BERTHA’S VISIT. (continued 4)

This day was one of those lovely, mild, sunny days in October, of which I have often heard you speak.

We staid out till sunset, enjoying the balmy air and amusing ourselves capping verses. This we are all very fond of, and all strove hard for victory; but I must confess that Mary was most frequently the conqueror.

14th.—It has surprised every body how much knowledge these Miss Lumleys have acquired; and yesterday, when we were out walking, my aunt expressed this surprise to Mrs. Lumley.

“Next to the great principles of religion and morality,” she replied, “we endeavoured from their infancy to give them habits of exactness, which we have always found lead not only to regularity and economy of time, but become great preservatives of truth. On such a foundation it was not difficult to engraft the love of knowledge; and literature was always made an indulgence, not a task. After affectionately helping me in our many coarse and laborious works, they first sympathised in the pleasure they perceived I felt, when I had time to read a few pages of some interesting history or poem; and, from sympathy, they soon began to taste the pleasure themselves.”

They continued the conversation till dinnertime, and both seemed equally pleased at finding how exactly they agreed in their sentiments on education. In the evening, after some music, my aunt, who had been particularly gratified with the piety that appeared in every thing that had dropped from Mrs. Lumley, but who knew that very good people sometimes differed in opinion on trifling matters, said to her, “I should be inclined to play some lively tunes, and set our young people to dance; but I am not sure whether you approve of dancing, and in such a slight thing I would not offend opinions that I am sure deserve respect.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “I feel, just as you do, great pleasure in seeing young people cheerful, and enjoying amusements suited to their age; nor can I find in any part of that Book which should be our guide, one word to indicate the impropriety of social amusement—if moderately indulged in, and not made the business of life. Moderation, in all things, I do indeed enjoin. My daughters, I fear, can ill take a part in a dance with yours—but I shall be delighted to see my good, homely girls amused. I must add,” continued she, “that I should be sorry you mistook my opinions; misfortune has made me think seriously, but not harshly. It has given me deeper views of religion than I had in the careless hours of prosperity, but at the same time it has convinced me how much more there is of affected singularity than of real religion, in prohibiting a moderate degree of amusement. It is very probable that I might have become enthusiastic or melancholy, had it not been for the friendship of Mr. Benson, that good clergyman who lives near us. It is not too much to say, that in his conduct, as well as in his sentiments, he shews the happiest union of Christian piety with all the social virtues; and that his profound learning on the most important of all subjects, is embellished by the graces and knowledge of this world.”

My aunt then sat down to the piano-forte, and summoned us all to dance. Mr. L. and my uncle were so good as to join our party, and we danced very merrily for about an hour; and so ends our last night with these very engaging Lumleys.

MRS. LUMLEY’S HYMN.

15th.—Mr. Lumley said the other day, that the inhabitants of the Apennines were like the people of Auvergne in their manners; so I took an opportunity this morning of asking my aunt some questions about them. She told me, that Auvergne has been very little known till lately; even the remarkable fact, that the whole district is a collection of extinct volcanoes, has not been very long discovered. It has been visited by few travellers, and the people seem to have had but little intercourse with their neighbours. Bakewell’s Travels were in the room, and she gave me the following passages to read.

“It was market day, and we met a long train of carts with wood, each drawn by four oxen, coming to Clermont. The dress and appearance of the mountaineers who were conducting the carts, were very striking; with immense broad-brimmed hats, long, lank hair, gaunt features, and striped cloth cloaks, that reached nearly to their feet, they bore no resemblance to Frenchmen, and they spoke a different language. I believe they are the descendants from the same race who resisted Cæsar, for whatever changes may have taken place in other parts of France, none of the warlike hordes who ravaged the more fertile parts of the country in succeeding ages, would have wished to take possession of the sterile mountains of Auvergne, or to undertake the task of driving out the original inhabitants. I was much surprised, on entering some of the houses, to observe that the lamps, waterpots, and other earthenware vessels, were of the same form as the Etruscan vessels from Herculaneum; they are doubtless made after models transmitted from very remote antiquity, as vessels of these forms are not found in any other parts of France that I have visited. The music of the Auvergnats is the bagpipe.

“Many of the families in the lower or middle rank of life, have small vineyards, and make wine for their own use. A freehold vineyard, which costs two hundred francs, or about eight pounds sterling, produced wine, more than sufficient for a family of five persons, as we were informed by one of these little proprietors. They cultivate the vineyards themselves; and seem to live in contented and obscure independence, relying on their own industry for every thing, and preserving the customs of their remote ancestors.”

16th. Sunday.—The history of our first parents, and the nature of their transgression, was the subject of our conversation this morning. Towards the end of it, my uncle said, “It is a strange error, though some sensible people seem to have fallen into it, to doubt the truth of this early part of sacred history, because the eating of a certain fruit was apparently too trifling to be considered a trial of obedience. But there is one circumstance which they do not seem to have sufficiently considered; that, if it was necessary to lay Adam under some small restraint, to remind him, that notwithstanding his dominion over all things, he was still the servant of the Most High; a trial of his obedience to any moral precepts could scarcely have been made, for there was no opportunity at that time of violating them. For instance, there was nothing to tempt him to idolatry, when every recent circumstance must have carried with it a conviction of the single power of the Almighty; and when the impression of the Creator’s beneficent agency was kept alive by the frequent visits of his glorious presence. Highly favoured creatures, the voice of their God was a sound familiar to their ears!

“As there were no other inhabitants in the world, it was impossible to steal, murder, covet, or commit any crime against society. It had been, therefore, vain indeed, to forbid that which could not be done. There could be no virtue in abstaining from crimes to which there was no temptation. But there would have been virtue in submitting to the commands of God, who required only this simple abstinence, in token of their subjection; and no matter how small the trial, it was their part to have obeyed. It pleases God to try our virtue sometimes with very small temptations, and the weakness with which we transgress in the least things, may convince us that we are not very capable of resisting great temptations.

“Insignificant creatures that we are, with narrow views and limited perceptions; we are always ready to arraign the decrees of the Supreme Disposer of all, and to wonder why things are not otherwise. I have read a good remark, made by Philo a learned Jew, which may apply to this presumptuous disposition of mankind. In treating of the plagues of Egypt, he says, ‘Some inquire why God punished the country by such minute and contemptible animals, as flies and frogs, rather than by lions, leopards, or other savage beasts that prey on man. But let them reflect, that God chose rather to correct, than to destroy the inhabitants—if he had desired to annihilate them utterly, he had no need to have made use of any auxiliaries. Let them remember, also, that when God—the source of all power—who stands in need of no assistance, chooses to employ instruments, as it were, to inflict chastisement; instead of the strongest, he selects the mean and the despicable—but which, in his service, are endowed with irresistible force.’”

17th.—As my uncle saw how much I was interested about the Laplanders, and their reindeer, he was so good as to read to us, last night, an account of them, from De Capell Brooke’s travels, a very entertaining book, which has been lately published. I will transcribe a little of it here, as I know Marianne will like to see it.

“My landlord having received intelligence that the Laplanders, with their reindeer, were within a mile of Fugleness, I was anxious to avail myself of the opportunity of seeing them. After an hour’s walk, we found the tent and its owner, Per Mathison; and inside the tent, into which we crept, Marit, his wife, was busy preparing the utensils for milking the deer, and making the cheese. She was not more than four feet nine inches high, and of a brown complexion, which seemed more the result of habitual dirt, and of living constantly in smoke, than of nature. She had on her summer dress of dirty white cloth, girt round by a belt, to which was suspended a small knife; and her komagers, or shoes, were of strong leather, forming a peak at the toes. On her head she wore a high cap, made partly of cloth, and partly of bits of coloured calico. This cap is peculiar to the Norwegian Lapland, and is rather elegant in its shape. Though wild and uncouth, her manners did not betray the surliness so conspicuous in her husband. The latter was dressed in reindeer fawn skins, which, being thin and pliable, were not likely to be too warm.

“Another Laplander and his wife lived in the same tent. This man seemed to be a partner of Per Mathison; their deer were mixed together, but the superior number belonged to the latter, and he was evidently head of the family, which was easily perceived, from his idleness and inactivity, mixed with a kind of gruff independence, that bespoke a laird of the mountains. He had, for the last two summers, brought his herd of deer to the mountains of Whale Island, from the interior of Norwegian Lapland—a distance of more than two hundred miles. Here he remained between two and three months; and, before the approach of winter, again returned to his native forests.

