Chapter V

_Progress of events._--_Necessity of Government._--_A Constitution
is drawn up and rejected._--_Murder._--_Anarchy._--_Emilie
and her lover._

When the morning came, it showed upon the bosom of the sea a few blackened fragments of the pirate ship, but beside these not a trace of it was seen. Her whole crew had apparently perished in the awful explosion.

The people on board the merchant ship were soon called from rejoicing to the consideration of their situation and the course to be pursued. Brusque endeavored to persuade them to quit the ship, and take up their abode on the island. Most of them were refugees from France in the first place, and recently from St. Domingo; in both cases flying from the perils which attended the convulsions of civilized society. Brusque urged them to seek an asylum from their cares and anxieties in the quiet retreat of Fredonia. Whether he would have succeeded in persuading them to adopt this course or not, we cannot tell, had not his arguments been enforced by the condition of the ship: she was found to be in a leaky condition, and the necessity of abandoning her became apparent; no time was indeed to be lost. Preparations therefore were immediately made for landing the people, and for taking to the shore all the articles that could be saved from the vessel.

In a few days this task was over. All the inmates of the vessel had been transferred to the island, as well as a great variety of articles, either of furniture, food, or merchandise. The vessel gradually sank in the water, and finally disappeared. Thus, about seventy persons were landed upon the island, without the means of leaving it. So soft was the climate, so beautiful the little hills and valleys, so delicious the fruits--that all seemed to forget their various plans and disappointments in the prospect of spending the remainder of their lives there.

Nothing could exceed the efforts of Brusque and Piquet to make their new friends comfortable and happy. Men, women, and children, all seemed for a time to emulate each other in helping forward the preparations for mutual comfort. Tents were erected, sleeping apartments with beds or mats were provided, and in less than a week all the necessaries of life were distributed to every member of their little colony.

The reflective mind of Brusque had already suggested the necessity of adopting some system of government, for even this small colony he knew could not get along without it. Under the pressure of calamity or emergency, a spirit of mutual accommodation might exist, and for a time might enable the little society to proceed without disturbance. But he foresaw that a state of quiet and comfort would bring occasions of discontent and disorder, which must result in violence, if all could not be subjected to the sway of some just system of laws. These views he suggested to the captain of the vessel, to Emilie’s father, and to several others. It was at length agreed by some of the principal men that the people should be assembled, and the adoption of a form of government be proposed. This was done, and Brusque, the captain, and Emilie’s father were appointed a committee to draw up a constitution. They attended to this duty, and in a few days the people were called together to hear the report of the committee.

Brusque proceeded to read the document, and then he made some remarks in explanation of it. He said that the plan of a constitution which had just been read was partly copied from that of the United States of America--a nation which had recently arisen among mankind, and promised soon to be the most flourishing and happy people upon the face of the earth. He then went on to say that the constitution just read contained the following principles:

1. All mankind are born with equal rights and privileges; all are entitled to the same degree of liberty; all are equally entitled to the protection and benefit of the laws.

2. All government should spring from the people, and have the good of the people for its object.

3. That all government implies the abridgment of natural liberty, and that the people ought to submit to such abridgments, so far as the good of society required.

The constitution then proceeded to prescribe a form of government, consisting of three branches: 1st, of a President, who should see to the general affairs of the colony, and to the execution of the laws, who should be called the _Executive_; 2d, of three judges, who should decide all disputes, to be called the _Judiciary_; and 3d, of an assembly, chosen by the people every year to make laws, called the _Legislature_. It also established the following principles:

1. Every man of the age of twenty-one years should be a citizen, and be permitted to vote for members of the legislature and other officers.

2. A majority of votes shall be necessary for a choice.

3. The land of the island shall be divided between the families, in proportion to their numbers, by the judges, and then each person shall be protected in his possessions, and the property he acquires.

4. Any citizen shall be competent to fill any office to which he is chosen.

Such were the outlines of the constitution, as set forth by Brusque in presence of all the men of the colony. A profound silence followed the remarks of the orator. But, at length, a man named Rogere rose, and said that he did not like the proposed constitution. For his part, he did not see the necessity of any government. He had, in France only seen iniquity, and folly, and crime, following the footsteps of government, whether admitted by kings or citizens, and he believed that the best way was to get along without it. “For my part,” said he, “I believe that liberty is the greatest political good, and the moment you begin to make laws, you put fetters upon it. As soon as you establish a government, you prepare to smother or strangle it. Of what use is liberty to the eagle when you have broken his wing, or to the mountain deer when you have cut the sinews of his limbs, or to man when it is doled out by magistrates, who may say how much we shall have, and how we may exercise it? Take from man his liberty, and you sink him as far as you can to the standard of the brute! Give him liberty, and he is but little lower than the angels! Then why restrain liberty? Why take it for granted that the first step in society is to fetter human freedom and trench upon human rights? Let us be wiser than to be guided by a prejudice; let us venture to depart from the beaten path, and strike out something new. I close by moving that we dispense with government altogether; that we rely upon the moral sense of mankind, which rests upon an innate perception of justice. This is sufficient for our safety and our happiness.”

