,” said the old man. “Bessy, my dear, go in and stay awhile with the old wife, perhaps she may want you.”

My uncle again said, “that he feared he interrupted them.”

“No, sir,” said the blind man, “you do not interrupt us—I must work, happen what may; but as you speak so kindly, sir, I will tell you how it is: Bessy Grimley, sir,” said he, “is not my daughter—I have none, sir; but I will say no more of that. It was the will of God to take all my own from me, and I won’t complain—but Bessy is as good a daughter to me as if she had been my own. Some years ago, sir, her father was one of my neighbours; he was Joe Grimley, that you may have heard of, who kept the carrier’s inn, at the other side, near the town; I lived there at that time.—Well, he broke, poor fellow, and had to go off in the night to hide from his creditors—his wife was taken ill that same night, because of the fright, I believe. She was put to bed, and had a fine little girl; but she never did any good afterwards, and before a month was over she was gone. The poor woman asked my wife to take care for a while of her infant, till her husband was no longer under a cloud; and we promised it, sir, and have kept our promise through all times, bad as well as good. While we were well to do, she had her share of all that my own had—and then, when times changed, we never forsook her. And now, sir, you see she is every thing to us. When I lost my sight, poverty came fast upon us—my wife soon after lost her health with grief, I believe, and can now do nothing. Our sons went away to the wars, and died in the field of glory—our two daughters worked too hard, I believe—Alas! sir, one after another declined away and died. About four years ago, while Bessy was still a young creature, for she is only twenty-one now, a young man, a farmer’s son, fancied her, and wished to marry her; but his father could not give him sufficient maintenance, and the poor girl had nothing you know. Young Franklin’s love for her was of the right sort; he got his father’s consent, and he went off to America to make a fortune. He went to the States, sir, and there he found plenty of work, and high wages; and though he was not naturally a thrifty lad, he wisely laid by most of his earnings till he had saved altogether a sufficient sum to buy a farm; and a few months ago, sir, Bessy had a letter from him, long after, I believe, she had begun to think he had forsaken her. He told her how he had prospered, and that he was going to complete the purchase of his land, and that he hoped, if she was still constant, she would go out to him—‘if you will not come to me,’ said he, ‘I shall think that you never loved me, and I will try to think of you no more—if I can help it; but if you will come and be my wife, I will love and cherish you, and besides, you shall live like any lady in England.’

“Well, sir, the dear child would not leave us—my last daughter, my poor Jenny, had been taken a little before, and I knew not who to get to live with us; but I pressed Bessy to go at any rate. ‘No, father,’ said she, ‘I owe every thing to you and to mother—you have nursed me and bred me up, and you have taught me all I know;—never, never will I forsake you, with your infirmity, or leave poor helpless mother to the care of a stranger. No, no, dear father, God would not send his blessing upon me, if I did so. Indeed, I never should be right happy with James, if I forsook you:—and if James Franklin loves me, he will say I have done right.’

“I will not take up your time, sir, repeating all the arguments I tried with her; but I assure you, I did my best to make her take the offer. If you could but know how for months and months she has tended us—patiently assisting the poor old woman night and day, and bearing with the crossness that a suffering creature will sometimes shew—often watching by her half the night—always ready in the morning to prepare our meals—many a time assisting me at my work—and besides, sharing our want of comfort, sir, for often we be hard put to it for a meal. Sir, she does it all with cheerfulness and kindness, and never did I hear a word of complaint from her. She works hard with her needle, too, to help to support us, and never seems to think of the riches offered to her. But now, sir, mark this—I have lived long, and I never saw it happen, that people who acted with a hearty desire of pleasing God, were left without reward. The religion that makes us do what is good, that is, what I call true religion, sir, always brings happiness, somehow or other, with it.

“But I was a going to say, that this day my poor Bessy had a letter from James, telling her, that from some delay in the business, he had not bought the farm he intended when he received her refusal to go out to him. He says, ‘he felt a little angry at first; but he found he could not help loving her the better, and that he would bring his money to England, and be content with a smaller farm, near her own friends, and only work the harder for his excellent Bessy.’ He expected to be here about this time; and what between this sudden news, and the hope of so soon seeing him, and her joy at his constancy, she is a little unsettled, sir, to-day. But I pray God to give them happiness together, and reward her with children that will be to her, what she has been to me.”

I have tried to tell you this story in his own words, as well as I could. As soon as my uncle had bespoken the baskets, we came away; but he desired to be told when Franklin comes. He was very much touched with the poor man’s account of all Bessy’s goodness, so much, indeed, that even in repeating it to my aunt, when we came home, his voice quite faltered.

30th.—I have just chanced to discover that the bird which Dr. Buchanan described as fastening the fire-fly to its nest, is the Bengal grossbeak. It is very common in Hindostan, where its Hindu name is baya. It is remarkable for its sagacity, its pendent nest, and its brilliant plumage[3].

It is described to be like a sparrow in shape, and in the colour of the back; but the head and breast are yellow. These birds make a chirping noise; but have no song. They associate in large communities, and cover extensive clumps of acacia and Indian fig-trees with their nests; and also the palmeira, or wild date, on the leaves of which the Bengalese children learn to write. They prefer those trees which hang over a rivulet: the nest is made of long grass, which they weave almost like cloth, in the form of a large bottle. It is divided into three chambers, and is suspended firmly to a flexible branch, with the neck downwards, so as to secure the eggs and young from serpents, monkeys, squirrels, and birds of prey. The eggs of this little bird resemble large pearls.

The baya is wonderfully sensible, faithful, and docile, and never voluntarily deserts the place where its young were hatched. It is easily tamed, and taught to perch on the hand of its master; and may be taught to fetch a piece of paper, or any small thing that he points out; and so great is its quickness and dexterity, that if a ring be dropped into a deep well, the bird will dart down, with such amazing celerity, as to catch the ring before it touches the water, and bring it up with apparent exultation.

A singular instance of its docility was frequently witnessed by the writer of this account. The young Hindu women, at Benares, wear thin plates of gold, called ticas, slightly fixed, by way of ornament, between their eye-brows. Mischievous young men train the bayas to go, at a signal given them, and pluck the pieces of gold from the foreheads of the women, as they pass through the streets, and bring them to their employers. They do not sing, but when assembled together, on a tree, they make a lively din or chirping; their want of musical talent, however, is compensated by their sagacity, in which they are not excelled by any feathered inhabitant of the forest.

There is another species of this family, found in Madagascar, which is sometimes called the toddy bird; it is very like the one I have described, and fastens its bag, or nest, which is made of straw and seeds, in the same manner, to a branch, over a stream. Though it builds a fresh nest every year, it does not abandon the old nest, but fastens the new one to the end of the last; so that sometimes five may be seen hanging one from the other. They build in society like rooks, five or six hundred nests being often found on one tree.

Tell Marianne not to confound the tailor bird with these, as I did, for it is quite different—of a different family, and very superior to the baya in beauty; it even resembles some of our humming birds in shape and colour. There is the prettiest mixture in the male bird, of blue, purple, green, and gold. In order to conceal its nest, it first selects a plant, or bush, with large leaves, then gathers cotton, spins it into a thread, by means of its long bill and slender feet, and sews the leaves neatly together, as if with a needle; so that its nest is joined to one leaf, and covered over by the other.

31st.—Mary has been a very patient arithmetical mistress; I have endeavoured to be very diligent, and we are both now rewarded, she says, by my progress. I begin to understand the reason of each process, and there is some hope, therefore, of conquering my difficulties. My uncle said, I ought to trample on them—and I resolved to do so—like the boy, without a genius, in “Evenings at Home.”

My uncle frequently puts arithmetical questions to us, which we work in our minds, without the aid of pencil or paper. This requires some exertion, and was very difficult at first; but I already perceive that my attention is much more under command than formerly. Clearness and quickness, in arithmetic, he thinks, are not only useful for the management of our common domestic affairs, but improve and strengthen our reasoning powers.