“In about two hours, the distant barking of the dogs indicated the coming of the deer, which we at last discerned winding slowly along the mountains, at the distance of near a mile, appearing like a black moving mass. They now approached the fold, which was a large space that had been cleared of the brushwood, and inclosed by branches of dwarf birch and aspen, stuck around to prevent the deer from straying. As the herd came up to it, the deer made frequent snortings; and a loud crackling was heard, produced by their divided hoofs striking against each other. These animals, being endued with an exquisite sense of smelling, soon perceived there were strangers near; and our appearance, so different from the dress of the Laplanders to which they had been accustomed, alarmed them to such a degree, that it was necessary for us to retire till they had entered the fold. After some difficulty, the whole herd were at length collected within the circle; and the women, bringing their bowls from the tent, began the operation of milking, which, as some hundreds of deer were assembled, was likely to take up a considerable time. In this both the men and women were busily employed. Before each deer was milked, a cord with a noose was thrown round the horns, by which it was secured and kept steady. The Laplanders are extremely expert at this; and it was surprising to see the exactness with which the noose was thrown from a distance; hardly ever failing to light upon the horns of the deer for which it was intended, though in the thickest of the herd. The cord for this purpose was made of the fibres of the birch, very neatly plaited together, and exceedingly strong. During the short time the animal was milking, this cord was either held by one of the women, or made fast to a birch shrub; some of the thickest having been stripped of their leaves, and left standing for this purpose. Many of the deer, instead of being tractable, as I had imagined, were very refractory, frequently even throwing the women down, and hurting them with their horns. They seemed very little to mind this; but, strong as the Laplanders are, they appeared to have little power over these animals, for when one had the cord round its horns, and refused to be milked, it dragged the holder with ease round the fold. The quantity of milk that each deer gave scarcely exceeded a tea-cup full; but it was extremely luscious, of a fine aromatic flavour, and richer than cream. Of this we eagerly partook, after we had permission; which, however, Per Mathison did not at first seem willing to grant, but his sullen nature was soon softened by brandy.

“In the middle of the herd of deer, suspended to the branches of a low birch, was a child about a year old, enclosed in a kind of cradle, or case covered with leather. The Laplanders, when obliged to go any distance from their tents, frequently leave their children thus suspended on a tree, by which they are secured from the attack of any ravenous animal.

“It was past midnight before the whole of the herd was milked. The sun had left the heavens about an hour, but a deep orange tint, on the verge of the horizon, shewed that it was not far below it. The deer were at length turned out from the fold; and, spreading themselves along the sides of the mountains, were quickly lost to our view. The Laplanders now collecting the milk, which amounted to a considerable quantity, proceeded with it to the tent, inviting us to supper. We crept in, and seated ourselves on reindeer skins, which were strewed on the ground. The business of making cheese now commenced: and Marit, emptying the milk from the bowls into a large iron pot, placed it over a fire, in the centre of the tent, the smoke of which annoyed us much. In a short time, the milk assumed the appearance of curd; and, being taken off, was placed in small moulds, made of beech wood, and pressed together. The number of cheeses thus made amounted to about eight, of the size of a common plate, and barely an inch in thickness. The whey and curds that remained were for our supper, though the dirty habits of the people much diminished my appetite.

“After supper was finished, and the bowls and other utensils removed to a corner of the tent, fresh wood was placed on the fire, which again enveloped us in smoke. On its burning up, the flames reached the cheeses, which had been placed on a board directly over the fire, that the smoke might harden them. Their richness and the heat caused large drops of oil to trickle from them, which the men licked up with evident relish.

“The whole group was a curious one. Opposite to us, around the fire, were the uncouth figures of the Laplanders, squatting on their haunches. In one corner were two children asleep in deer-skins; and more than twenty small dogs were also reposing about us. It was soon time for the men to commence their nightly employment of watching the deer, and accordingly one of them left the tent. On making a signal, about half the dogs, whose turn it was to commence the watch, started suddenly up, and followed their master to the mountains. I was greatly surprised to find the rest take no notice of the summons, and remain quietly stretched on their deer-skins, well aware, singular as it may seem, that it was not their turn.”

18th.—Mary is reading Waddington’s Visit to Ethiopia and Dongola, and she shewed me an account in it of the mirage, that most curious deception of the sight.

In crossing the immense sandy plain near Askán, in Dongola, Mr. W. says they had a good view of the mirage. It assumed at first the appearance of a broad winding stream, which he mistook for the Nile. It then changed rather suddenly from a river to a sea, covering the whole of the horizon in front of the party; while castles, trees, and rocks seemed to stand in the middle of the water, in which those objects were most distinctly reflected. The apparent distance of the nearest part was continually changing from one quarter to three quarters of a mile.

At Bakkil Mr. W. saw another beautiful mirage; and he remarks that the two or three places where he had seen this phenomenon in the greatest perfection, were peculiarly frequented by the antelope, as if she loved the banks of that fairy sea, and delighted to gaze upon its fugitive waters. It is a singular coincidence with this observation, that the mirage is called by the Arabs of the Desert,—the lake of the gazelles.

I was anxious to learn something further on this curious subject, and not knowing what books to consult, I applied to my uncle. He tells me that a species of mirage is very common at sea; distant ships seem grotesquely caricatured by it either in length or in height; and sometimes, over the real vessel, an inverted picture of it appears suspended in the sky, with the masts of each prolonged, so as to unite. A similar effect was observed in the desert by the French, in their Egyptian expedition; the villages appearing distorted, or raised above their natural level, or as if built on an island in the middle of a lake. As they approached, the apparent surface of the water became narrower and narrower, till it disappeared; and the same deceptive appearance began again at the next village. But all travellers through sandy plains, in hot climates, mention this kind of optical deception, and particularly that of its having the appearance of water. Some of them, after having travelled for hours in a burning desert, faint and exhausted, have had their spirits revived by the sight of water, and have eagerly pushed on to refresh themselves and their poor camels; you may judge of their disappointment when they perceived that it was all illusion.

Another very remarkable instance of mirage, my uncle says, has been more than once seen at Reggio, in the straits of Messina, where it is called the Fata Morgana. When the rays of the sun form an angle of about 45° with the sea, and that the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed by wind or current, if the spectator be placed with his back to the sun, there suddenly appears on the water the most incomprehensible variety of objects—pilasters, arches, and castles, lofty towers and extensive palaces, with all their balconies and windows—or perhaps trees, vallies, and plains, with their herds and flocks—armies of men, on foot and on horseback, and many other strange objects; all in their natural colours, and all in action, passing rapidly in succession along the surface of the sea. But if, besides the circumstances before described, the atmosphere happens to be loaded with a dense vapour, which the sun had not previously dispersed, the observer will behold a representation of the same objects in the air, as if traced there on a curtain; though not so distinct or well defined as those on the sea. These curious appearances were fancifully called by the Italians, the castles of the Fairy Morgana.

My uncle says that the celebrated Dr. Wollaston has proved, by some very ingenious experiments, that they arise from the irregular refraction of the rays of light, in passing through contiguous portions of air, of different densities. One of these experiments he was so good as to shew us; and as it is so simple, that Marianne can easily try it, I will endeavour to describe it here.

He put a little clear syrup into a square phial, and then poured about an equal quantity of water into it, over the syrup. The phial was set on the table, and having placed a printed card about an inch behind it, he made us observe that when we looked through the syrup, or through the water, the letters on the card appeared erect; but, that when they were seen through that part where the two fluids were gradually mixing together, the letters were equally distinct, but inverted. A similar effect, he said, may be produced with hot and cold water, or even by two portions of cold and heated air; and to shew us this, he performed another very easy experiment. He placed two of the library chairs back to back, and about a foot apart; he connected the tops of the chairs with two bits of strong wire, and on the wires he laid the kitchen poker, the square end of which he had made red hot. Exactly in the direction of the poker he pinned a large printed A upon the wall, which was about ten feet distant; and then desired us to look at it along the heated poker. We did so, and we all distinctly saw three images of the A, the middle one being inverted, and the two others erect.

Dear mamma, how this reminded me of the day when you first explained to us the meaning of refraction, and shewed us the pretty little experiment of the stick, which appeared to bend just at the surface of the water. How often I now feel the benefit of all your patient instruction, and how often I wish I had your excellent memory, which enabled you to teach us so many things, without having any books to assist you!

20th.—My cousins like Eastern tales just as much as I do—and my uncle speaks of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments as if he was still a boy. He thinks that they are not only very ingenious, but that many of the apparent wonders, which are related as supernatural, may be easily explained, by means of the chemical and philosophical knowledge which is too generally supposed to be the result of late discoveries. I should like to read over all my favourite tales with him, for the benefit of his explanations. What brought them into my mind now, was a pretty little anecdote which I once heard him tell Grace, and which she has just been repeating to me.