Brusque was not a little disappointed to observe, as Rogere sat down, that there was a pervading feeling of approbation of what he had said. In vain did he oppose the views of Rogere; in vain did he show that it was impossible for society to have order without laws, to maintain justice, peace and security without government. In vain did he appeal to history and the past experience of mankind. The idea of perfect freedom was too fascinating to the majority; and the assembly finally decided, by an overwhelming vote, to reject the proposed constitution, and to make the experiment of living without laws or government.

The subject, however, became a matter of discussion among the people, and they were soon divided into two parties, called the Brusqueites and the Rogereites; the former being in favor of a government, and the latter in favor of unlimited freedom. Things went on quietly for a time, for the people were all French, and their good breeding seemed to render the restraints and obligations of enacted statutes, less important. Beside, the island abounded in fruit, and there seemed such a supply of food, as to afford little ground for dispute as to the possession of property. As for shelter, the climate was so mild as to render the covering of a tent sufficient for comfort.

But occasions of collision soon arose. Some articles brought from the ship had been claimed and taken into use by one of the sailors as his own; but now another sailor insisted that they were his. An altercation of words followed between the two, and at last they came to blows. In the struggle, one of them was killed. This event cast a cloud over the little colony, but it was transient. It was forgotten in a few days. Other quarrels, however, soon followed; and finally the whole society was in a state of anarchy and confusion. It was now obvious that reason had lost its power, and that the weak were exposed to violence and injustice from the strong.

Among the people of the colony were several rude men, who, finding that there was no punishment to be feared, began to be very insolent; and it was not a little remarkable that Rogere usually associated with these persons, and seemed even to countenance their injustice and their tyranny. At last, he was evidently considered their leader, and being much more intelligent than his followers, he was soon able to govern them as he pleased. In order to secure his ascendency over their minds, he flattered them by holding forth the prospect of unbounded liberty. He encouraged them in their acts of licentiousness, and pretended that this was freedom. He sought to prejudice their minds against Brusque and the other members of the community who were in favor of a government of equal laws, by insisting that they were aristocrats or monarchists, who wished to enslave the people. Thus, by playing upon the passions of his party, Rogere soon made them subservient to his will. While he pretended to be a friend of freedom he was now actually a despot; and while his followers were made to believe that they were enjoying liberty, they were in fact the slaves of a cunning tyrant. Nor was this all. While claiming to be the liberal party, the party that favored human rights and human freedom, they were daily guilty of acts of injustice, violence and wrong, toward some of the people of the island.

It was in this state of things that, one pleasant evening, Emilie walked to the sea-shore, which was at no great distance from the tent in which she lived. The moon occasionally shone out from the clouds that were drifting across the sky, and threw its silver light upon the waves that came with a gentle swell and broke upon the pebbly beach. The scene was tranquil, but it could not soothe the heart of Emilie, who had now many causes of anxiety. The disturbed state of the little community upon the island, the brawls and riots that were occurring almost every day, and a general feeling of fear and insecurity which she shared with her friends, had cast a deep gloom over her mind. The conduct of Rogere had been offensive to her on several occasions, but that which caused her most vexation and sorrow was the strange demeanor of Brusque, her former lover. On the night of their deliverance from the pirates on board the ship, he had made himself known to her, and their meeting was marked with all the fondness and confidence of former times. But from that period, he had treated her only with common civility. He had indeed been most careful to provide for her comfort and that of her parents. Though he had been very industrious in promoting the general welfare of the colony, it was apparent that he felt a special interest in contributing to the peace and happiness of Emilie and her aged parents. By his care their tent was so contrived as to afford a perfect shelter, and it was supplied with everything which circumstances permitted, that could minister to the pleasure of its inmates. It was daily provided with the finest oranges, the freshest figs, and the choicest pineapples. And it was evident that this was all done either by Brusque himself, or by some one at his bidding. But still, he seldom came to the tent; he never sought any private conversation with Emilie; and sometimes, when he looked upon her, she could perceive that his countenance bespoke a deep but melancholy interest; and no sooner was his feeling noticed, than he hastened to disguise it.

While Emilie was walking upon the beach, she thought of all these things; of the unsettled state of the colony, the uncertainty of their fate, and of the rude manner in which she had been addressed by Rogere. But her mind dwelt longest and with the deepest interest upon the mysterious demeanor of Brusque. It was while she was pursuing this train of thought that she was startled at perceiving the figure of a man partly hidden in the shadow of a high rock which stood close to the water’s edge, and which she was now approaching. But we must reserve the scene which followed for another chapter.

(_To be continued._)

The Sun.

The sun is rising! Did you ever think of the many benefits produced by the sun? Let us go upon the top of a hill, and see the sun rise, and consider, for a moment, the effects that are produced.

Do you see that the darkness, which had fallen over the whole face of nature, is gone? Do you see that even the valley is filled with light? Does not all this remind you of God, who said, at the beginning of the world, “Let there be light, and there was light?”

Light, then, spread over the land, is one of the first effects of the sun’s rising. And do you see that the birds are all abroad now, singing their songs, and seeking their food? How happy they appear to be! And do you not feel happy too? Does not everything seem happy to see the light, and feel that day has come once more?