We pass our time here in a delightful manner—there is such a nice mixture of amusement and useful employment. My cousins read a great deal, and have much real knowledge. Accomplishments are not neglected; but my aunt thinks that most people make them of too much importance, as they should be the ornament, not the object of our life. Mary says she considers the various things she learns, not as tasks, but as the means of enabling her to get through the business of life with pleasure and success; and that were she to call them lessons, she should feel as if they were to be laid aside with childhood.

That reminds me of what my uncle said just after I came here.—“At your age, Bertha, all you learn must be voluntarily acquired, not hammered into your head. Whether it be science, or history, or languages—whatever you learn, try to feel an interest in it; you will then apply with energy, and what is acquired in that way will always be liked. Music and drawing are valuable pleasures; but they are only pleasures: never forget that your mind is to be cultivated; and that if a part of each day be not employed on objects of a higher and more useful nature, you are only preparing yourself for a trifling, selfish life.”

I shall think of this advice every day, but I assure you, dear Mamma, that I will not neglect any of those things you used to encourage me to learn.

My cousins have no governess, and yet my aunt says, she has never found teaching them by any means laborious. She says, the chief part of education is to make children comprehend the difference between right and wrong—to teach them self-command—and to give them a love for rational occupation; and then they do not require to be watched. You would be surprised to see how much they accomplish in the course of the day; and yet they always seem at liberty; every thing is done methodically. Besides their regular employments, many things are done privately without any show; such as visiting the poor—and attending a school for poor children, which my aunt has established. It is in a small white cottage, about five minutes walk from the shrubbery. My aunt, or my cousins, visit it frequently—and I go there sometimes. I forgot to tell you in the right place, that I sing every day. We are all three, just now, learning the glee of “Hark the Lark,” that we may sing it on my uncle’s birth-day. Caroline takes the tenor—she has a very good voice.

Sept. 1.—Last night, my uncle read a paragraph to us, from Ker Porter’s travels, as a curious instance of the permanence of customs, in countries where the indolence of the inhabitants and a despotic government are continual obstacles to improvement.

“The Tigris is navigable for vessels of twenty tons burthen, only sixty miles above Bagdad; but there is also a kind of float called a kelek, having been in very ancient use, which carries both passengers and merchandise, from Mosoul to Bagdad. Its construction is singular; consisting of a raft in the form of a parallelogram. The trunks of two large trees, crossing each other, are the foundation of its platform, which is composed of branches of osier. To this light bottom are attached several sheepskins, filled with air, and so arranged, that they can be replenished at will. The whole is wattled and bound together with wicker work; and a raised parapet of the same secures the passengers. It is moved by two large oars, one on each side, and a third acts as the rudder.

“When these machines reach their place of destination, and the cargo is disposed of, all the materials are sold, except the skins, which, being previously exhausted of air, are laid on the backs of camels, and return to Mosoul with their masters.

“But the kelek is not the only vessel on these rivers, which may be traced to antiquity. The kufa, so named from an Arabic word that means basket, is still used there as a ferry-boat. Its fabric is of close willow work, and a good coat of bitumen completely secures it from sinking. Perfectly circular, it resembles a large bowl on the surface of the stream; it holds about three or four persons, though not very agreeably; and is paddled across with ease.

“Herodotus,” my uncle added, “exactly describes these boats; he notices their circular form, the three oars, and their construction of willows and skins, and he mentions, that on their arrival in Babylon, the owners sold all the materials, except the skins, which were returned to Armenia by land. And it is a very curious testimony to the truth of that historian, that after the lapse of twenty-two centuries, we find the same customs and the same implements that he described, still in use.”

“But is it not more extraordinary, uncle,” said I, “that the people of those countries have not adopted boats like ours, which would convey themselves and the rich merchandise of the east, so much more securely?”

“I do not think,” replied he, “that it is very extraordinary, for we must consider, in the first place, that to build vessels like ours, would be too hazardous an exertion for a people who are governed despotically, and who can never feel secure of the possession of their property. And as to your ‘rich merchandise of the east,’ you will not find much of that in the neighbourhood of Bagdad at present; you read of such in the Arabian tales—but nothing remains now, but the misery, the decay, and the desolation, which were so often foretold by the prophets.”

2d.—I now perceive the meaning of the last part of Thomson’s description of happy Harvest Home—

For no sooner is that event over, than the labourer begins the preparations for a future harvest. The ploughs are all at work to-day, and I see the fields which have but just yielded up their rich burden, again prepared to receive the seeds of another crop. But this, my uncle says, is generally of a different species from the last, in order to make a change in the nature of the nourishment drawn from the soil. The ploughing in of the old stubble enriches the ground, or some other manure is added; and, indeed, I see it is, as he says, “a continual chain of production and reproduction.” In some parts of the country, wheat is not sown till early in spring; but this depends on the nature of the soil. Oats are always sown in spring, but that grain is not commonly cultivated in this part of the country.

“The rich soil, then, of Gloucestershire, is better suited to the food of man, than to the food of horses?” said I to my uncle. “Yes,” he replied, “if you mean oats, by what you call the food of horses; but I assure you, that in a considerable part of Great Britain, the oat is the chief food of man—and most happily for him, he can live on it. In the cold hills of the Highlands of Scotland—and in the poor soil of parts of England and Ireland, the oat thrives better than wheat, and not being put into the ground till the depth of winter is past, it is less liable to be injured by the effects of frost and damp. Barley, too, has this merit of growing in poor or rather in light soils, and of supplying food for numbers.”

I told my uncle that I was very desirous of learning something of agriculture. He advised me to observe the various operations of husbandry myself. “When you are interested in the progress of the work,” he said, “you will find it easy to comprehend the principles; far better than if I were to give you a lecture every day on the subject.

“Now is the time to begin. The harvest, you see, is safely lodged, and that of the coming year is preparing. In the warmer regions of the earth, a very slight degree of cultivation is sufficient; and the natural sloth of man is encouraged by the small quantity of labour necessary to till the earth. Here, however, that is not the case: our climate is so uncertain, that constant labour is necessary to success; and in every season of the year, some operations in husbandry are going on. The farmer must be at all times alert, either to prepare for something that is to be done, or to watch his growing crops, and help their progress by hoeing, weeding, earthing, and many other processes; but then he has, at all times, the enjoyment that labour brings with it, and the happiness which arises from industry. His best feelings, too, are excited, for he receives, with a grateful heart, the success with which Providence blesses his labours; or, if they fail—if the season is unfavourable, and blights his hopes, he learns to bear with humble submission, and sees that even the best human skill requires aid from Him who is Lord over the elements.”

3d.—Another letter from Hertford rejoiced all our eyes yesterday. My aunt is so pleased with his journal, that she is sure you will like it too; and I have copied a large piece for you, dear mamma.

“The Isle of Sky has very much interested me. Sky is the Scandinavian word for clouds. It is the Isle of Mist of the Gaëlic poet. The whole island is extremely hilly, and in the north-east part of it the mountains are very picturesque, the rocks and cliffs often assuming a variety of forms, like castles and towers. One remarkable rock, which is said to be 160 feet high, represents a spire so exactly, that it is so called by seamen, to whom it is a well-known sea mark.

“The cliffs, on the eastern side of the promontory of Strathaird, contain a number of caves, one of which has been celebrated in history for having been amongst the places where Prince Charles concealed himself. We visited another, which is called the Spar Cave. The entrance is formed by a narrow fissure in the cliff, which, for the first hundred feet, is dark and wet: then comes a steep acclivity; but that once surmounted, the whole interior comes into view, covered with stalactites, disposed in a variety of grotesque forms, and rising to the height of upwards of forty feet. In the floor there are numerous little pools, which are filled with groups of crystals, in a state of constant augmentation, and which afforded us a gratifying opportunity of seeing the process by which calcareous spar is formed.

“The coast scenery is, in many parts, very sublime. A series of columnar cliffs stretches to Loch Staffin, presenting the general features of the ranges of Staffa, but on a scale of five or six times the magnitude. In one place, these rocks represent a circular temple, of Greek architecture, so exactly, that the artist, in sketching it, might be accused of forcing nature into the forms of art. The detached state in which many slender groups remain, after the surrounding parts have fallen away, is a singular circumstance, that sometimes occurs among these columnar ranges. From their mode of wasting, the summits of the cliffs are frequently crowned with pinnacles; and, in some instances, single columns are seen, in front of the colonnade, appearing like the remains of a ruined portico. One of the most remarkable appears to be about 200 feet in height; its lower part clustered, and the pillars terminating in succession upwards, till a single one remains standing alone, for the height of thirty or forty feet, and apparently not more than four or five in diameter.