In Khorasân, there was a certain old caravanserai, called Zafferounee, which was once so very extensive, as to contain seventeen hundred chambers, besides baths and shops, and besides accommodation for thousands of cattle within its walls. It is said to have been erected by one of those wealthy Eastern merchants, who delighted in perpetuating their names by acts of public utility. While it was building, and a large quantity of straw and clay were mixing up for that purpose on the road near it, a cafilah, consisting of a hundred camels, loaded with saffron, chanced to pass; and one of them, slipping into the clay, fell, and was disabled. Their owner inveighed bitterly against those who by so carelessly doing their work on the public road, had occasioned such a serious loss to him. The merchant, who was himself superintending the progress of the building, on hearing these complaints, inquired what might be the value not only of the camel, which had been disabled, but of all the rest; and purchasing the whole on the spot, ordered the saffron to be tumbled into the clay, and worked up with it, instead of chopped straw. It was from this that the caravanserai obtained the name of Zafferounee, or Saffron.

This rich merchant, however, fell afterwards into difficulties, as might have been expected, from his extravagance, and at last became a beggar. Travelling in search of subsistence, into foreign countries, he happened to visit the place where the camel-driver, now grown immensely rich, lived in splendour. It came to the ears of the latter, that a stranger, in poverty, who spoke of his former riches in Khorasân, was living wretchedly in the town; and suspecting that this might be his old benefactor, he invited him to his house; and after feasting him superbly, induced him to relate his history: when, in concluding it, the unhappy Khorasânee described his destitute condition, the other interrupted him, saying, “How can you call yourself poor, when you are, in reality, a man possessed of great riches?” “Ah! no,” replied the other; “once, indeed, I had much wealth, but all is gone; and I am now a beggar!” On this his host carried him to a secret chamber, which was full of money—“This,” said he, “is all yours; it is the price of the saffron which you so liberally purchased from me: I have traded upon it and become rich, but the original sum I have always reserved as belonging to you; take it now, and live happily.”

Grace is always encouraged to repeat to others the little stories which are told to her: I wish you could have heard her relating this to us before tea.

22d.—Well, I am in actual possession of the old quarry. Having settled all my plans, I at once set to work, and my uncle was so good as to let me have one of the workmen to help me, because he said my ideas were rational. The opening of the quarry fronts the south-west; the rock at the back is high and steep, and a spring, which trickles from it, keeps the part which had been most deeply worked constantly full of water. In this I have put several pretty water-plants—Mr. Biggs, I know, lays a quantity of peat compost in his pond; but though I have not been able to obtain that yet, I have planted the white and the yellow water lily, which the gardener found for me a few miles off. A thick skreen of shrubs has been planted by my uncle’s directions, above the rocks to the north, but no forest trees, for in a short time they would outgrow the place which they ornament only while young.

The middle and southern parts of the quarry are to be sloped and dressed; all the briars have been already taken out, and the loose splinters of the quarry are spread on the surface of the bank. Upon these, the gardener has laid a mixture of peat earth and sand, which he had to spare; and here I intend to have an incomparable bed of strawberries.

South of these, and where the rocky bank sinks, I am filling up the hollow and uneven spots with the same mixture and rotten leaves; for Mr. Biggs says that the natural soil of the beautiful North American shrubs is chiefly formed of decayed vegetables.

Groups of rhododendron, azalea, kalmia, and many more, which, as I have learnt from that delightful book, Miller’s dictionary, are suited to that soil and aspect, are to flourish there; and by Mary’s advice, they are to be mixed with some of the Scotch roses. These are rather scarce here; but Mr. Biggs has been so generous as to send me a small piece of the root of each of his own rose bushes. There are a few fibres on them, and he assures me they will sprout in spring—so it will be a good experiment at least. I shall also have a little grass plat, with a few small beds for choice flowers, which I expect will blossom very early in this little snug spot.

I have planted some of the lobelia fulgens, and a hydrangea, which is a native of marshy ground, near the edge of the pond—and when spring comes, I hope to execute many other grand plans which I have formed, from hearing Mr. Biggs. My cousins approve of them, and all help me, and Mary wonders she never thought of adorning the old quarry before.

I am now very busy in making a bed for ixia, gladiolis, lachenalia, and oxalis—they are usually in a greenhouse, but I hear that, if planted late in October, in a soil composed of peat earth, and sharp sand, and over this, if a layer of peat, eight inches thick, be laid, to prevent the frost from reaching them, they will be in beautiful blossom in spring. I will try this—my uncle encourages experiment; he says it is the high road to truth—and he assists all who wish to travel on it.

23rd., Sunday.—I asked my uncle this morning to tell me the meaning of Noah’s prediction, “God shall enlarge Japhet, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem.” In reply, he told us the opinions of a very learned person, for whose writings he has a high respect; and I will endeavour to give you the substance of what he said.

“The most obvious meaning of the expression is, that Providence would bless Japhet with a numerous progeny, which should not only spread over an ample tract of country, but that they would afterwards encroach on the territory of Shem’s descendants. And this sense of the words is supported by history; for the whole of Europe, and a considerable part of Asia, was originally peopled, and has been always occupied, by Japhet’s offspring, who, not contented with their own possessions, have repeatedly made encroachments on the sons of Shem; as, for instance, when Alexander the Great, with an European army, attacked and overthrew the Persian monarchy; when the Romans subjected a great part of the East; and still more, when the Tartar conquerors of the race of Genghis Khan destroyed the empire of the Caliphs, took possession of their country, and made settlements in all parts of Asia. Tamerlane also led his Moguls, who were another branch of Japhet’s progeny, into Hindostan; and their descendants gradually obtained possession of that immense country, a part of Shem’s original inheritance. These events, and others of the same nature, may be considered as the accomplishment of that prophecy; not only because they answer to the natural import of its terms, but because they have had great influence on the state of true religion in various parts of the world; so that in this interpretation we find the two circumstances which are the characteristics of a true interpretation,—an agreement with the facts recorded in history, and a connection of the particular prediction with the general system of the prophetic word.

“It would seem, however, that some amicable intercourse between parts of those two great families is implied by the expression, ‘Japhet’s dwelling in the tents of Shem’; for the settlements made by the Portuguese, English, Dutch, and French in different parts of India, which was a part of Shem’s inheritance, may be taken in this sense. And consequences cannot but arise of great importance, from such numerous and extensive settlements of Christians, in countries where the light of the Gospel has been for ages extinguished.

“There is still a third sense: but in order to make it more apparent, it will be proper to consider the precise meaning of Shem’s blessing—a blessing obliquely conveyed in this emphatic ejaculation, ‘Blessed be Jehovah, the God of Shem!’ This evidently implied that Jehovah was to be more peculiarly the God of Shem; and in the same sense that he afterwards vouchsafed to call himself the God of one branch of Shem’s progeny—of Abraham, Isaac, and of Jacob, and of their descendants the Jewish people. Although the universal Father of all the nations of the earth, he may be said to have more particularly adopted the descendants of Shem, in choosing them to be the depositaries of the true religion, while the rest of mankind were sunk in idolatry and ignorance. Among them he preserved the knowledge and worship of himself, by a series of miraculous dispensations; to them he confided the representative priesthood, the type of the Messiah; and when the destined season came, he raised the Messiah himself from among the offspring of that chosen family.

“But the expression, ‘the tents (or tabernacles) of Shem,’ alludes to the Jewish tabernacle, which was one of the external means of preserving the worship of the true God. The word in Hebrew is the same for both tent and tabernacle. This holy tent was Shem’s tabernacle, because it was entrusted to his descendants, and because none but them might bear a part in its sacred service. Now this tabernacle, and this service, were undoubtedly emblems of the Christian church and Christian worship. It appears, then, that in the mention of the tents of Shem, Noah was inspired to make allusion to the Jewish tabernacle, as the symbol of the Christian dispensation; and that the dwelling of Japhet in those tents of Shem, took place when the idolatrous nations of Japhet’s line became converted to the faith of Christ, and worshipped the God of Shem in Shem’s tabernacles; that is, worshipped God in the truth and spirit of revealed religion.

“This prediction, therefore, bears directly upon the general object of all the prophecies—the union of all nations in the faith of Christ. And the fact is notorious, that the Gospel has, from the beginning to the present time, made the greatest progress in Europe, where the early and wide-spreading conversions of the idolaters of Japhet’s line (among whom were our own ancestors) soon led to encroachments on the territory of Shem.

“How grateful should we be,” my uncle added, “to those learned men who thus elucidate the difficult passages in Scripture, and shew the beautiful harmony of the whole prophetic system!”

24th.—I am reading “Bartram’s Travels in North America.” It is not a late publication, but very interesting to me, as I like to compare the productions of North and South America.