Do you observe that vast sheet of white vapor that is rising from yonder valley? It is rising in consequence of the warmer air that is produced by the rising of the sun. Do you not feel that the shining of the sun upon you makes you warmer?

Warmth, then, diffused over the earth, is another effect produced by the rising of the sun. And how pleasant is this warmth! But do you know, that, if it were not for the warmth of the sun, the trees and plants and flowers would not grow? Do you know, that, without this warmth, all the earth would be covered with ice, and that all men and animals would die?

You see, then, how important the sun is, and how great are the benefits of the light and heat which it sends abroad over the world. Let us be thankful to God every morning for the light and heat of the sun. These are the sources of life to everything that grows or feels.

Night.

The sun is setting in the west! It seems to go down behind the hills. Darkness is creeping over the valleys. The birds have ceased their song, and are gathering into the forest or the thick branches of the trees.

The hen has gone to her shelter, and gathered her chickens under her wing. The flies and gnats and butterflies are gone to their rest. The cows and sheep have lain down to their repose.

Stillness seems to have come over the world. The sun has set. It is dark. It is getting chill and damp. It is night.

Do you see those little shining points in the sky? What are they? We call them stars, but they are worlds far away, and probably they are covered with trees, and hills, and rivers, and cities, and people.

We cannot go to them, nor can any one come from them to tell us about them. They are God’s worlds, and they are no doubt as useful as they are beautiful.

How wonderful is night! How fearful would it be if it were to last forever! But we know that the sun will come to-morrow, to give us its cheerful light and heat. Let us go to rest, then, for night is made for sleep.

But let us first think of that great and good Being, who has made all these wonders of nature. Let us put our trust in Him. In his care we are safe. But we must ask his protection, and seek his forgiveness for all our faults.

Oh, how fearful would it be if there were no God! How sad would it be, if God were not our friend! How sad would it be, if we were to be unkind to others, and to feel that He might not be kind to us! How sad would it be, if we were so wicked as to feel afraid of Him, the best and kindest of all beings!

This would indeed be dreadful. But we may all be good if we try to be so. Even if we have done wrong, we may go to Him, and ask his forgiveness; and if we ask sincerely, He will not refuse it.

Did you never disobey your father or mother, and, having done so, have you not begged their pardon? And, having done this, have you not been forgiven? And is not this forgiveness pleasant to the heart? Let me tell you, that God is as ready to be kind and forgiving to his children, as parents are to be so to theirs.

Let no fear of God, then, prevent your loving Him, praying to Him, or asking his forgiveness. The more you have sinned, the more careful you should be to look up to Him, and pray to Him, and ask his counsel and pardon. Those who have been most wicked, have most reason to love God; for his kindness is great enough to pardon even them.

* * * * *

HOGG’S FATHER.--The father of the poet Hogg, the famous Ettrick Shepherd of Scotland, was a man of peculiar character in one respect--he never would confess or allow that he could be beaten or defeated in anything. One wintry day, he and his son were out on a hill during a snow-storm, looking after the safety of the sheep, when, the old man having inadvertently gone too near the brow, the snow gave way, and he was precipitated to the bottom. The Shepherd, alarmed for the safety of his father, looked down the side of the hill, and not only saw him standing on his feet seemingly, unhurt, but he heard him crying, at the top of his voice, “Jamie, my man, ye were aye fond of a slide a’ ye’re days; let me see you do that!” The above expression displayed his self-esteem; he wished to pass the accident off upon his son for a feat. On another occasion, having slipped his foot on going up a hill, and fallen prostrate on his nose, he said to an individual accompanying him, “Eh, I think I had _like_ to have fallen!” Once an unruly mare having run away with him, a group of men observed him rush past with a face of great concern and fear; but when the beast had exhausted its strength, and allowed itself to be once more guided by the rein, Mr. Hogg came back, making a great show of mastery over it, and muttering, so as to be heard by the bystanders, “I think I hae sobered her!”

* * * * *

A certain physician at sea made great use of sea-water among his patients. Whatever disease came on, a dose of the nauseating liquid was first administered. In process of time the Doctor fell overboard. A great bustle consequently ensued on board, in the midst of which the captain came up and inquired the cause. “O, nothing, sir,” answered a tar, “only the Doctor has fallen into his medicine-chest.”

Queen Elizabeth, of England.

There are very few persons who are famous in history, about whom more has been said and written than Queen Elizabeth of England. She was the daughter of Henry VIII., a severe and haughty king, who died in 1547, leaving his son Edward VI., to reign in his stead. He died in a short time, and his elder sister, Mary, succeeded to the throne.

The reformation, as it is called, had begun in the time of Henry VIII., and he, with a violent hand, put down the Roman Catholic religion in his dominions; but Mary was a Catholic, and she revived it, imitating, and perhaps exceeding the bigotry and intolerance of her father in repressing it. In speaking of this period, an English historian says, “The cruelties, indeed, which were perpetrated for several years, under the pretext of advancing true religion, would almost surpass belief, did not their record depend upon authority which there is no gainsaying. Men, women, and even children, died a death of which the bare contemplation causes the blood to curdle.”