“There is a cascade here, which is very striking, from the unbroken manner in which it falls over a perpendicular cliff, not less than 300 feet in height; but when the squalls, which blow from the mountains in this stormy region, are violent, very little of the falling water reaches the waves below.

“We then visited Loch Scavig; and after passing the river which runs foaming over a rock into the sea, a long valley suddenly opens, enclosing the beautiful lake Cornisk, on the black surface of which a few islands, covered with grass and juniper, form a striking contrast to the absence of all verdure around.

“It is an exquisitely savage scene, and was to me particularly interesting, because I had lately read again the Lord of the Isles; and here I beheld the truth of its descriptions, and felt anew the sadness and horror of the death of Allan. We often stopped, on our return, to admire the effects of the storms. Stones, or rather large masses of rock, of a composite kind, quite different from the strata of the lake, were scattered on the rocky beach. Some lay loose, and tottering upon the ledges of the natural rock, so that the slightest push moved them, though their weight might exceed many tons. The opposite side of the lake is pathless and inaccessible, and the eye rests on nothing but barren, naked crags, though of sublime grandeur. Indeed, our favourite Scott says, truly—

4th. Sunday.—My uncle read some parts to us, this morning, of a book which he likes very much—“Sumner on the Ministerial Character of Christ.” I intend soon to read it. There was a curious fact mentioned in the part my uncle chose, which, however, must be well authenticated, or Sumner would not have given it.

In speaking of the gradual manner by which converts were taught the truths and mysteries of the Gospel, he says that the Catechumens were not permitted to say the Lord’s Prayer till after they had been baptised, and had therefore been thoroughly instructed in the Gospel. The Christian converts, he says, were divided into the Catechumens, or learners, and the Fideles, or believers; and there was a great distinction maintained between these classes, in the primitive church. The Catechumens were allowed to hear the Scriptures, as well as the popular discourses upon them, and upon points of morality; but it was not till after baptism, when those converts became Fideles, that they were allowed to partake of the Lord’s Supper. Another privilege was, to join with the ministers in all the prayers of the church. More particularly, the use of the Lord’s Prayer was only permitted to the Fideles; it was considered an honour, to be conferred only on the most perfect Christians, to be allowed to use it; and it was therefore called, by some of the Fathers, “the prayer of the believers.”

After my uncle had finished reading what I have only written here from memory, we had some conversation on the subject of early religious instruction; for a lady was present who disapproved extremely of not teaching the Lord’s Prayer to little children, as soon as they could speak, “It is so pretty,” said she, “to hear them lisp out prayer and praise.”

“Yes,” said my aunt, “if they understand what they lisp; but if they do not, I consider it as a sort of profanation.”

“And would you not teach children to pray while they are young?”

“I do teach them to pray,” replied my aunt, “but only in the most simple manner, so that their little minds may accompany their words, and that they may not acquire an early habit of inattention, from repeating phrases which they do not comprehend.”

“You know, my dear Madam,” said my uncle, “that in education nothing should be done without object. Let us consider the object of teaching a young child to pray: is it not to give it an early feeling of devotion, and to implant the seed of what we hope will grow and ripen with the child’s increasing strength?”

“Oh! surely, that, you know, is what I mean,” said the lady.

“Therefore,” said my uncle, “I would endeavour to lead the little heart to rational prayer, and to real piety, by teaching it only what suits its comprehension, and never suffering it to repeat, by rote, what it cannot distinctly follow.”

“Then I suppose,” said she, “that you would not take children to church.”

“Certainly not, while their minds are still in an infantine state.”

“We have never taken any of our children to church,” said my aunt, “till they had obtained a certain portion of religious knowledge. The consequence has been what we expected; for I must say, that our children are not only remarkably attentive to the service of the church, but do, I believe, really join in it with their hearts.”

The lady appeared to be satisfied; and my uncle, turning to me, said, “Bertha, my dear, pray tell your mother what we have just been saying. Many years ago she convinced me of the justice of these ideas; your aunt and I have adopted them from her; and you will judge for yourself as to our success.”

I have written this conversation as well as I can remember it; and I may add, dear Mamma, that nothing can be more just than what is said of my cousins, for they are truly religious, but without any show or ostentation. Some day I will send you the nice simple prayers which have been composed for little Grace.

5th.—Besides the two species of the little bird that builds pendulous nests, which I have already mentioned in my journal, my aunt has just told me of another, the Sociable grossbeak. It is about the size of a bulfinch, brown and yellow, and is found in the interior country at the Cape of Good Hope. Its habits were thus described to my aunt:—

These birds live together in large societies, and build in a species of acacia, which grows to an uncommon size; they seem to select it on account of its strong branches, which are able to support their extensive buildings, and also for its tall, smooth trunk, which their great enemies, the monkey tribes, are unable to climb. In the tree described to my aunt, there could not have been fewer than eight hundred birds residing under a single roof, which appears like thatch, and projects over the nests, and is so smooth and steep that no reptiles can approach them. The industry of these birds is equal to that of the bee: throughout the day they appear to be busily employed in carrying a fine species of grass, which is the principal material they employ in the construction of this extraordinary work, as well as for repairs and additions.

It appears that, as they increase annually in numbers, they join nest to nest, till at last the bough on which they have built gives way under their weight, and they are forced to seek for a new dwelling. One of these deserted colonies was examined, and found to be as ingeniously contrived within as without. The entrances formed a regular street, with nests on both sides, at about two inches distance from each other; and it was evident, from the appearance, that a part of it had been inhabited for many years. The grass with which they build is called Boshman’s grass, and its seed is their principal food; but the remains of insects, found in their nests, prove that they prey on them also.

6th.—I wonder, dear Mamma, whether it is as difficult to others, as it is to me, to lay aside old habits. I must acknowledge, that I have been of late too much addicted to lying in bed, and have quite disgraced myself, after having for some time made great efforts. It is a strange sort of indolence that chains me down, and makes me delay, from moment to moment, the trifling exertion of jumping up;—it is not sleep, for I am generally awake, merely thinking, in a confused sort of way, of things that are past, or things that I intend to do. My aunt says, that were I asleep all the morning, she would not then struggle against my habits, for my constitution might require sleep; but I have not that excuse to plead.

When I do get up early, there is no time of the day that I enjoy so much. The brightness of the morning sun makes the dewy trees and grass look so beautiful; and then the birds seem so happy, and so active, in the sweet fresh air. These are pleasures that I knew not till I came to England, and they are every day within my reach. I have determined not to let them slip any more. You have often told me of the danger of giving way to bad habits, but nothing teaches one so forcibly as experience.

My aunt and uncle are both of them early risers; and they consider it of great importance that young people should so manage their time as to have some part of every morning to employ in serious reading. “I wish my little Bertha,” said he, “to bestow ample time on the neatness and propriety of her dress; but it is still more necessary that she should never feel in the least hurried in the performance of those religious exercises with which every day should begin, and which should be gone through with calmness and leisure before she joins the family circle at breakfast, and before the cares or pleasures of the day mix with her graver thoughts.”

They spoke to me very kindly on this subject yesterday, and I think and hope that I shall not again shew myself unmindful of their advice.

I have consulted Caroline about it. I find that she and Mary are always up early, and are seriously engaged for a part of the morning.

Caroline is indeed an extremely early riser, and she has engaged to rouse me regularly at a reasonable hour. She began this morning, and to encourage me, she read a pretty little poem on early rising. By copying it for Marianne, I shall recollect it the better.

7th.—My uncle says, that agriculture is only gardening on an enlarged scale; and that all the implements are only magnified garden tools. The sharp edge of the sloping ploughshare turns up the earth in the same manner as the spade, which is put into the ground in a slanting direction; but the plough being drawn by animals, whose strength is far superior to that of man, in a few hours the earth is separated and thrown back, in a space that, to be dug, must have occupied days.