Among all the beautiful trees of our Southern regions, I do not recollect having seen or heard of the deciduous cypress, the majestic grandeur of which, he says, is surprising. It generally grows in low flat grounds, that are covered, part of the year, with water. The lower part of the stem, which is frequently under water, enlarges into prodigious buttresses; and they project on every side to such a distance, that several men might hide in the recesses between them. The stem is generally hollow as high as the buttresses reach, where it forms, as it were, another beginning, and rises, in a straight uninterrupted column, to the height of 80 or 90 feet. There it throws out its noble branches like an umbrella; eagles securely build their nests in them; they are the abode of hundreds of parroquets, who delight in shelling the seeds; and even the hollow stem is not untenanted, as it affords spacious apartments for the wild bees.

The trunks supply excellent timber; and, when hollowed out, make large and durable canoes. When the planters fell these mighty trees, they erect a high stage round them, so as to reach above the buttresses; and on these stages eight or ten men can work together, with their axes.

Another curious fact which I found in this book is, that the inhabitants of East Florida prepare, from the root of the China briar, a very agreeable sort of jelly, which they call conti. They chop the root in pieces, which are afterwards pounded in a wooden mortar; and, when washed and strained, the sediment that settles to the bottom dries into a reddish flour. A small quantity of this, mixed with warm water and sweetened with honey, becomes a delicious jelly, when cool; or, mixed with corn flour and fried in fresh bear’s oil, it makes very nice cakes.

26th.—I have just found, in “Bartram’s Travels,” some particulars that I do not think we knew before, of that curious species of the Tillandsia, commonly called long moss.

It grows on all trees in the southern regions of North America; and any part of the living plant, torn off and caught on the branches of another tree, immediately takes root. Wherever it fixes, it spreads into long pendent filaments, which subdivide themselves in an endless manner, waving in the wind like streamers, to the length of twenty feet. It is common to find the spaces between the boughs of large trees entirely occupied by masses of this plant, which, in bulk and weight, would require several men to carry. In some places, cart loads of it are found lying on the ground, torn off by the violence of the wind. When fresh, cattle and deer eat it in the winter season; and when dry, it is employed for stuffing chairs, saddles, and beds; but to prepare it properly for these purposes, it is thrown into shallow ponds of water, where the outside furry substance soon decays: it is then taken out of the water and spread in the sun; and, after a little beating, nothing remains but a hard, black, elastic filament, resembling horse-hair.

There is a curious anecdote about the name of this plant, in “Harry and Lucy concluded;” but I need not mention it here, because my uncle has sent that delightful little book to you, and I am sure Marianne will have run through it with as much eagerness as I did.

28th.—I have just found some more instances of those strange optical deceptions, which seem to be of the same nature as the Fata Morgana. My aunt thinks that the term mirage only applies to the deceitful waters of the desert.

Mr. Dalby writes in the Philosophical Transactions that, ascending a hill in the Isle of Wight, he observed that the top of another hill, of about the same level, seemed to dance up and down as he advanced; and on bringing his eye down to within two feet of the ground, the top of the hill appeared totally detached, or lifted up from the lower part, the sky being seen under it. This he repeatedly observed; and he adds, that as the sun was rather warm for the season, with a heavy dew, there was a great deal of evaporation going on.

Another very singular example of these extraordinary appearances in the atmosphere, is given by Dr. Buchan. Walking on the cliff, about a mile east of Brighton, in the latter end of November, just as the sun was rising, he saw the face of the cliff on which he was standing represented precisely opposite to him, at some distance in the sea; and both he and his companion perceived their own figures standing on the summit of the apparent cliff, as well as the picture of a windmill near them. This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, when it seemed to be elevated into the air, and to be gradually dissipated; and he remarks, that the surface of the sea was covered with a dense fog many yards in height, which slowly receded before the sun’s rays.

How frequently it happens, when the curiosity has been awakened by any new subject, that chance leads one to some circumstance in books, or conversation, that exactly applies to it! By mere accident, I opened Scoresby’s voyage at the following passage, which I have just time to transcribe.

After describing the amusing spectacle of some distant ships, which were either curiously distorted, or inverted in the air, by means of this wonderful kind of refraction, he says, “When looking through the telescope, the coasts of ice, or rock, had often the appearance of the remains of an ancient city, abounding with the ruins of castles, churches, and monuments, with other large and conspicuous buildings. The hills often appear to be surmounted with turrets, battlements, spires, and pinnacles, while others, subjected to another kind of refraction, seem to be large masses of rock, suspended in the air, at a considerable elevation above the actual terminations of the mountains to which they refer. The whole exhibition is a grand and majestic phantasmagoria; scarcely is the appearance of any object fully examined and determined, before it changes to something else; it is perhaps alternately a castle, a cathedral, or an obelisk,—and then expanding and coalescing with the adjoining mountains, it unites the intermediate vallies, though they may be miles in width, by a bridge of a single arch, of the most magnificent appearance.”

29th.—We have been visiting Franklin’s farm to-day, and have had a very pleasant walk, late as it is in the year. He is so diligent, that he has done a great deal to it since we were last there. Between it and the next land he has made a ditch, with a high firm fence of flat stones placed edgeways, in three rows, each row sloping a little, and all supported by a bank of earth behind them; between the two upper rows of stones, he has planted quick-thorns, and on the top of the bank a few young oak and elm trees. The deep ditch will serve to carry off the water from some drains that are to be made in a part of the ground which is wet and marshy. These drains are to be covered with earth; and something must be done to keep them from filling up. Some people line them with stone, but that is too expensive; and as he has just clipped some of his hedges, he intends, I believe, to put the branches of the thorn-bushes into the bottom of the drains, which will also prevent the sides from falling in.

Springs are formed in the bosom of the earth, my uncle says, by the rain water which sinks through the surface, and which, gently oozing, or percolating, as he calls it, through the sand or gravel, or through other porous strata, continues to descend till it is intercepted by some bed of clay or rock. No longer being able to descend, it follows the course of this impassable bed, and if thus conducted to the outside of the ground, lower down the hill, it forms then a spring. But if prevented by any obstacle from flowing freely out of the ground, it diffuses itself under the surface, and produces swamps and marshes. My uncle has been of great use to Franklin, not only by teaching him how to discover from the form of the ground where it is most likely to meet with and tap these concealed springs, but by laying out the drains for him with a levelling instrument, so that they should have sufficient fall into the main ditch, or into a little rivulet which skirts his farm. I could not have conceived that science might be made so useful even in common agriculture.

Franklin is also ploughing a field for wheat—and is going afterwards to plough up another field that looks all rough and ugly—but which is to be left unsown the whole winter; he intends to plough it two or three times, and then in Spring, after it has lain fallow in this way, he will sow it with barley. Another grand operation is the preparing a piece of ground for an orchard; my uncle has promised him some nice young fruit-trees for it; and Franklin, very prudently, brought over some American apple-trees, which he says are very productive.

The blind basket-maker sometimes walks to the farm with the assistance of Bessy’s arm; and it is impossible to see the happiness of the whole family without feeling the strongest interest in their welfare. She now looks quite blooming and healthy; and she is so industrious that besides her in-door occupations, she has persuaded her husband to give her an acre of ground for flax, with which she hopes to do a great deal. This will be a very uncommon crop in this country, but I am sure, from what my uncle says, that it will be very profitable.

30th., Sunday.—We had a conversation this morning on the character of Joseph, which my uncle thinks a fine example of all the Christian virtues. “If we follow him,” said my uncle, “from his youth to the height of his preferment, we see him, in every part of his life, virtuous and religious; patient and courageous under misfortune; modest and temperate in the greatest success. He suffered injustice from his master who imprisoned him, though he had been just and faithful; but under this great trial he had the comfort of knowing that he was innocent. He had the still greater comfort of confiding in the support of God, who, in his own good time, delivered him from prison, and permitted him to be raised to a high situation, where his integrity might be made manifest. Then, if we consider his generous forbearance towards his brethren, how highly does it raise our admiration of his truly amiable disposition! When they were in his power—in just resentment of their former cruelty, he thought it right to mortify and humble them—but no sooner did he see that they were penitent, than his anger ceased.—And when he discovered himself to them, with what kindness and magnanimity he endeavoured to make them less dissatisfied with their former conduct!

“‘Be not grieved nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither; for God did send me before you to preserve life: to preserve you a posterity in the earth. So now it was not you that sent me hither, but God.’

“Can any thing be more touching,” added my uncle, “than his generous anxiety to make his brethren forgive themselves, by shewing the advantages that were ultimately produced by their conduct to him?”

“There is one thing,” said Wentworth, “that I do not understand—why does Joseph say there shall be neither earing nor harvest, as if he meant two separate things?”

“The word earing,” replied my uncle, “sounds as if it meant gathering ripe ears of corn: but it is an old English term for ploughing, and is used in that sense in two other parts of scripture.”