Among the persons who suffered martyrdom at this period, were three celebrated bishops, Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer. The characters of Ridley and Latimer, both as scholars and divines, presented at least as many points of contrariety as of agreement. The first was moderate, learned, and reflective; the last, bold, simple, frank, and thoroughly uncompromising. Having been tried and convicted of heresy, they were ordered to suffer death by burning, and Oxford was named as the city in which the execution should take place. They were accordingly led out into a wide street, and tied to the stake; the executioners, probably with the humane desire of lessening their sufferings, having fastened round the middle of each a bag of gunpowder. During the interval when the fagots were in the act of being lighted, Ridley addressed some words of pious consolation to his companion. The undaunted Latimer scarcely heard him out: “Fear not, good brother,” replied he, “but be of good cheer. We shall this day kindle such a torch in England, as I trust in God shall never be extinguished.” Soon after he had spoken, the flames reached the gunpowder, and he was blown to atoms. Ridley suffered longer and more intensely; but after his frame had been consumed to ashes, it is said that his heart was found entire,--an emblem, as his contemporaries declare, of the firmness with which he gave his body to be burned for the truth’s sake.

The fate of Cranmer was, in many respects, more melancholy, perhaps more instructive, than that of his brothers in suffering. He was first convicted of high-treason, but obtained, on his earnest supplication for mercy, the queen’s pardon. Hating the man, both on public and on private grounds, she desired to destroy his character as well as his life; and it must be confessed that she had well-nigh succeeded. Being transferred from the Tower to Oxford, he was arraigned on a charge of heresy, before a court constituted with a marked attention to form, and by a commission obtained direct from Rome. He defended himself with great modesty as well as talent; but from such a court only one verdict was to be anticipated;--he was found guilty. The fear of death seems to have operated with extraordinary force upon Cranmer. Again he implored the queen’s mercy, in terms partaking too much of the abject; and being beset by many temptations,--by the terrors of the stake on one hand, by promises of favor and protection on the other,--in an evil hour his constancy gave way, and he signed a recantation. The triumph of his enemy was now complete. Notwithstanding this humiliating act, the sentence of death was confirmed; and he was carried, as custom required, into the church of St. Mary, where an appropriate sermon was preached.

During the whole time of divine service, Cranmer kept his eyes rivetted on the ground, while the tears chased one another, in rapid course, over his cheeks. The audience attributed his emotion to remorse; and it was expected, when he indicated a desire to address the populace, that he would before them acknowledge the enormity of his transgressions, and ask their prayers. But the persons who harbored this idea had deluded themselves. After running over a sort of history of his past career, he came at length to the period of his trial, which he summed up the narrative in the following words:--“Now I am come to the great thing which troubleth my conscience more than any other thing that I ever said or did in my life, and that is, the setting abroad of writings contrary to the truth; which here now I renounce and refuse as things written with my hand, contrary to the truth which I thought in my heart, and writ for fear of death, and to save my life if might be, and that is all such papers as I have written or signed since my degradation, wherein I have written many things untrue. And forasmuch as my hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, my hand, when I come to the fire, shall be first burned.” The penitent was as good as his word. As soon as the flames began to arise, he thrust his right hand into them, and held it there till it was consumed. His end resembled, in other respects, those of his fellows in affliction.

During more than three years, these dreadful scenes continued to be acted, till there had perished at the stake not fewer than two hundred and ninety individuals, among whom were five bishops, twenty-one clergymen, eight lay gentlemen, fifty-five women, and four children. Elizabeth herself narrowly escaped the same fate, inasmuch as Gardiner, though weary of the slaughter of minor offenders, ventured, more than once, to hint to Mary that “to cut down the leaves, while the root was permitted to flourish, was at once discreditable and impolitic.”

After an uneasy reign of five years, and weighed down with a broken heart--with a husband who loved her not, and a people who hated her--Queen Mary died, in 1558, and was succeeded by Elizabeth. Being a Protestant, Elizabeth had been looked upon with hatred and suspicion by her gloomy sister, and was for a long period kept in prison. Trained in the school of adversity, she had learned to exercise great command over herself, and at the very outset of her public career showed that skill and discretion in government for which she was so much distinguished.

It is not my purpose now to detail the events of her reign, but only to draw a portrait of her character. She understood the interests of England, and pursued them with courage, energy and skill. She belonged to a period when anything and everything was deemed fair by politicians and statesmen. Elizabeth did not hesitate, therefore, to employ deception, falsehood, and bad-faith, to accomplish her ends. She, however, did more to lay the foundation of English greatness than any other sovereign that has swayed the British sceptre.

As a woman, Elizabeth’s character was detestable. Being herself handsome, she was still inordinately fond of admiration, and jealous of those who might be rivals of her beauty. She caused Mary, queen of Scotland, who had come to England and claimed her protection, to be tried, unjustly condemned, and at last executed--a feeling of hatred toward her, on account of her great personal beauty, being one of the motives for this official murder.