The harrow is only a large rake, and is useful, not only in breaking the clods of earth, but in covering over the newly sown seeds. What useful inventions were these machines, and all the improvements that have been made in them!

My uncle explained to me, that vegetation is the common source from whence all animals derive their food; either at once, from the growing plant, or at second hand from their prey, who had been nourished by it; and that vegetables, in their turn, live on all that has already lived and vegetated. There is a continual succession of production and decay; for it is by decay, and the decomposition that follows, that nature restores to the ground those substances of which it is robbed by vegetation.

But when the produce of the soil is removed for the use of man, and not left to immediate decay, the agriculturist is obliged to assist nature, by supplying other decayed vegetable matter, or else, by mixing it with some artificial manure. To do this more effectually, people are obliged to study the principles of the different soils, in order to know what species of manure should be applied to fertilize, or to correct them; to render one, for instance, more alkaline, or to lessen the siliceous nature of another. Even rest restores to the earth some of its productive powers; and when it is ploughed up, and long exposed in what is called a fallow, the air has considerable influence in improving it.

This led to a conversation on the many varieties of soils; and my uncle says I shall become acquainted with them in time. They are all well known to good farmers, who can thereby determine what crops are adapted to each. Who could have thought, Mamma, that all this skill and knowledge was necessary to a common farmer! I imagined that any one could sow what seed he chose, and then reap and gather the produce; but as to feeding the earth in return for the nourishment drawn from it, I cannot say that ever entered my head. So, you see, that I have learned something to-day—something real, Mamma.

8th.—My uncle has been very much interested in the account which Ker Porter gives of Babylon, in his second volume, and has been so kind as to read to us the description of what this great city was, when at the summit of its glory; and what it is now, and has been for so many ages.

According to Herodotus, the walls of this prodigious city were sixty miles in length, and formed a square of fifteen miles each way, in which gardens, lawns, and groves were included. They were built of large bricks, cemented together with bitumen, and, he says, were 350 feet high, and 87 feet thick, and protected on the outside by a vast ditch, lined with the same materials. There were 25 gates of solid brass on each side, and from every gate a street of 150 feet wide crossed the city to the opposite gate. According to his description, the temples, palaces, and hanging gardens were equally wonderful. A branch of the Euphrates flowed through the city, from north to south. To prevent this great river from overflowing, it was confined by walls or quays of brick; and while these were building, the course of the river was turned into a basin, forty miles square, and thirty-five feet deep, which had been cut for the purpose of receiving it.

The wealth, and power, and grandeur of this magnificent city, is strongly expressed in the Scriptures, where it is spoken of as “The lady of kingdoms given to pleasure, that dwellest carelessly, and sayest in her heart, I am, and there is none beside me.”

Among its vast buildings, was the Tower of Babel, erected ages before, by Nimrod, on the plain of Shinaar—a pyramid, or rather a mountain of masonry in that form, and on which it is supposed that, in after ages, Nebuchadnezzar raised the temple of Belus. This temple was of such prodigious magnitude, that having been destroyed by Xerxes, it cost Alexander, who intended to rebuild it, the labour of 1600 men for two months, in merely removing the rubbish caused by its destruction.

Of all these immense buildings, the traces can now be scarcely distinguished; confused heaps of bricks extending many miles, and grown over with grass, still exercise the ingenuity of travellers and antiquaries. In this dreary waste, there are, however, three very conspicuous mounds. The principal one, now called the Birs Nimrod, is supposed to be the temple of Belus. Ker Porter says that, in passing this barren tract, his eyes ranged on all sides, for something to point out the remains of this once imperial city; but all was withered and gone, and comparatively level with the horizon, except where the gigantic Birs Nimrod presented itself, “standing in the solitary waste, like the awful figure of Prophecy, pointing to the fulfilment of her word.”

The two other mounds of ruins are supposed to be the citadel and the palace. The former is of an oblong shape, and flat at the summit; and several excavations which have been made in it by the Turks, when searching for hidden treasures, are now occupied by wild beasts. In his second visit, his party suddenly halted, on seeing several objects moving about the summit, which they at first imagined to be Arabs; but which were soon discovered to be lions.

What numerous reflections this sight must have produced!—Those savage animals thus wandering amidst the towers of Babylon, and dwelling within the cavities of her once magnificent palaces, proved how faithfully the prophecies had been fulfilled, which relate to her fall, and how exactly the words of Isaiah have been verified,—“wild beasts of the desert shall lie down there, and the houses shall be full of doleful creatures.”

Among the fragments, and elevated on a sort of ridge, he found the famous solitary tree which has escaped the general destruction. It bears the marks of almost as great antiquity in its appearance as tradition gives it. The Arabs call it athelé, but its species was quite unknown to him; the trunk must have been enormous, and now, though hollow and shattered, it supports very large spreading branches, which are adorned with tress-like tendrils resembling heron feathers. These long and delicate tendrils bend towards the ground, like a weeping willow, and while gently waving in the wind, they make a low melancholy sound.

The Euphrates wanders in solitude through this desolate region, its banks are covered with reeds, and now unrestrained by its former stately quays, it annually overflows the country; producing high rank grass, and leaving stagnant pools and swamps among the hollows of the adjacent plain.—“I will make thee a possession for the bittern, and pools of water.”

Upon the whole, though so little remains to point out the several parts of this once stupendous city, there is enough to convince the attentive examiner, that he is on the very spot where the hand of God wrote on the wall the awful and well known denunciation against Babylon!

“How the scene is now changed! At that time these broken hills were palaces—these long undulating mounds were streets—and this desolate solitude was filled with the busy subjects of the proud daughter of the East.”

My dear Mamma, I hope you will not think that I fill up my journal with too long extracts; but I was so much interested in all that relates to Babylon, that I could not deny myself the pleasure of copying some parts of this great book, which I am sure will not for a long time make its way to Rio.

Sept. 9.—Do you recollect, dear Mamma, that I mentioned in my journal about a fortnight ago, my uncle’s surprise at meeting an old acquaintance at the harvest home, who, when he formerly knew him, was in the gay world; and who, it then seemed very improbable would have to lead a rural life, and to associate with plain farmers? My uncle’s notice was attracted by his very gentlemanlike air, even in the homely dress of a farmer; and when he discovered who he was, he doubted at first whether he should address him, as he feared that the evident change in his situation might make it disagreeable to him to be recognised. However, they did renew their acquaintance, and my uncle obtained permission to wait on him.

He rode to see him in a few days, and was much charmed with the neatness of his farm and cottage, and, indeed, with all his family. He lives on the borders of the forest, as well as my uncle, but at a distance of several miles from this place. My uncle gave us a little sketch of his history in the evening, as nearly in his own words as he could; and he was so kind as to permit me to tell it to you, because he thinks you once knew this gentleman yourself. I have never heard his name, so I do not know what to call him; and I will try to write it just as my uncle repeated it to us:

“At the period that you knew me,” said he, “I was moving in the most fashionable circles, occupied by the world, and all its silly amusements, and without any other object than to amuse away my idle life. I travelled on the continent—I afterwards went into the army; but at home or abroad, I was pursued by that ennui which is always the consequence of idleness. I need not recount to you, sir, all the extravagant follies I committed in search of pleasure, that brilliant, but deceitful phantasm, which leads us into error, and betrays us to disappointment.

“From the time that I was a schoolboy, pleasure had been my only object; the mistaken indulgence of my parents increased the fault, and diminished the enjoyment; for it left me no difficulties to overcome—no efforts to make. My father was rich, and profusely generous to me;—and though I was the second son, I knew that my mother intended to bequeath me her estate, which was in her own power.

“At last I grew tired of idle prosperity; I sighed for novelty to relieve me from the burden of time; and I sometimes felt that I had a mind capable of more than had hitherto occupied it. Having gone with some of my friends to shoot on my mother’s property of Strath-morton, I was attacked by a feverish and tedious cold; and as my gay associates left me when I could no longer join in their pursuits, I had abundant leisure for reflection. The good-natured old steward was my principal visiter, and his conversation generally turned on the miseries of not having a resident master at Strath-morton; for my father and mother always resided at their place in Sussex; and a poor tenantry and impoverished land were of course the effect. This led me to think of my insignificant life. I began to wish for the variety of being useful; and at last I determined to become an active country-gentleman, in order to become of consequence, as well as for the pleasure of having a new object. The motives were undoubtedly erroneous; but I tell them, sir, in order to shew you the progress of my mind.