“I had imagined,” said Caroline, “that earing was mentioned in that particular manner, in allusion to some blight, through which the corn should no longer give such an astonishing produce as seven ears to one stalk.”

“No;” said my uncle, “nor was that an unusual produce. A species of wheat still grows in Egypt, which generally bears this number of ears, and the stem is solid, that is, full of pith, in order to support so great a weight. The stem of our own wheat is, you know, a mere hollow straw. You see how necessary it is, my dear children, when you do not perfectly understand what you read or hear, to have courage enough to confess your ignorance, and to ask for explanation.

“Before we finish the subject of Joseph,” he continued, “I will explain another small circumstance, of which perhaps Bertha at least may not be aware. The ancient manner of eating was for each person to have one or more dishes to himself; they were all first set before the master of the feast, who distributed to every one his portion; and as a mark of affection for Benjamin, Joseph sent him five dishes, while he only sent one to each of the others. In Persia and Arabia, every dish that is set before the master of the house is divided into as many portions as there are guests, but those of the greatest rank have by far the largest shares.”

31st.—Mr. R——, a friend of my uncle’s, has been here for a few days, and has amused us very much.

Yesterday he shewed us a Proteus kind of substance; it had at first a milky transparency, and reflected a bluish white light, but when we looked through it, it was yellow. He slightly wetted it, and then it lost all transparency, appearing like chalk. He immersed it completely in water, and the edges became more transparent than before, and at the same time a little gas seemed to escape from it. A small white ball appeared in the centre, but it gradually diminished in size, and the transparency extended through the whole mass.

He afterwards put some of this substance into oils of different colours—the colours it quickly acquired—and when it had completely absorbed the oil it became transparent, but when partially it was opaque. When steeped in oil, coloured with alkanet-root, it had quite the tints of the ruby; from a preparation of copper it imbibed the colour of the emerald; and from some acid exactly that of a Brazilian topaz. He then shewed us that all these brilliant colours could be discharged along with the oil, by exposing the substance to a strong heat.

Fortunately for us, when Mr. R. called here he was on his way home from London, where he had provided himself with these curiosities, and he was so good-natured as to unpack some of his treasures for our gratification.

I was much surprised at these cameleon-like changes; and at last I learned that this substance is the tabasheer, of which I had read something before. It is found in the cavities of the bamboo; while the plants are young, it is fluid, but as they advance in size it hardens. Mr. R. shewed us three specimens; the first was almost transparent, and so tender, that in carelessly taking it up, I crushed it. He was so kind as to say it did not signify, as he had some more; but I determined in future to see without the help of my fingers, as you have often advised me, dear mamma. The second piece was harder and more opaque, having only a little transparency at the edges. The third specimen was perfectly opaque, and looked like a bit of stucco; it was on this piece that he shewed us the curious experiments I have mentioned.

Mr. R. endeavoured to make us comprehend the causes of all those changes which have appeared so contradictory. “In the first place,” said he, “tabasheer is a remarkably porous substance; now if one of the pores be filled with air, a ray of light in passing through it suffers very little refraction, and is therefore so little scattered, that the tabasheer appears transparent, and objects can be partly seen through it. This arises from the small difference between the refractive power of air and of tabasheer. Next,” said he, “suppose a very small quantity of water introduced into this pore, so as not to fill it, but merely to line it with a film; then the light, in passing through the tabasheer, the film of water, the air within, the film again, and lastly the tabasheer, is so much scattered by these six refractions, that the substance appears opaque. But when by complete immersion the pores are filled with water, the multiplied refractions caused by the films and the portions of air within, cease, and the light is more freely transmitted.”

My uncle and Mr. R. talked a long time on the subject, and tried several other experiments, explaining to us the reasons for each step they took; but I have said enough to shew you that I endeavoured to understand what they were doing, and this I am sure will give you pleasure. Indeed the advantages of being able to comprehend something of the conversation of such people is so great, that I cannot sufficiently thank you for having given me a little taste for science. You used to say that there was great danger of making girls conceited by giving them a smattering of science; but I assure you that I shall keep a careful watch over myself in that respect; the little knowledge I have is only a peep-hole through which I see the boundless stores that I can never hope to possess—and surely this can only make me more humble.

Nov. 1st.—I had not time yesterday to say any thing of the plant which produces the tabasheer; and perhaps Marianne might like to have the particulars that we were told.

It is the bamboo-cane, which is of the same natural order as the grasses; it grows in both hemispheres, almost anywhere within the tropics, and very abundantly in the East Indies. The main roots are thick and jointed, and from these joints spring several stems, which are sometimes eighteen inches in circumference at the bottom. These stems or culms are round, hollow, and shining; they grow quite straight, and often to the height of sixty feet; and they are articulated, or knotted; the knots being about a foot apart, and each armed with one or two sharp spines. The leaves are narrow, eight or nine inches long, and supported on short foot stalks; and the flowers grow in large panicles, three or four together, from the joints of the stem.

The stalks of the bamboo, while young, are filled with a spongy substance which contains a sweetish milky juice; but they become hollow as they grow old, except at the joints, where they are crossed by a woody membrane—such as I believe there is in the knots of all culms. Upon that membrane the liquor rests, and concretes into the substance called tabasheer, or sugar of Mombu—which was held in such esteem by the ancients, that it was valued at its weight in silver. It had long been used as a medicine all over the east, but was first made known in Europe by Dr. Russell in 1790.

The young shoots are dark green; and, while tender, make a good pickle; but the old stalks are of a shining yellow colour, and prodigiously hard and durable: they are used in buildings, in all the farming tools, and in all sorts of household furniture. By piercing the joints they are often converted into water-pipes, and they make excellent poles by which the porters carry casks, bales, and palanquins. In the island of Java, a sort of palanquin is formed of bamboos, resembling a small house in shape, and called a dooly. In short there are few plants which have such a variety of uses.

2nd.—This last summer is said by every one to have been remarkable for the quantity of seed produced by almost all plants; and acorns were particularly plentiful. Some were gathered for the purpose of sowing; but an immense number remained under the oak trees in the lawn, till within these few days, when they all disappeared, and what fell from the trees in the course of one day, had vanished before the next. After much puzzling about what could have become of them, Wentworth discovered that the sheep eat them; he caught them in the act to-day. He also observed that chaffinches and other birds eat beech-masts—but I do not wonder at that, for I think them excellent; and my aunt tells me that on some parts of the continent they are very much used as food by the poor inhabitants. The oil which is previously expressed from them is of the finest quality; and in Alsace, as well as all along the borders of France and Germany, the peasants make a sort of cake with the remainder.

I saw the jay to-day for the first time; Mary shewed me several of these pretty birds under a hedge. We watched them for some time, and I actually saw one raise and depress the bunch of black and white feathers on his forehead repeatedly; the wing coverts are beautiful. Jays are very affectionate to their young, who remain with their parents during all the autumn and winter months, instead of separating early, as most birds do. In winter they are to be seen continually under high hedges, or on the sunny side of woods and copses, seeking for acorns, crab-apples, or for the grubs and worms to be found in fields where cows have pastured. They are timid and watchful, and feed in silence; but timid as they are, they are very destructive in summer to the gardens.

The Lumleys, you know, live in a very sequestered part of the forest, and the jays seem to have established themselves in that undisturbed spot. Miss Lumley told me that they make great havoc among the beans in June; and though in general cautious and wary, at that season their boldness is quite remarkable, and nothing seems to intimidate them. She has frequently seen one of the parent birds descend from a tree into the bean rows—they soon announce their discovery by a low but particular scream, and then all the family hastened to join in the plunder.

Their throat is so wide that they can swallow beans, acorns, and even chesnuts whole; and it is said they can imitate various sounds, such as the bleating of a lamb, the hooting of an owl, the mewing of a cat, and even the neighing of a horse.

They appear to be fond of each other, but to other birds they are very troublesome, destroying their nests and eggs, and sometimes pouncing on the young ones, to the great vexation of the Lumleys.

4th.—Those poor travellers, whom more than a month ago I told you that good Mrs. Ando had so generously taken into her own house, have been obliged to continue there ever since; and my aunt has two or three times driven to Newnham to visit them. They have, you know, one little child, but the man seems to be dying, and his wife, a foreigner, nurses him with the most tender care. They have told their history to my aunt, and she has given me leave to relate it to you.

The young woman is a Swiss, her name is Madeleine, and her father was a merchant of Geneva, where they lived in comfortable affluence till his wife died. His affliction on this occasion was so violent that he resolved to quit Geneva for ever, and remove to a city in the south of France, where he might continue his business; but Madeleine was tired of a town life, and persuaded her father to give up commerce and retire to a little property he possessed in the district of Beaufort, in Savoy. She had formed delightful pictures in her imagination of the occupations of the farm, the vineyard, and the dairy, and she longed to realise them.