Among those upon whom Elizabeth bestowed her smiles, was the handsome Earl of Essex. He was very popular, and was led by his vanity to engage in some treasonable schemes. He was tried, and condemned to be executed. He had a ring which the queen had given him in some moment of good humor, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he might send that ring to her, and she would protect him. Essex, when in prison, the day of execution drawing nigh, remembered his ring, and giving it to lady Nottingham, requested her to bear it to the queen. This lady Nottingham promised to do, but she deceived Essex, and kept the ring. He was therefore executed, and Elizabeth, who expected her favorite to appeal to her mercy, imagined, till after his death, that he was too proud to solicit it. At last the countess of Nottingham was seized with a violent distemper. She believed that it would prove fatal, and sending for the queen, unburdened her oppressed conscience by confessing the artifice of which she had been guilty. “I have not many hours to live,” continued she, “and I pray your majesty to smooth my pillow, by giving me your pardon!” The queen gazed at her for a few moments in silent horror. She then seized her by the shoulder, shook her violently, and cried, “God may pardon you, but I never can!” Elizabeth then burst from the chamber; but the shock proved too much for a declining constitution. She refused all food, lay on the floor day and night, and spoke only in groans and sighs and inarticulate words. She was then advised by the archbishop of Canterbury to fix her thoughts wholly upon God, and made answer that she did so. It was the last sentence which she uttered; for falling soon afterwards into a lethargic slumber, she expired without a groan, on the 24th of March, 1603, in the seventieth year of her age, and forty-fifth of her reign.

If Elizabeth governed her people well, she still exerted a bad influence in many respects. Great extravagance in dress was the prevailing foible of the day,--a foible in which the queen herself set the example; for she is stated to have left, at her decease, upwards of three thousand different robes, all of them fit for use, and all occasionally worn. This is the more remarkable, as during the preceding reign frugality seems to have been a characteristic of the age. In those days, the yearly rent of a mansion in London, fit for the occupation of a great officer of state, amounted to thirty shillings sterling money: the halls of the nobility, as well as the floors of the peasantry, were strewed with rushes; and even in considerable towns there were few houses to which a chimney was attached, the fires being kindled by the side of the wall, and the smoke permitted to escape as it best could, through the windows. In general, the people slept on straw pallets, and they used round logs of timber for pillows, and had almost all their utensils and furniture made of wood.

Peter Pilgrim’s Account of his
Schoolmates. No. 1.

I sit at my desk to record my recollections of my school-fellows. Many years have now rolled away since those happy days of childhood, when we gathered daily at the old faded school-door to receive, each one, his little share of early instruction. Swiftly the years have passed away since that golden period of time, and as I now gaze with my dimmed vision through the dusty and cloudy glass of time upon those departed scenes, I find that many of them are blurred and indistinct in my memory--that many of them are well-nigh blotted out forever from my remembrance. Yet will I try to revive them from the dust and forgetfulness that time has cast over them, even as one carefully removes the dust that has gathered over an ancient picture, first bringing out to light one bright feature and then another, till at length the whole sweet face, in all its bloom and loveliness, is revealed to sight. The mind is much like an old lumber garret in some ancient country house. Dust, and cobwebs, and oblivion gather deeply upon its miscellaneous contents, and year after year continues to add to the mixed assemblage. Old books and old pictures, time-wrecked furniture, dismantled articles of husbandry, and crippled instruments of housewifery, cumber the place in admired confusion. Nothing is in its place, nothing can be found when sought for and most wanted. Everything lies hidden and forgotten, like the body of the sweet bride in the ballad, whose lost figure rested undiscovered in the old baronial garret, through so many long years after their living entombment. So the thoughts of youth are laid away in the chambers of the mind and the hidden nooks of the memory, there to rest, till haply some accidental association of after years brings them forth to light and life.

Sweet youth, happy childhood! the greenest spot of life, the only verdant oasis on the desert of life! We never enough prize thy happy-heartedness, thy warm affections, thy warm-springing feelings, until their freshness and bloom have departed. Truly it is an oasis in the desert--a spot all bright, and green, and blooming! As the oasis springs up with its verdurous bloom, and its spicy grove and palm-trees, lifting up their tufted branches to the heavens, and the clear-flowing fountain pouring its limpid tide with light laugh and merry song amid the sands of the waste, so does this happy period of life rise up and contrast itself with the whole period of this work-day existence. What are all the cankered cares that eat into the very heart in after life, to that season of sunshine? What the cares of riches and the toils of gain to the sauntering schoolboy? What the dark revolutions that convulse the world and overthrow empires, to him? What the rumors of lost navies and routed armies falling on his ear? They tell to his heart no sad tale; they leave on his mind no gloomy impression. He does not measure their magnitude or feel their reality. The loss of a toy, the fading of a favorite flower, would cause him more unhappiness; and even these regrets last but for a moment, and the smile chases the tear from his eyelid ere it can fall. What to him are ambition, and remorse, and avarice, and crime?--those demons that will start up around him in later life, and beguile his step, and strive to fill his mind with darkness. His ambition runs not beyond the present hour, and he is satisfied and happy if he can but lead in the boyish race, or bear away the prize in the youthful task. If he fails, he does not lay up the defeat in his heart, and brood and lament over it in useless sorrow. What is remorse to him who has done nought to darken his mind by day, or scare away slumber from his pillow at night? What is avarice to him who has never sighed for the “yellow gold,” or longed after untold wealth? He has a bright summer holiday for his own--and is he not wealthy? He can roam among the green pastures, lose himself in the deep, untravelled woods, ford the cool river, swim the clear lake, gather the brightest flowers that grow on hill and valley, and pluck the sweetest fruits and berries of the wild, with none to interrupt or question. Is he not more happy in the free enjoyment of these, his daily rambles and pleasures, than the anxious lord of all these acres? Does he not enjoy with all his soul the sweet airs, and green woods, and gay flowers of the spring, the shaded wood-paths of summer, the ripened fruits and fading glories of autumn, and the merry sports of winter, with all its sleighing-parties, skating frolics beneath the winter moon, and the building and battles of the snow-heaped fortress? All these are unalloyed delights, pouring into the youthful heart more true joy than any hard-sought and expensive pleasure of afterlife can ever afford.