“I readily obtained my father’s permission to make Strath-morton my abode; and with his sanction, I entered on my new life as soon as it was possible to make my arrangements. The novelty alone could at first have made me endure it; but I found a sort of pleasure that seemed extraordinary at the time; and in the course of a few months I had, with the natural energy of my character, quite devoted myself to my new occupations. My mother was gratified to see me interested in the place that was to become mine; and full powers were given me to thin the ancient woods, to make whatever changes I pleased, and to lay out money to a considerable amount in improving the estate, which had been much neglected. By degrees, the increase of knowledge, and the encouragement of a little success, made these employments become less irksome; and I began to feel a real interest for the tenants and labourers. I found that I could easily promote their comfort; I felt that I was of consequence, and I began to enjoy all the pleasures of assisting the industrious.

“I had been attached to a young lady whom I had known in London only. I knew that, though fashionable, she was well principled, clever, and literary, and I imagined that I was equally well acquainted with all her tastes. We married: I expected her to be perfect; and when I brought her early in the summer to Strath-morton, I anticipated the delight of having a companion to sympathize with, and to assist me in the plans to which I had devoted myself. Judge then of my disappointment at finding, that she had no taste for a real country life, and disliked its monotonous occupations. For some time, however, we lived happily, till I lost my kind, indulgent father, who was succeeded in his honours and estates by my brother; and as I perceived that my expensive improvements could not well be continued, now that I had no longer my father’s wealth to support them, I took that opportunity to indulge my wife in a visit to the continent.

“On our return to England, my mother was apparently in health, but in a few weeks she was suddenly seized with a severe illness, and died before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to arrange her affairs. Forgetful of the uncertainty of life, she had made no will; and her estate, which I had long considered as my own, was inherited by my brother as heir at law.

“What was now to become of us? My father, anxious to preserve the wealth of the head of the family, and knowing that Strath-morton was to be mine, had left me but a very small property; and as my brother was not sufficiently convinced of what had been my mother’s intentions, he retained her estate.—My wife’s fortune had been small.—In short, we were suddenly reduced from the thoughtlessness of affluence, to absolute poverty. I might, perhaps, have obtained some employment, which would have just enabled us to live; but I was not much inclined to take up my abode in London, in so different a style from that in which I had always appeared there. Vanity and pride survive all the other passions—and my country life had rather increased than subdued them. However, though painful to me to return to London, I determined to do so, if my wife approved; and I left all to her decision; I knew she did not love the country, and I anticipated that her sentence would be some hard-working office for the rest of my life.

“But I little knew the soundness of my wife’s judgment, and her generous forgetfulness of self. Her decision was soon made; ‘In our circumstances,’ she said, ‘and for our children’s sake, a laborious country life will be vastly preferable to the confined, and not less laborious, situation of a clerk, or some such thing in town; we can more easily submit to deprivations, and shall be better able to support and assist each other’s toils.’ I reminded her that she disliked the country—‘Oh,’ said she, ‘think no more of those fancies; it is on ourselves alone, and not on the gratifications of either town or country that our happiness must now depend. Let us take a small farm—let us be really farmers.—You will be able to apply the agricultural knowledge you have acquired; and I will not neglect my part. Our children must be bred up usefully—they will not be accomplished—but what does that signify?—they will be our real comforts, and we can teach them real virtues.

“I gladly consented, and was so fortunate as to procure this farm at a reasonable rent, and with a comfortable cottage. My creditors saw that my intentions towards them were honourable; and satisfied with the assignment of my little patrimony, they insisted on my retaining my books, and such furniture as could be useful. We soon removed; and firmly resolved to submit to any distress, however abject, rather than get into debt. I may now acknowledge that our distress was sometimes severe, while learning the little details of economy. The art of good management, if not acquired in youth, can only be gained by bitter experience. You will perceive, then, that I became a real hard-working, drudging farmer; and you will wonder, probably, how we could get on, when I had such an ignorant wife.—My dear sir, I cannot do her sufficient justice—I cannot describe the strength of mind with which she cheerfully submitted to the change of life, nor the energy with which she sought the common knowledge requisite for our situation. She had proposed this life of labour, and she almost seemed to enjoy it, and to find a pleasure in her continual exertions. For some years we could only have one servant, a poor hard-working, willing creature, who, though doing her best, could not do half that was necessary for our family. But this best of wives, instead of unreasonably expecting every thing from one poor slave, as I might almost call her, worked hard herself. She who had been used to late hours, and luxurious ease, was up at six every morning, to superintend her little household, and to make with her own hands most of the preparations for our meals. She was the same in every thing, and never uttered a complaint.

“Oh! how often in these years of distress, when every shilling we could spare was devoted to discharging old debts—did I think of the sums I had lavished in my days of gaiety—on useless trifles—those trifles that are well named ‘’tis buts’—on dress—on all those indulgences of appetite which leave no pleasure behind; and the taste for which I can distinctly trace back to the habits of petty self-indulgence permitted at our great schools.

“The first winter of our residence here was one of such hardship, that I trembled for my wife’s health; but Providence graciously supported her. It was at that time that a circumstance occurred, which I think will interest you. We had an infant, of a few months old, who suffered much, by the anxiety that my wife, who was nursing it, secretly felt,—the poor babe sunk.—Its decline was rapid; and before we were aware of the danger, we found that it was actually dying. It was on a dreadful evening of snow and storm, that we sat watching over our expiring babe. One candle lighted our little room, and, cold as the weather was, we could only afford a small fire; my three elder children were gathered close round it; and one began so mildly, but urgently, to ask for her supper,—that a piece of bread was given to her. We heard a violent knocking at the door, and the maid having opened it before I could go myself, two men rudely pushed by her, and forced their way into the room where we sat.—You may imagine the indignation and horror I felt at such an intrusion, and at such a moment.—I asked, as calmly as I could, their business, and one of them said—‘Our business, sir, is to demand assistance;—you may call it charity if you like, but as we are driven by want of work to starve, we must take by force what is not willingly given to us; my children have not a crust to eat, and I am resolved to procure something for them; this is the first time we have ever attempted to get by force what we would willingly earn by our labour.’

“‘My friends,’ said I, ‘I am a stranger here, and in distress myself—misfortunes have reduced me as well as you—and the whole sum that I am at present possessed of, will scarcely do more than pay for the funeral of the infant whom you see dying.—I will give you a part of it;—if you take it all by force, I cannot resist you. All I can do is to advise you not to enter on this lawless life—why do you not apply to the clergyman of the parish?—try every honest means before you attempt to live by violence—but if once you stain your character, nothing can restore it.—Return to your homes—I promise never to betray you, unless you renew such conduct—take this money—and perhaps to-morrow may bring you employment or assistance.’—‘And here,’ said my little girl, ‘here, take this bread to your little children, it was my supper—but I can do without it.’

“The man was touched by this action of the child,—his voice faultered as he thanked me for the small sum I had put into his hand, and with his companion went away quietly. They followed my advice, and applied next day to the village pastor, who had but lately returned from an absence occasioned by ill health; and who as yet had known nothing about me. He soon found his way to our cottage—sympathized with equal delicacy and kindness in our affliction, and requested as a favour, the permission of sometimes visiting us. The friendship of Mr. Benson, who is an example of the virtues and graces of piety and benevolence blended together, has been our greatest source of pleasure ever since the sad occasion of his visit; and I may say, that I owed it to the gratitude of the poor mistaken men whom I had rescued from guilt. I found that they were Irishmen; and that they had been driven as vagrants from parish to parish. I soon had it in my power to procure them work, and their warm hearts do, I believe, feel endless gratitude.