Her indulgent father yielded to her wishes, and they removed from all the comforts of Geneva to that remote and mountainous district. When they arrived, and that she saw the change which she had persuaded her father to make, she felt severe regret for having interfered; and would then have persuaded him to return, but he had arranged every thing for his residence in Savoy—he had made his decision, and he would not let it be again shaken.

His activity in a short time made the house comfortable, and he employed his time and his money in forming a garden and an extensive vineyard. The industry which he had devoted to trade, he now directed to the cultivation of the vine, and his unwearied assiduity was rewarded in a few years by a profusion of grapes, of which he made excellent wine. Every thing seemed to prosper, and Madeleine dearly loved a place where they had conquered so many difficulties, and where they had seen comfort and plenty rise out of a bare and rocky valley; a place which, with their endeavours to shelter and beautify it, and with the ornament of a remarkable group of fine old walnut trees on the hill behind the house, was now quite picturesque. The poor around them had also reason to like the change, for many a distressed family were now employed, and many an ignorant child was taught as well as clothed by Madeleine. But her father had laid out all his ready money on the vineyard and on a large stock of cattle; so that every thing depended on the success of his plans.

According to the custom of the country, their cattle were sent every summer with those of the neighbours, to the fresh air and sweet pasture of the mountains. They were all intrusted to the care of one person, who during the season lived on the top of the mountain, in a little wooden hut, called a chalet. There the milk of the cattle was collected; and in eight days after the cows had been driven up to the common pasture, the owners assembled, and the quantity of milk from each cow was weighed. The same thing was repeated once in the middle of summer; and at the end of the season the whole quantity of cheese and butter was divided in due proportion. The cattle were then driven back to the vallies, when there was a general festival, in which the whole commune joined. All the young people used to assemble at the chalet on this occasion in their holiday dresses, decorated with Alpine flowers; and with all the gaiety of youth, and with songs and dances, they attended the descent of their herds, which were also decked with ribbons, and bells, and garlands. At intervals the party sung together the touching song of the Ranz des vaches, or some of the pretty Savoyard airs.

On the morning of one of these festivals a traveller, who had missed his way in crossing the mountain, happened to apply at the chalet for assistance. The youthful crowd were actually setting out—the song which announced the general movement had already commenced—when seeing that the traveller was faint and in want of assistance, they stopped and hastened to relieve him. They gave him such refreshment as they could, and, unmindful of their own interrupted pleasures, they delayed their march to give him time to recover. When he was sufficiently revived by their hospitality, he accompanied the gay party to the village; and, charmed by their simple manners, he joined as well as he could in their happy and innocent festivity.

The traveller was an English officer, who had been wounded. He was then enjoying the bracing air and wild scenery of Savoy; and though he intended to winter in Italy, he wished to loiter a little longer among the glens and mountains of this picturesque country. Madeleine’s father was interested by his appearance of ill health, and pleased by the manner in which he expressed his gratitude for the kindness he had received, and therefore invited him, whenever his wanderings should lead him that way, to take up his quarters at Beaufort. He came more than once in the course of the autumn, and was always welcomed with warmth and hospitality by the good old Swiss and Madeleine.

At length he bade them adieu, and pursued his way to Italy, leaving them in happiness and prosperity. At the end of two years he again returned, and found them sunk into poverty and misery. The overflowing of the Doron, early in spring, had caused universal destruction in the valley: houses, gardens, and vineyards were swept away, and even the cattle, which were to have gone in a few weeks to the hills, were included in the general ruin. All was gone—a few hours had reduced these amiable people from affluence to absolute want. He who had been master there—whose active head and industrious hands had planned so well and executed so much, was now the passive object of his daughter’s cares. The shock had irreparably injured his mind, for he had spent his whole fortune in making this place for her, and he had now the melancholy consciousness that both were beggars. But Madeleine’s energy rose above misfortune. She turned her whole thoughts to the comforts of her father and the means of procuring them; and she earnestly prayed for the blessing of Heaven on her exertions.

As soon as they were settled in a very small cottage in the neighbourhood, she determined again to try the cultivation of the vine—but considerably higher on the side of the hill—so as to be secure from a second inundation. She intended to have laboured at this new plantation herself, with the assistance of one old and attached servant, but numbers of people from the neighbouring villages, who loved her and were grateful to her, insisted on being allowed to help. It is a common custom in Switzerland to plant vines on very steep hills, with alternate rows of dry stone walls, to preserve the soil about the plants; and Madeleine resolved to accomplish such a vineyard. By the assistance of these good-natured people, a small plantation was made: while some were digging, others built the little walls; and Madeleine herself guided the donkies which were laden with earth to make a sufficient soil, or with her own hands disposed it round each vine plant, and dressed the whole.

Though the vineyard was small, she hoped to derive an additional benefit from it for her father, by planting a few useful vegetables, which might perhaps interest him in his favourite occupation of gardening. But when she tried to rouse his mind to this, he only wept at the loss of their former pretty garden, for which they had both done so much.

The group of walnut-trees still remained; and, fortunately, they bore remarkably well. The gathering of the fruit and the pressure of the oil is one of the most important occupations of the Savoyards, and Madeleine was again assisted by her kind neighbours. The walnut harvest commences about September; the fruit is beaten off the trees with long poles, and the green husks are taken off as soon as they begin to decay; the walnuts are then laid in a chamber to dry, where they remain till the end of Autumn, when the process of making the oil commences. The first operation is of course to take out the kernel, and for this the neighbouring peasantry collect. They are usually placed round a long table; a man at each end of it cracks the nuts with a mallet, by hitting them on the point; and as fast as they are cracked they are distributed to the persons round the table, who take out the kernels and remove the inner part. The Savoyards are so lively, that this employment is in general accompanied by songs and various amusements. The day that Bertram, their English friend, returned, Madeleine was thus occupied; while her poor old father, placed in a chair beside her, was gazing vacantly at what they were doing.

Though changed so much in circumstances, she did not appear dejected—she had not sunk into despair, and though her countenance, as he told my aunt, no longer expressed gaiety, yet even in her tears she had the smile of hope and cheerfulness. He had always esteemed her, and was now so charmed by her various merits, and so anxious to assist and protect her, that he persuaded her to accept his hand. He wrote to his father, who is a clergyman in Wales; he obtained his consent, and for a few years lived happily with Madeleine in her cottage, enjoying those pleasures that follow laborious industry, and taking part in all the tender cares she bestowed on her poor father. His half-pay added to their comforts, but still he was obliged to work—to labour sometimes for the pleasure of making Madeleine’s father comfortable at the close of his life, and he was rewarded by the success of their exertions.

But the severity of the climate in winter and his laborious life were too much for his constitution, which had never recovered the effect of his wounds. He felt that his strength was declining; and the poor old father having died, last spring, Bertram became anxious to return to his own country. They had no longer any tie to Savoy, and Madeleine willingly acquiesced in his wishes and sold her little property; yet it gave her many a pang to part for ever with the place where she had been so happy with her father—a place so endeared to her by years of cheerful industry, and by the sympathy and kindness she had received from all the inhabitants.

Unfortunately, Bertram became so much worse on his journey, that they were frequently obliged to rest, and by the time they arrived in Gloucestershire they found their expenses had been so great that they should not have sufficient means to accomplish the remainder of their journey. Thus stopped by want of money as well as by illness, poor Madeleine was looking for some humble lodging, when that kind-hearted creature Mrs. Ando, prevailed on them to come to her house. He has repeatedly written to request his father would come to him, but till last Monday he received no answer. It appears that the old gentleman had been also very ill, and all his letters remained unopened. He is now expected every day—and a sad meeting it will be, for my aunt fears that his son is too ill to recover.

Mrs. Ando sent a messenger yesterday to tell my aunt that her poor patient very much wished to see her again. She instantly went, and they had a long conversation on religious subjects, which gave her heartfelt pleasure, his sentiments were so pious. He spoke in the most affecting manner of Madeleine’s cheerful and tender care; and added that having been separated from his father when very young, he had become careless and indifferent about religion;—for a soldier’s life is rather unfavourable to religious improvement; but that his excellent wife had perceived this, and with prudent caution had gently led him to think; her good sense and admirable example awakened his mind, and while he taught her the English language, she taught him in return the principles, the humility, and the practice of Christianity.

5th.—I was rather naughty yesterday, I did not walk out; and my uncle reproached me for it this morning. “If you shut yourself up every cold day, Bertha, you will never become more hardy than the stove plants from your own country, which would certainly be more ornamental, and more valuable, if they could be reconciled to our climate, and made to grow here in the open ground. And you, too, would be happier as well as stronger, if you were able to enjoy the out of door pleasures of winter as well as those of the fire-side.”