Who can ever forget the joy that comes with the bright Saturday afternoon in the country? The whole school is freed from the thraldom of the bench and task, and each has to choose, among many delights, how to employ the golden hours. One little party decides for a game at ball: so the neat new bats are produced; the well-knit and high-bounding balls are got ready; the slender wickets are set up; the “sides” are carefully chosen, and each rival party labors as zealously for the victory as ever the invincible “old guard” and the gallant “Scotch Greys” toiled for the bloody prize on the deadly plain of Waterloo. Some decide for “a race;” and soon the ruddy cheeks glow with a ruddier bloom, as each panting combatant flings himself, exhausted, on the high-growing grass by the goal. Others content themselves with the more quiet allurements of the top, the kite, the hoop, and the marble. High soars the painted kite, far above the wood-tops and the village steeple, and round flies the giddy hoop till the child that guides it has not breath or strength to propel it further. And some get ready their fishing-gear, and sally forth to the neighboring brook or pond, properly accoutred with rod and basket. For many an hour do they continue to wade through the shallow streamlet; they flounder through the black swamp; they struggle through the tangled thicket, interlaced with all its twisted roots and running vines; they drop in their hooks at each well-known pool and eddy; and return home, when the twilight begins to gather dimly over the landscape, and the shadows of the old trees lengthen in the slanting sun, each one laden with his string of speckled or silvery prizes.

Our own inclination usually led us away with the angling party. It was then our chief and unalloyed pleasure, and served to sweeten many a tedious task, and many an hour of scholastic drudgery. If at any time we were degraded to the foot of the class, and our head disgraced with that vile badge, “the foolscap,” we could console ourself with the delightful reminiscences of the rod and line. If at any time the dominie’s rod visited upon our poor back the deficiencies of the head, that same head would be at work in pleasant thoughts of the long rod and the angle, and thereby console the afflicted body for the anguish it had caused it. If a neglected lesson occasioned a temporary imprisonment in a dark room, our fancy would beguile the dreary hours with the anticipated joy of the Saturday afternoon, and the brimming basket of glittering fish. But our reminiscences of those holidays are overcast by a gloomy cloud, which will throw a shadow over many years to come, as it has done on many an hour that is past and gone. The thought of the painful accident we now record, will often obtrude itself upon the mind when its presence is least welcome.

Charley, our earliest friend, was a noble, light-spirited little fellow, with a thousand good qualities, and few bad ones. He seemed to master the most difficult task as if by intuition, and while we were slowly bungling over its first paragraph, he would run it nimbly through to the end, and then lend a helping hand to extricate his friend from the quagmires of learning. He was a sort of admirable Chrichton, and gained and maintained the lead in all things. He was not only the best scholar, but also the staunchest champion, the fleetest runner, and the most adroit angler in the school. Somehow or other, he seemed to exert a charmed influence over the prey, for they would at times leap at his hook with avidity, while they turned up their honorable noses at our own, as if they scorned to perish by any other band than his.

One bright, Saturday afternoon in summer, we were together, as usual, employed at the “angler’s quiet trade,” at the border of a broad and deep river in the neighborhood, regardless of all things but the glorious nibbles which were constantly twitching the buoys of our lines beneath the surface. The prey was uncommonly plenty, and we prolonged our sport hour after hour, till at length the evening shadows, that crept over the waves, admonished us to depart homeward. We were on the point of leaving, when, to my unutterable agony, I heard a heart-rending cry, a plunge into the water, and poor Charley was lost to me forever! The water was deep and rough, there was no help at hand, and neither of us could swim. The agony of terror condensed into that little moment cannot be conceived. It seemed as if, were the sum of a whole life of wretchedness united in one instant, it could not have occasioned more intense torment than I then felt. I gazed on the darkened and turbulent waters as they rolled along, and saw the supplicating agony of his upcast look, and the convulsive motion of his limbs as he struggled with the treacherous element, and, without considering the consequences of the act, I plunged in, in the vain attempt to seize the arm that was slowly sinking away from my sight; but it eluded my eager hand, and his cry for help was choked by the angry waters forever. I had retained my grasp on the low timbers on which we had stood, and to this alone owed my own preservation. I immediately raised the alarm, and search was speedily made with the light of lanterns, but the lost body of poor Charley continued to slumber that night in the waters. On the morrow it was discovered and conveyed away to its last habitation, followed by a train of sorrowing schoolmates, but none walked by the little coffin with so heavy a heart as myself.