“As my eldest boy was a very promising child in disposition and intellect, my good friend Mr. Benson made it a point, that he should be allowed to assist in his education; he has completely prepared him for the university, and through some interest which he possesses, he was so kind as to place him there a few months since, at a very trifling expense to me. Through him, also, another happy circumstance occurred to me two or three years ago;—a connection of Mr. Benson’s, who had lately come into possession of an estate in this neighbourhood, having met me at the parsonage, requested me to be his agent; giving me full powers to plant, improve, and superintend the management of the whole property. This to me is a most interesting employment; and as I give full time and attention to it, I consider my salary to be fairly and honourably earned.

“Amidst all her laborious vocations, my wife continued to educate our daughters. Her main object has been to give them religious principles, and that solid kind of knowledge, which a well-taught female should possess. She has made them, as I hope you will find, gentlewomen in their manners, but industrious and independent; and she has, I think, inspired them with her own neatness and love of order, which never ceased, even when our distress might have been some excuse for negligence. We had, as I mentioned, preserved our books, and with these, and the aid of her own admirable talents, she has formed their minds, and I may say, their hearts; for she has taught them to love being useful, and never to turn from a poor applicant under the selfish plea of their own poverty, or the specious one of public duty.

“We have gradually made our cottage larger: clean, neat, and cheerful, it always was; but now it is really comfortable. Here I wish always to remain—it has been the scene of happiness, springing from active exertion, and humble religious trust.”

10th.—My uncle had a visit to-day from a Mr. H——, who is just returned from Stockholm, where he has been for some months. He told us a great deal of the manners and customs of that city; and it is curious to observe, how exactly its present state agrees with the account given by Dr. Clarke, who says, “that if a razor was to be put in order, or an instrument repaired, they were sent to London; and that such was the scarcity of vegetables, that there was a constant importation of them from other countries.” When he was at Stockholm, there were thirty-six wig-makers, and only one cutler—forty-seven vintners, and not a single chimney sweeper—nineteen coffee-roasters, though coffee had been prohibited—one hundred and thirteen keepers of ordinaries, and only one tool grinder; iron and tar were to be had in plenty, but there was nothing good manufactured in the country, excepting Scania gloves, which are the best in the world. Almost every thing imported from England was contraband, and, therefore, clandestinely sold, at an immense price. The inferiority of Swedish workmanship, and often the total want of the article itself, is very striking—a whole day may be lost in searching for common necessaries.

When Clarke was at Christiana, in Norway, a rich merchant told him, that all the linen of his family was annually sent to London to be washed. “We cannot go,” said he, “to market, or to shops, as you do in an English town: here, those who would live handsomely, must collect into their own warehouses from all parts of the world, whatsoever they may want for a whole year’s consumption.” Mr. H. says, “there are few hands in Sweden expert enough to repair machinery; and the clumsy machines used in the mines, is a proof of the small progress they have made. As to gardens, scarcely any body thinks of cultivating vegetables enough for themselves, much less of having them for sale; and England still largely supplies that article of food to Stockholm.”

In speaking of this, after Mr. H. had gone, my aunt reminded us of the facts we had lately read in Ker Porter’s Persia, respecting the manner in which some customs continue unchanged for ages; but she thought this far more extraordinary in Sweden, which is in constant communication with the rest of Europe.

“It is partly caused,” said my uncle, “by the nature of the government, which tends rather to repress, than to excite speculation. Some improvement, however, does take place: a friend of mine, Mr. B., thirty years ago, saw in a gentleman’s garden at Stockholm, a little bed of potatoes, which the owner shewed him as a great curiosity. ‘They tell me, sir,’ said the gentleman, ‘that in some countries, the roots of this plant are eaten as common food by the people.’ Yet now,” continued my uncle, “this potatoe, which was then such a wonder, is generally cultivated throughout all Sweden, and is liked by all classes.”

11th. Sunday.—Wentworth asked my uncle to-day, what is meant by—thy kingdom come—in the Lord’s prayer? “What do we exactly pray for when we repeat those words?”

“I believe,” said my uncle, “that they have been variously explained. By some they are supposed to allude to that period, when the Messiah will again dwell on the earth, and when wickedness and misery shall finally cease. Others apply them to the universal diffusion of the gospel; when all nations will become the people of Christ; and when his kingdom may therefore be truly said to extend over the whole world.

“But besides these general, and I fear, distant applications of the expression, there is another, and a simpler one, which more immediately directs itself to our present feelings and actions: when the influence of Christ has overcome all our sordid and selfish motives; when his humility is the example we endeavour to follow; when our passions are controlled by the purity of his precepts; when our actions are subjected to the dominion of his will; in short, when our love, gratitude, and obedience to him, form the governing principle of our lives: then, indeed, it may be literally said, that his reign has been established in our hearts, and that his kingdom has come.

“We may certainly interpret these words as relating either to the future kingdom of the Messiah on earth, or to the progress of Christian knowledge in humanising the savage and enlightening the heathen; but we are scarcely authorised to suppose that our prayers can be of any avail in hastening the time appointed by immutable Wisdom for those important events. When, therefore, in using this sublime and concise prayer, we mean to express either of these significations, we must perceive that they do not possess that second quality which seems to me to be essentially necessary in every prayer proceeding from man—namely, that while we address our petitions to God, they, at the same time, should convey an admonition to ourselves, and instruct us how to do our part towards attaining those objects for which we supplicate.

“But if, on the other hand, we apply those words to the dominion of Christian principles in ourselves, we are given reason to hope that the petition may be granted, because we pledge our own humble, but earnest efforts, as the requisite condition on which we presume to pray for it; and for these reasons I am inclined to consider that this is the most important meaning of the words, Thy kingdom come.”

12th.—Hertford’s letters have, of late, been very frequent. I think the following extract will amuse you.

“The Druidical monuments of the island of Lewis are remarkable. Scotland possesses many specimens of those structures; but, except in Lewis, they are rare among the Western islands. In the neighbourhood of Loch Bernera, several of them are comprised in a comparatively small space: a square mile would include the whole. They are situated in an open, fertile tract, on the borders of an inlet of the sea; and if they were really temples, dedicated to Druidical worship, so many being collected together would almost imply that this spot was the seat of a college. Next to Stonehenge, they are, perhaps, the most interesting remains which have been found in Great Britain.

“The largest of these structures has the form of a cross, with a circle at the intersection, and a large central stone. Its total length, at present, is 588 feet, but other stones are found, in the same direction, for above 90 feet farther; so that we may suppose the whole length to have been nearly 700 feet. The cross line, which intersects that one at right angles, measures 204 feet, but it probably was much greater; and the diameter of the circle that occupies the interior of the cross, is 63 feet. The stone which marks the centre is 12 feet in height; the other stones rarely reach beyond 4 feet, though a few of 7 or 8 feet high are to be found, and one reaching to 13 is seen near the extremity of the long line. The intervals between them vary from 2 to 10 feet; and the whole number of stones, either erect or recently fallen, is forty-seven. The aspect of the whole work is very striking, as it occupies the top of a gentle eminence of moorland, and as there is no other object, not even a rock or a stone, to divert the attention, or diminish the impression which it makes.

“There are some circles of stones to be seen in the neighbourhood, but they are less perfect; and several large solitary stones, apparently of a monumental nature, are found in other parts of Lewis; but the cruciform shape of the structure which I have described is a remarkable and peculiar circumstance. No ruin, of that form, has been traced beyond the introduction of Christianity; and I believe it is agreed, that where the figure of the Cross is found carved on buildings of higher antiquity, it has been done by Christians, who have converted the monuments of ancient superstition to their own purposes. But such attempts cannot be supposed to apply to such an assemblage of large rude stones; while the circular parts, and the general resemblance of the whole to other Druidical structures, seem to prove its ancient origin.”

13th.—My uncle is so kind as to permit me to sit in the library whenever I like; and though he studies a great deal, he says my being there does not disturb him. He seems pleased whenever we young people go there, and very often lays aside what he is engaged in, to converse with us, or shew us something curious. Sometimes he takes that opportunity of giving a little gentle reproof; for he is so considerate of our small feelings, that he seldom exposes any one publicly in the family circle, knowing that half the good is destroyed by the mortification.