“Yes, uncle, I wish to do so, but I delayed till the day changed in hopes of having Caroline with me; the straight beech-walk is comfortably sheltered from the north-east wind, but then the high ditch prevents one from seeing any thing, and makes it a dull place without a companion.”

My uncle laughed at my wanting to have a view from my walk, and said, “Certainly it would have been pleasant to have had a companion; but for my own part, I often enjoy a solitary walk: it is, I think, a great advantage to accustom the mind to submit sometimes to solitude, and to look for pleasure from within. Suppose there be nothing to see, why should you be dull? Have you not memory and reflection for companions? Do not your various pursuits furnish you with matter for consideration? Study is absolutely useless, if you do not, by daily recalling what you have read, endeavour to class and arrange it in your mind; can you feel alone and dull when thus engaged, and is not that retired walk exactly suited for such employment? But, come with me, my dear,” he added, “and I will shew you sufficient to occupy both eyes and mind even in that dull place.”

A walk with my uncle is one of my greatest pleasures, dear mamma.—I was ready in a minute—and to the beech-walk we went; but it was no longer a dull walk; all he says is so delightful, and he listens so patiently to every question. After a few turns, in which I entirely forgot the North-east wind, he said, “There is no place, my little Bertha, that does not present some objects of interest to those who choose to open their eyes. For instance, even on this rough ditch, and on the old wall that joins it, you may see a curious variety of vegetation, which your finest embroidery cannot equal. Look at those mosses; they are among the meanest plants, yet there is not one that is not worth examining. The fructification is still to be seen on that tuft of bearded thread moss. Take your little magnifying glass and look at the cup which is so delicate, and yet so firm, its edge strengthened by that finely toothed ring, to which the slender conical lid is exactly fitted; its pointed top, you see, serves to attach that little shining scaly membrane, which is the principal defence of the flower and seed from the weather, and which is called the veil or Calyptra.

“Now, Bertha, look at this silver thread moss, here on the walk, with its diminutive leaves so closely pressed to the stem as to be hardly visible; it is now quite green, but in some weeks it will become of a shining silvery white, especially when dry; and this circumstance distinguishes it from all other mosses.”

I asked him the name of the moss that is so common on the roots of the trees, creeping through the grass round them, and growing in tufts of long crowded shoots;—he told me that those long crowded shoots mark that species, and he shewed me the brown fibres by which they cling to the trees; and the leaves which grow in double rows, ending in little crooked hairs; he called it the trailing feather moss. He seemed to take as much pleasure in explaining a thousand things about them as I did in listening. How stupidly I had walked up and down there, and never cast my eyes on the beautiful structure of these little plants! We then examined several lichens, some in tufts hanging from the branches of trees and bushes, or encircling them with their crisp flat leaves; others covering the stems with an odd white crust; while on the damp earth beneath we found the cup lichen in deep sea-green patches, displaying its tiny cups like fairy wine-glasses.

“On those stones,” said my uncle, “you may trace the beginning of all vegetation, from the little black spots, which are scarcely discernible, to the larger lichens and mosses of different forms and sizes. Or, let us turn to the grassy bank, and you may there see a great number of herbaceous plants still green, mixing with that useful grass, the creeping bent, which throws out fresh pasture at this late season from the joints of its runners or stolones.”

He shewed me many of these plants; and more than once said, “Everything here is interesting to persons of observation, and particularly so to those who know something of botany. But they are not merely for momentary examination—the variety and the design, to be found in each, supply ample subject of reflection.”

Just at that moment I heard a shrill cry, and I interrupted my uncle to ask what it was.

He told me that it was the alarm-cry of the fieldfare, and pointed to a large tree at the end of the walk, where a number of fieldfares and redwings, lately arrived from a colder climate, had collected.

“You see,” said my uncle, “that even without any fine picturesque view, you may have abundance of amusement here, not only in observing the growth of mosses and plants, but in watching the habits of birds. You may see the little woodpecker, and the still smaller creeper running nimbly up the stems of the trees, and pecking insects and their eggs out of the crevices of the bark; or the fauvette and the friendly robin waiting on every spray for a little notice; while in the thickets to the left you may see the missel thrush, and may sometimes distinguish its note, though it does not actually sing at this season.”

As my uncle said this, we approached the tree on which the fieldfares were perched: they seemed at first unmindful of us; but, as we came nearer, one bird which I had observed sitting alone at the very end of a branch, rose suddenly on its wings and gave a cry of alarm, which was the same I had heard before. The moment this happened, they all flew off together, except one, which remained there till we almost reached the tree, when it repeated the same cry and followed the rest.

My uncle told me that this is the constant habit of these birds; they arrive late in autumn, and always collect in a flock, placing one on the watch to give the alarm. When they spread over a field in search of food, they never separate much, and fly off in a body at the first notice of their sentinel. The redwing sings sweetly in its native country, Sweden, though here it makes only a piping noise. As we walked along, he told me that fieldfares were formerly kept in aviaries by the Romans, who fattened them on bread and minced figs; during which process very little light was admitted, and all objects were excluded from their sight, that could remind them of their former liberty. We watched these birds for a long time; and as we returned home my uncle said, “But in suggesting these subjects of observation, Bertha, I do not mean that you should always stand still in the cold to examine them; nor do I suppose that in one walk you could attend to such a variety of objects. I only want to shew you how much amusement a solitary winter’s walk, even along a dull straight high ditch, can supply for both eyes and thoughts.

“Besides all these, you, my little botanist, might have another endless subject for examination in our deciduous trees, on many of which you will find that, unlike those of tropical climates, the young shoots, leaves and flowers are formed in autumn, and cradled up in scaly buds, where they are secure from frost, till the following spring.

“Indeed, the comparisons you must be naturally induced to make between your two countries, might supply you with amusing and useful occupation; and the result will be, that in each you will discover how peculiarly every creature and every vegetable is adapted to the country where it has been placed.”

6th, Sunday.—I asked my uncle this morning, why Joseph said that every shepherd was an abomination to an Egyptian; and also, why Joseph expected, that when Pharaoh was informed that his father and brethren were shepherds, he would order them to dwell in the land of Goshen?

“In the first place,” said he, “it is supposed that Egypt had been invaded and subdued by a tribe of warlike shepherds from Arabia, called Cushites, or sons of Cush. They were also called the Pali, or shepherds; and their leaders called themselves the Shepherd-Kings. Six of these Shepherd-kings are said to have successively reigned in Egypt, till at length the native princes, weary of their tyranny, rebelled, and expelled them. They retired into the land of Canaan, and established themselves at Jerusalem, and in other strong situations in that country, which, from them, obtained the name of Palestine, or Palis-tan—the country of the Pali. These people afterwards became the Philistines, who were such troublesome neighbours to the Israelites.

“The memory of their tyranny was still fresh in the minds of the Egyptians, at the time that Joseph’s family removed to Egypt; and it was, therefore, natural that every shepherd should be an abomination to the Egyptians. Cush, you know, was the eldest son of Ham; the Egyptians were descended from Mizraim, the second son of Ham, and Egypt is to this day called Mizr, by the Arabs and Abyssinians.

“As to your second question,” continued my uncle, “in regard to their being ordered to dwell in the land of Goshen, it appears probable that there had been shepherds in those parts before; otherwise Joseph could scarcely have foreseen that that portion of the land would be given to his brethren. Besides which, Goshen being chiefly adapted to pasturage, which was so contrary to the taste of the Egyptians, this region most likely lay neglected. Hence we see why the Israelites found such easy access into the country, so as not only to be allowed to dwell in it, but to have the land of Goshen given them for a possession, even the best of the land of Egypt.”

“I wonder,” said Wentworth, “why the Israelites were sent by Providence into Egypt, as they were, after a time, to be placed in Canaan, the land of promise, and would, therefore, be again unsettled and obliged to remove.”

“It has been suggested,” said my uncle, “that the promise made to Abraham, to give to his posterity the land of Canaan, was not to be fulfilled, till this great family of Israel was strong enough to take that land by force from the inhabitants, and to keep possession of it. Besides, the Canaanites had not then completed the measure of their wickedness, which was to be punished by the loss of their country.

“In the meantime, though the Israelites were obliged to reside amongst idolaters, and were enjoined to preserve themselves unmixed; yet Egypt was the only place where they could for so long a time remain safe from being confounded with the natives. For the ancient Egyptians were, by numerous institutions, forbidden all fellowship with strangers; and having a particular aversion to the employment of the Israelites, they were, by that means, more completely separated. Besides, during their long residence of above 400 years in Egypt, the Israelites, who were but simple shepherds when they went there, had the advantage of acquiring a knowledge of the various arts in which the Egyptians excelled.