But before I attempt any further description of the scholars and their adventures, our good old teacher merits a brief notice. Methinks I can still see his kind, affectionate face, and hear his mild voice again, though the narrow house has long ago shut its iron door upon his mortal remains. He was the perfection of human kindness and gentleness, with a nature far too lenient and forbearing to rule the wild spirits of a village school. He was a deep and thoroughly read scholar, but, unfortunately, did not possess the tact to impart his learning to his pupils. But the fault, after all, rather lay with them, for if one desired to profit by his instructions, few persons had a more extensive storehouse of lore from which to communicate to others. He was an able classical scholar, and was well versed in many modern languages. But most of his pupils cared more for their amusements than for the sweet waters of learning, and were too full of mischief to attend to his teachings. He was much too gentle to apply the rod liberally, and we stood but little in awe of his presence. During school hours, he would often become completely lost in his abstruse studies, to the utter forgetfulness of the madcaps who were contriving all manner of mischief around him. Many carried little bows and arrows to the schoolroom, and the little shafts of mimic warfare would sometimes fly in volleys over his very head, without even disturbing his cogitations. Marbles would be rolled across the floor, and papers of gunpowder would be cast into the fireplace, whose explosion would scatter ashes, and fire, and smoke around. The authors of these transgressions he seldom discovered, so that they continued to carry on their idle pranks with impunity. It was no uncommon matter for us to obtain leave from him for a short absence, and then to hurry off with our fishing-gear for a day’s sport, and no notice would he take of the absent delinquents.

I remember that there was a fine orchard of rare pears near the schoolhouse, and against it we made many a foray, sacking the best trees with unsparing hands. On one occasion, my friend Bill accompanied me thither, eager to load his pockets with the ripe, yellow fruit that swung so temptingly on the high branches. He commenced the assault with a big stone, which he hurled with all his strength against the thickest of the enemy; but, alas! its return to earth proved nearly fatal to his scull, upon which it descended with great effect, and left a scar upon it that has not disappeared even to this day.

But I cannot better describe our master’s good temper, and the estimation in which he was held even by the very rudest of our number, than by recording his virtues in verse.

That good old man hath slept
In his grave this many a year,
And many a storm hath wept
O’er his dust the wintry tear;
And many a spring-time flower,
And many an autumn leaf,
Have bloomed and faded o’er him,
In their existence brief.
And though the teacher’s name
His grave-stone scarcely shows,
Yet freshly all his virtue
On memory’s tablet glows.
Nor will the winning sweetness,
And the softness of his heart,
In the sacred land of memory
For evermore depart!
No after life can darken
The light of early days,
For it leaves upon the plastic mind
A print that ne’er decays.

When the cracked and jangling school-bell,
In its little belfry swung
By the pale-faced gentle usher,
At early morning rung;
Then fast along the woodland,
From many a rural home,
Each sauntering, idle troop
Unto its call would come.
And glad were they to meet the smile
Of their old teacher’s face,
As up the well-worn aisle he walked
With grave and reverend pace.
No harsh and bitter voice had he,
Nor stern and scowling frown;
And seldom was the tingling rod
From its dusty shelf brought down.
But kind were all his chiding words,
Affectionate and mild--
He loved his rude and wayward charge
As parent loves its child.

The gloom that weighs the heart,
Life’s mourning and its pain;
The cankered thirst of gold,
And all the cares of gain--
Ambition, pomp, and pride,
That soil the minds of men,
And fill their paths with stinging thorns,
Were strangers to us then.
We mourned not o’er the past,
Nor feared the coming morrow,
And for the golden present
Had little cause of sorrow;
But each one was as merry
As is the roving bee,
Or the sweetest bird that carols
Its songs upon the tree.
The memory of the old school-group
And the teacher, fills the heart,
And still survives when all things else
To oblivion depart.
I. M.

Hunting Wild Animals in Africa.

It is remarkable that, while there is a general resemblance between the animals throughout the globe, each of its grand divisions has some species peculiar to itself. Thus, North America has the bison, the musk ox, and the grizzly bear, and these are found nowhere else. The lama, jaguar, tapir, and the anteater are peculiar to South America. Africa has its hippopotamus, giraffe, gnoo, and zebra. Asia has the chetah, royal tiger, nyl-ghau, yak, and dromedary. New Holland has its kangaroos, platypus, black swan, and cereopsis. Europe has a few peculiar species, but most of those which are found there, are also met with in the northern portions of Asia.

But while each division of the earth seems to afford something of the animal kind that is at once peculiar and remarkable, it must be admitted that Africa presents the most wonderful species. It furnishes us with the giraffe, which is by far the tallest of animals; it produces the larger species of elephant, which is the largest of animals; and the African lion, being superior in strength and fierceness to the Asiatic lion, is the most savage and formidable of wild beasts.