I was up remarkably early this morning, and went to the library before breakfast, expecting to be commended a little for my improvement in early rising. After our morning greetings, my uncle did commend me very kindly, and said that the pleasure of seeing me in the library was doubled by the satisfaction it gave him to find that I had such power over myself. I was beginning to exult a little inwardly at this, when he added, “But now, Bertha, as there are few pleasures without alloy, I must cloud this praise a little by doing what I dislike—by finding fault.”

You may suppose, dear Mamma, what a damp this cast on me for a moment; but I knew that he never chides without reason, he is so mild; and he never mistakes one’s conduct, he is so just: so I brightened up again, and anxiously listened.

“The fault, my dear Bertha, which I have to mention, is one that I have observed ever since you have been here—and it is, in my opinion, so important, that I can no longer wait for your own good sense to perceive it; for habit strengthens at a rapid pace. A general want of neatness is the fault to which I allude. I do not mean a want of actual cleanliness, but an untidy, careless way of arranging your clothes. I observe that they are not always put on straight—up at one side, down at the other—your petticoat, or something, forcing its way above or below the edge of your gown—a button off—a string broken—part of a flower torn or unsewed—frills looking flattened and wrinkled, and not having the fresh look that every thing about a young lady should have. Your hair in general looks shining and nice, but I don’t perceive why it should not always be arranged more carefully, and so as to prevent it from straggling at the sides, as I sometimes see.

“Ladies are always very anxious to be fashionable, but I assure you, Bertha, though your dresses may be of the newest patterns, you will not look well dressed without something more. Fashion changes continually; the furbelows of to-day give place to-morrow to some other whim—and the vulgar and the empty-minded have the never-ending delight of altering their dresses, but fail after all in acquiring the air of gentlewomen.

“A good carriage, a smooth walk, a feeling of being at ease in company, ready attention to all that is going on, and withdrawing one’s thoughts from self, give the stamp of good society more effectually, than all the finery that can be purchased. That valuable feeling of being at ease, and the self-possession it produces, can be obtained but one way. Never allow yourself when alone, to sit or move, in a manner that you would think inconsistent with propriety in company. But to return to our dress,—pray, accustom yourself to have your clothes in neat order, whatever they are; and well put on, at all times. The French expression ‘d’être bien mise,’ conveys everything that can be said on this subject; for besides the reasonable attention to fashion, which good sense requires, and the suitable correspondence of colours which implies good taste, it includes all the proper pinning, tying, and arrangement, which in my opinion is the most important point of all.”

I thanked my uncle very sincerely; and he then added, “Yes, Bertha, I consider it as a very unwise tenderness, not to make known their lesser faults to young people. Your aunt is of a somewhat different opinion, and was unwilling to annoy you, so I took it on myself to advise you on the subject of your toilette. It was from this mistaken delicacy of your dear aunt’s, that one of your cousins was acquiring the unfortunate habits of want of neatness and an ungraceful walk. Your aunt depended on her own good sense to overcome them; but at last, perceiving the injury we should do the child, by allowing those habits to become fixed, I spoke to her myself—she not only outlived my interference, but immediately and vigorously set about correcting them. She found some difficulty, I believe, but she has succeeded so well, that I think you cannot discover which of my daughters I mean, except that she is now, perhaps, the most remarkable for her neatness, and is always bien mise.”

14th.—My uncle read to us to-day, an account given by a traveller in Savoy, of the fall of a part of Mont Grenier—a very astonishing instance, he says, of the local changes that occur on the face of the earth. I must give you a short account of it, dear Mamma.

Mont Grenier is five miles south of Chamberry; and rises about four thousand feet above the broad plain, on which it stands almost alone. A part of this mountain fell down in the year 1248, and entirely buried five parishes, and the town and church of St. André. The ruins spread over nine square miles, which are called les Abîmes de Myans; and though many centuries have passed away, they still present a singular scene of desolation.

The Abîmes de Myans now appear like little hills of a conical shape, and varying in height from twenty to thirty feet. They consist of detached heaps of fragments, but the largest masses have evidently fallen from the upper bed of limestone, by which Mont Grenier is capped; and some of them have been projected to the distance of four miles from the mountain. This limestone rests on beds of softer materials, by the gradual crumbling away of which, it is supposed the mass above them was undermined and precipitated into the valley. In the course of years, the rains or torrents, produced by dissolving snows, have washed away the loose earth, and thus the little conical mounts have been separated and detached as they are seen at present.

So deep is the mass that has covered the town of St. André, that nothing belonging to it has been discovered, except a small bronze statue. The ancient chronicles do not inform us, whether the catastrophe was preceded by any warning that allowed the inhabitants time to escape. The quantity of matter sufficient to cover the plain to such a depth and extent, rushing from the height of three quarters of a mile into the plain, must have produced a shock inconceivably awful. A great part of the district has been gradually planted with vines, but it still presents a most impressive scene of ruin.

My uncle said that this is one of the most remarkable eboulements of which he has ever seen a description—he read it to us from travels very lately made in Switzerland and Savoy[5].

15th.—I hope you are interested, dear Mamma, in Bessy Grimley’s history.

Franklin is returned—he came about a week after his letter; poor Bessy was very anxious, for the weather was stormy, and she could not hinder herself from being frightened at the thoughts of the great ocean he had to cross. We went again to see her, and I tried to cheer her, by telling her I had lately come a much longer voyage. My aunt accompanied us, and was pleased with the cottage and its inhabitants; she went to visit the poor old decrepit woman, and found her bed made up comfortably, and both that and the room looking very tidy and clean. The window was open, and a rose tree covered with flowers hung over it. My poor daughter, said the old woman, planted that rose-tree in her last illness, and Bessy has nursed both it and me; and she trims it and trains it in such a manner, that the flowery branches hang where I can see them, because she knows how much I love the tree.

My aunt observed a little shelf of books in one corner, and asked if Bessy could read, “Oh! yes, ma’am—I wonder the old man did not tell you that, for many a time she has comforted us both, and indeed, often makes me feel less pain, by reading to us. I taught her myself, when she was a little creature, and I am sure I often wonder how any one can object to the poor having the blessing of education. Why, it would do your heart good, Ma’am, to hear her read the Bible, she reads it with such piety—or a prayer or two, often out of her prayer book. We have a few little stories too, that we like to hear again and again. The Blind Farmer—and the History of Wilcocks—and a pretty tale called Simple Susan—in short, madam, though I am always a suffering, poor creature, and though we sometimes are supperless, we are still happy, and it is all owing to that grateful good Bessy.”

But I must tell you, Mamma, about Franklin. He has really given up a great deal for her sake: he might have been in a much richer way had he remained in America; but then, he says, what good would it all have been to him away from his Bessy! They are to be married next week; and my aunt, and all of us, are preparing different articles of dress or furniture, that may be useful presents to them. My uncle suggested some little alterations in the arrangement of the house, so as to make room, at present, for the Franklins; and he offered to assist them next spring in making it still more comfortable.

There is a farm to be let—not very good ground, but well situated, and about half way between Fernhurst and the old man’s cottage. My uncle has hopes of procuring it for the Franklins; and I am sure it will be an advantage to them to be near my uncle, his advice is so useful, and he knows so much about every thing.

Some of the land is like forest ground, and has neither been fenced nor drained; but Franklin says he will gradually bring it into cultivation. I am in hopes I shall have many a pleasant walk there with my uncle; and then I shall have a good opportunity of seeing the whole process of farming.

How benevolent my uncle and aunt are! they are as much interested about Bessy as if they had always known her; and my uncle’s manner is so kind and so cheerful, that he raises the spirits of the poor old couple whenever they see him.

16th.—My cousins are such gardeners, particularly Mary and Wentworth, that they have made me wish to become one too. Caroline is not so fond of gardening as the others, though she has some very pretty flowers, and labours a good deal. She has given a large portion of her garden to little Frederick, who is her particular charge. He calls himself her little boy, and he is so indeed, for she teaches him most of what he learns, reads with him, and makes herself quite his companion.

When we were gathering a few still lingering roses to-day in Mary’s garden, I said that I began to think that I should like to manage a little garden as well as they did.

“Huzza!” exclaimed Wentworth and Frederick; “I knew she would become one of us at last.”