“The Bible here, as in many other cases, only records the facts: we cannot now penetrate, my dear boy, into the causes or motives which led to them; but we may be sure that what was dictated by Infinite Wisdom was just and proper; and in venturing to assign such reasons as we can infer from other circumstances in history, we should do so with great modesty and distrust of ourselves.”

7th.—My uncle has been obliged to go to London about business; he left us this morning, but his stay will not be very long, I hope, for we shall miss him excessively, and the more so, as winter is completely begun. We have now dark days, with frequent rain and storms; few trees have even a withered leaf remaining, and every thing out of doors has a forlorn and desolate appearance.

But though the leaves are all gone, we have still a few flowers; the China rose is still in bloom, and in the sheltered warm borders, we find a few wall-flowers, some lilac primroses, and many Neapolitan violets, which are delightfully sweet.

9th.—When we were walking this morning in the forest, Frederick made me take notice of a flock of crows, which were quite different in appearance from the common rook. The back is ash-coloured, while the head, throat, wings, and tail, are black. I was surprised at my own blindness in not having observed them before; but Frederick told me that they had only arrived lately, as they change their abode twice in the year. About the middle of autumn, they appear in the southern parts of England in flocks; and in the beginning of spring they depart in a northerly direction; though in some parts of Scotland and Ireland, they remain through the whole year. This species is still more familiar than the rook, and in winter will go even to the yards of houses to pick up food. It is called the hooded crow, or scare-crow. I heard it give two cries, one was the hollow hoarse note of the crow, but the other was shrill, and not very unlike the crowing of a cock. They are remarkable for this double cry.

Mr. Landt, in his description of the Feroe Islands, says that one or two hundred of these birds sometimes assemble, as if by general consent. A few of them sit with drooping heads, others seem as grave as if they were the judges, and others again very bustling and noisy. The meeting breaks up in about an hour, when one or two are generally found dead on the spot; and it has been supposed, by those who have observed them carefully, that they were criminals punished for their offences. Frederick says he has read that in the Orkneys, too, they meet in spring, as if to deliberate on concerns of importance; and after flying about in this collected state for eight or ten days, they separate into pairs, and retire to the mountains.

Along with those we saw several carrion crows with their glossy plumage of bluish black; they not only associate with rooks and other crows, but approach our dwellings and saunter among the flocks; and I really saw some hopping on the backs of pigs and sheep, with such apparent familiarity that one might have imagined they were domestic birds.

Towards the close of winter the hooded crow and the rook remove to other regions, but the carrion crows resort to the nearest woods, which they seem to divide into separate districts, one for each pair; and it is remarkable that they never intrude on each other’s portions.

Crows may well be called omnivorous birds, for they eat every thing—flesh, eggs, worms, grain, fish, and fruit. Shell fish, it is said, they very ingeniously crack by dropping them from a great height on a stone. Many people have seen this; and the great Mr. Watt, whose observation was always alive, watched one of these sagacious crows taking up a crab into the air, which it repeatedly let fall on a rock, till the shell w?as completely broken. The same ingenuity has been observed in another species of the crow family, in North America: a blue jay, which had been tamed, finding the dried seeds of Indian corn too hard to break, placed one in the corner of a shelf in the green-house, between the wall and a plant box: having thus secured it on three sides, he easily contrived to break it; and, having once succeeded, he continued ever after to apply the same means.

10th.—We have had a grand discussion in our walk this morning, on genius. Mary’s opinion is, that it never exists originally; and that wherever biography affords us the opportunity of learning the small circumstances of early life, we may observe that something had occurred to turn the attention, while young, to that pursuit, in which successful perseverance had been afterwards ascribed to genius. For instance, in the thirteenth century, some Greek painters being employed in the churches of Florence, the youthful Cimabue gazed for whole days in admiration of their work: he afterwards devoted himself to the art, and quickly surpassed his masters. Here, but for the circumstance of the Greek painters, his talent might have remained unknown even to himself.

“But,” said Caroline, “his own pupil, Giotto, may be opposed to your theory; you know he was a shepherd boy, whom Cimabue found accurately drawing the figures of his sheep on the sand.”

“I confess,” said Mary, “that does seem rather against me, but we do not know what previous opportunities he might have had. Canova’s genius, it is said, shewed itself in the obscurity of village life; yet we learn from his Memoirs that he lived with his grandfather, who, though only a common stone-cutter, was in the habit of designing and working architectural ornaments, and surely that accounts for the tendency of his pupil’s mind.”

“Very well,” replied Caroline, “I will leave you in possession of Canova, and only ask what you think of West—the great West? Belonging to the sect of Quakers, who disapprove of making any representation of the human form, and born in North America, where the arts were not at that time cultivated, he had never seen any sort of drawing; yet while he was a very little boy, being desired to watch a sleeping infant, he was so charmed with its little face and attitude, that he made an excellent sketch of it with a bit of half-burned wood. Was not that, Mary, from the impulse of genius?”

“I see,” said Wentworth, “that Mary does not think herself quite conquered; but as it is going to rain, suppose we adjourn the debate, as papa says, to another day. Caroline shall then have Bertha on her side; I will do my best for Mary, as a true knight is bound to assist the weak; and Frederick shall be the umpire, and adjudge the wreath of victory.”

We all agreed to this plan; and I am sure it will produce a great deal of amusement. My uncle and aunt approve of these good-humoured contests, in which we never lose our temper, and all gain information.

11th.—Our genius conversation of yesterday having been mentioned in the evening at tea, my aunt encouraged us to repeat our arguments, and to defend them by fresh examples; and my uncle so nicely threw himself, sometimes into one scale, and sometimes into the other, that both parties valued themselves on his support. I am rather in doubt which will amuse you most, the anecdotes of various people that he related, or some circumstances in Canova’s life that my aunt afterwards told us: I believe these interested me the most, so I shall begin with them.

“The beautiful country round Passagno, and the refreshing breezes from the Alps, made it a frequent summer residence for the Venetian nobility. Old Pasino Canova, who lived there, was often employed in the repairs or embellishments of their villas, and on these occasions he was accompanied by his grandson. Young Canova thus became known to the senator Falier, who was afterwards his most zealous patron; and an intimacy was formed between him and Giuseppe Falier, the youngest son, which ceased only with Canova’s life.

“The ingenuous disposition of Canova, his animated countenance and his modesty, interested the elder Falier; and he took him, when about twelve years old, under his immediate protection. But it was by a mere accident that his talents were first noticed. At a festival celebrated at the villa of Falier, and attended by many of the Venetian nobility, the domestics had neglected to provide an ornament for the dessert. The omission was not discovered till it was too late; and, fearing the displeasure of their master, they applied to Pasino, who, with his grandson, was then at work in the house.

“The old man could suggest no remedy; but young Antonio desired to have some butter, and in a few moments he modelled a lion, with such skill and effect, that, when it appeared at table, it excited the attention and applause of all present. The servants were questioned—the whole was disclosed, and little Tonin declared to be the contriver. He was immediately called for; and blushing and half reluctant, was led into the brilliant assembly, where he received universal praise and caresses.”

“There is a circumstance strikingly similar to this,” continued my aunt, “which is told of our celebrated sculptor Chantrey, and of which I believe there is no doubt, as I was told it by a person to whom Chantrey, with noble candour, had himself communicated it. When quite a boy, not more than nine or ten, he used frequently to visit his aunt, who was housekeeper to a lady of fortune in Derbyshire. During one of these visits, it was observed that the flowers and ornaments of the pastry at table were executed with particularly good taste; and the housekeeper acknowledged that she had allowed her little nephew to amuse himself in making whatever ornaments he fancied. The lady determined on giving him other opportunities of trying his talents, and finding how very superior they were, she actually sent him to London to receive instruction. With what delight this benevolent and judicious woman must now behold the works of this great artist; and how much she must enjoy the fame which he has so justly acquired!

“The progress which Canova made, and the perfection even of his earliest works, is known to all the world; but perhaps you may not have heard that during his whole life, both while suffering opposition from envious artists, who threw every obstacle in his way, and afterwards when he had attained the highest success, he preserved his unpretending modesty and simplicity. He neither yielded to occasional disappointment, nor to the vanity of shewing that he could surpass his rivals. Improvement was the one great object which he unremittingly pursued, and all his ideas were subjected to rigid examination; he compared them first with nature, and he then flew to the Vatican, where he compared them with the antique.—The result always calmed his solicitude; he returned with fresh confidence to his studio, and in solitude laboured to perfect his style, without either boasting to his friends, or triumphing over his opponents.