“Oh yes,” said Mary; “I have been expecting this; I always knew that Bertha was not really indolent. Now she will no longer sigh after

“And now,” said Frederick, “to encourage the poor child, we must give her a little bit of ground rent free. I will give her a bed in my territory.”

“And I—and I,” said each; “we must all contribute to her garden.” “And so must I too,” said little Grace; “I will give her a share of my garden, and I will teach her how to shell the seeds, and then to sow them.”

When my uncle and aunt came in from riding, my cousins went in a body to tell him how they intended to manage. For that is one of the happy things in this family, dear Mamma, as I heard some one remark lately; they feel a mutual interest in each other’s pursuits, and my uncle and aunt are always ready to assist them in accomplishing their little plans, whether serious or playful. There is no jealousy or mystery—all is open; and, though ready to assist each other, they never officiously interfere in one another’s occupations, because each has abundance of their own.

But I must continue my history. When they had told my uncle of their intended donations, he said, in his playful manner, “Most puissant friends, if I were allowed a voice in this affair, I would say that Bertha ought to have an independent portion, which she could cultivate or spoil, to her own satisfaction. If your aunt has no objection, I will give her a certain spot near Caroline’s garden, which requires a good deal to be done to put it into order. A little steady employment will be of great use in breaking her into the noble science of horticulture; and she can lay out her domain to her own taste. May I hope this suggestion meets with your approbation?”

“Oh yes,” said Wentworth; “we all approve of your amendment, Papa, though we are sorry not to have the pleasure of making a general contribution in her behalf. However, I know she will require help; and I engage to be her labourer, and do all her hard work.”

“And I,” said Frederick, “will be her little garden boy—her slave, if she likes; for I know she comes from a country where slaves are employed.”

“Well then, Bertha,” said my uncle, “I will shew you this piece of ground; and, if you like it, you shall have it on three conditions. The first is, that you never work long enough to fatigue yourself. These creatures have been little labourers and tillers of the earth ever since their infancy, but you are not accustomed to it, and I like moderation in every thing—in work as well as in play. Condition the second—that you really learn to garden, and do not blindly go through a certain routine of operations, because others do. Mere imitation is a bad rule of conduct, whether in gardening or any other action of life. You must learn the why and the wherefore of what you do. Condition the third—that all your implements be regularly put in their proper places every day, when you have done; and that you have a basket to carry seeds, and knife, and all other small affairs.”

I promised to adhere to his conditions; and as soon as luncheon was over, we went to the place. It extends from Caroline’s garden, towards a little stream which skirts the shrubbery, and comes very near my aunt’s flower-garden. Frederick has undertaken to connect them by a bridge, and I have already formed a multitude of plans for laying out this little spot.

17th.—Caroline has allowed me to make the following extract, from a letter that she received this morning from Hertford:—

“There are some marine animals here which I cannot find mentioned in any of the books we have with us; and one species, my companion says, has very rarely been observed in the British seas. These animals belong to a gregarious family, and often adhere together, but in a manner that is peculiar to each species. In this new species they are linked together endways, so that the whole forms a chain. They move forwards by swallowing, and suddenly emitting the water; and it is amusing to observe the whole chain of many feet in length, swimming with an undulating motion, resembling that of a serpent. They are quite transparent, and the adhesion is so slight, that the least force separates them. We put some in a bucket of water, but they did not like the confinement, and died in half an hour.

“That interesting phenomenon—luminous sea-water, is seen here in autumn in great brilliancy. It certainly does not proceed from any ingredient of the water itself, but from the phosphorescent property of living animals; and from what I can learn, there are a great many other tribes that possess this power of giving light, besides those described in Dr. Macartney’s ingenious paper, which you and I read together. I am informed, that Sir Charles Giesecke discovered several new species on the coast of Greenland, which were not only luminous when alive, but retained this property even when broken to pieces by the violence of the sea. They have been well called the glow-worms of the deep, by a writer, whose account of these islands has been a great assistance to me in my tour.

“I have much more to tell you on this subject when we meet; but now the wind is fair for my voyage to St. Kilda, and all hands are waiting for me.”

18th. Sunday.—There was some little argument going on at breakfast, this morning, between Frederick and Wentworth, on the question of resisting injury and injustice, or of passively submitting, according to the injunction of the Gospel; and my uncle took advantage of it to say a few words on the subject, lest we should mistake between the real meaning and the figurative expression.

“It has been charged against the Gospel,” he said, “that it teaches men to feel towards their enemies in a manner which is compatible only with an abject, slavish temper, and that it directs what it is impossible to practise; not only forbidding retaliation, but inculcating patience under the grossest ill-usage; as in these passages: ‘Love your enemies, bless them which curse you. Resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ But such objections can only be urged against the mere words; they do not apply to the spirit of the precept. It is a forbearing disposition—a slowness to resent—a readiness to make allowance for the passions of others, which is meant; for, in many instances, it would be totally unreasonable to take them in their literal meaning. These texts, and others of the same nature, were intended to counteract the misinterpretation of the Jewish doctors; who, because the Mosaic code enjoined exact retaliation in the punishment of crimes by the regular sentence of the judge, perverted that into a permission to indulge in private revenge; and who were notorious, also, for want of charity in their feelings and conduct to all persons not of their own nation or sect. It was in consequence of these corrupt prejudices, that our Lord inculcated, with peculiar emphasis, the contrary principles of forbearance, forgiveness, and kindness, to those who had offended; and he illustrated these precepts by striking and familiar instances.

“It appears, from various other passages, also, that it was not the literal rule which Christ meant strictly to enforce in every instance, but the spirit of it—that is, the temper of humility, the control of all violent and selfish impulses, and the patience and submission which are the effects of self-control;—above all, the pausing to put ourselves in the place of the offender, before we give way even to just resentment; so that, by supposing the fault our own, we may consider in what light it would then appear to us, and, consequently, lead us to act towards others as we should wish to be acted by. Our Saviour meant that we should have a willingness to forgive, and that we should habituate our hearts to that amiable benevolence which disposes us, under real provocation, to pardon, and even to promote the good of those who have injured us. It is astonishing how soon we can acquire the habit of not gratifying resentment.

“One strong proof that it was never intended that we should understand these rules too literally is, that we find, by the instructions of our Lord to his apostles, as well as by their own subsequent conduct, that they did not recommend or practise either perfect insensibility under injuries, or indifference to their character. They occasionally resorted to such legal and innocent means of guarding their safety and good name, as were compatible with their situation and their peculiar mission. When, therefore, we see undoubted malignity in the conduct of others towards us, we are justified in guarding against its repetition; but Christianity binds us, at the same time, to moderation, and to omit no opportunity of benefiting and reforming our enemy, whose heart may be softened by the control we exercise over our feelings, and who may often be changed, and rendered more Christian, merely by our forbearance.”

My uncle said he dwelt the longer upon this important subject, because every other virtue, he thinks, rests on self-control.

19th.—Well, dear Mamma, I have taken possession of my garden; and now I hope I shall not grow tired of it, or disgrace myself by having it ill kept. One part of it had been a little nursery for rose trees, rhododendrons, and other flowering shrubs. That, and the large bed near it, which is rather moist, have become very weedy; but the front beds, and the slope down to the brook, are in very good order; and when the annuals, which are now in seed there, are removed, I shall begin to dig. The moist bed is to be trenched; and as this is the best time for transplanting deciduous shrubs, as well as almost all plants, I shall have plenty of work on my hands. I may have as many shrubs as I please, and I am to have advice from all these gardeners, particularly Mary, who does every thing at the right season. She has some nice cards, on which are written hints of what is to be done in each month; and, as they hang in her room, I can easily see there what I am to do: besides which, I intend to read a little in their gardening books, that I may understand what I am about. I look forward, with great pleasure, to this new employment, though I know I shall always feel disappointed at not having my garden full of the bright and glowing flowers that I have been accustomed to see. It must look, I fear, as sombre as the forest and the valley do, when I compare them with those of my former country. But they tell me that I must not judge now of the look either of the garden or of the country, as spring will give them a very different appearance; and, indeed, I must confess that, gloomy as the season is becoming, the well-sheltered fields, with the cattle quietly browsing, or tamely going home, at regular hours, to be milked, do look exceedingly cheerful.