But it is not on account of their remarkable qualities only that the animals of Africa are a subject of interest. In that portion of the globe there are vast plains which are almost uninhabited by man. These afford abundant sustenance for numberless herds of antelopes, of which there are many kinds; for droves of quaggas, zebras, wild asses, ostriches, and other creatures; and here they are permitted to multiply with little interruption. The lion, panther, and leopard are almost their only enemies. These occasionally snatch a victim as he comes to the pool for water, or passes a bush or thicket where the enemy lies in ambush; but the number destroyed in this way is not sufficient greatly to check the increase of wild animals upon the plains of Africa. There are droves of antelopes stretching over the plains as far as the eye can reach, and amounting to fifteen or twenty thousand in number. It is not uncommon to see large numbers of zebras, quaggas, and even ostriches, mingling in the crowd as if they were of the same family.

A New England boy who takes his gun and goes into the woods or fields, fancies that he has pretty good luck if he can bring home half a dozen robins with two or three chip squirrels. If he kills a partridge or a brace of woodcock, he stands very high in his own estimation. I have myself roamed over the country for half a day, and felt myself compensated with no larger game than this. But sporting in Africa is quite a different matter.

Captain Harris, an Englishman, who travelled in the southern parts of Africa a few years since, has given an interesting account of his adventures there. The following extract presents one of the scenes which he describes upon the river Meritsane, at a distance of some five or six hundred miles north of the Cape of Good Hope.

“The reports of four savages of the Batlapi tribe, who joined us yesterday, determined us to halt a day for the purpose of hunting. Richardson and myself left the wagons at daybreak attended by these men, and crossing the river, took a northwesterly direction through a park of magnificent camelthorn trees, many of which were groaning under the huge nests of the social grosbeak; whilst others were decorated with green clusters of mistletoe, the bright scarlet berries of which were highly ornamental.

“We soon perceived large herds of quaggas and brindled gnoos, which continued to join each other, until the whole plain seemed alive. The clatter of their hoofs was perfectly astounding, and I could compare it to nothing but to the din of a tremendous charge of cavalry, or the rushing of a mighty tempest. I could not estimate the accumulated numbers at less than fifteen thousand; a great extent of country being actually chequered black and white with their congregated masses. As the panic caused by the report of our rifles extended, clouds of dust hovered over them; and the long necks of troops of ostriches were also to be seen, towering above the heads of their less gigantic neighbors, and sailing past with astonishing rapidity.

“Groups of purple sassaybys, and brilliant red and yellow hartebeests, likewise lent their aid to complete the picture, which must have been seen to be properly understood, and which beggars all attempt at description. The savages kept in our wake, dexterously despatching the wounded gnoos by a touch on the spine with the point of an assagai, and instantly covering up the carcass with bushes, to secure them from the voracity of the vultures, which hung about us like specks in the firmament, and descended with the velocity of lightning, as each discharge of our artillery gave token of prey.

“As we proceeded, two strange figures were perceived standing under the shade of a tree; these we instantly knew to be elands, the savages at the same moment exclaiming with evident delight, _Impoofo, Impoofo_; and pressing our horses to the utmost speed, we found ourselves for the first time at the heels of the largest and most beautiful species of the antelope tribe. Notwithstanding the unwieldy shape of these animals, they had at first greatly exceeded the speed of our jaded horses, but being pushed, they soon separated; their sleek coats turned first blue and then white with froth; the foam fell from their mouths and nostrils, and the perspiration from their sides. Their pace gradually slackened, and with their full brilliant eyes turned imploringly towards us, at the end of a mile, each was laid low by a single ball. They were young bulls, measuring upwards of seventeen hands at the shoulder.

“In size and shape, the body of the male eland resembles that of a well-conditioned ox, not unfrequently attaining the height of nineteen hands, and weighing two thousand pounds. The head is strictly that of the antelope, light, graceful, and bony, with a pair of magnificent straight horns, about two feet in length, spirally ringed, and pointed backwards. A broad and deep dewlap, fringed with brown hair, reaches to the knee. The color varies considerably with the age, being dun in some, in others an ashy blue with a tinge of ochre; and in many, also, sandy gray approaching to white. The flesh is esteemed, by all classes in Africa, above that of any other animal; in grain and color it resembles beef, but is better tasted, and more delicate, possessing a pure game flavor, and the quantity of fat with which it is interlarded is surprising, greatly exceeding that of any other game quadruped with which I am acquainted. The female is smaller and of slighter form, with less ponderous horns. The stoutest of our savage attendants could with difficulty transport the head of the eland to the wagons.”

After describing his meeting three hundred elephants in a drove, and seeing gnoos and quaggas by tens of thousands, Captain Harris proceeds to give the following account of hunting the giraffe or cameleopard:

“Many days had now elapsed since we had even seen the cameleopard--and then only in small numbers, and under the most unfavorable circumstances. The blood coursed through my veins like quicksilver, therefore, as, on the morning of the nineteenth, from the back of _Breslar_, my most trusty steed, with a firm wooded plain before me, I counted thirty-two of these animals, industriously stretching their peacock necks to crop the tiny leaves which fluttered above their heads, in a mimosa grove that beautified the scenery. They were within a hundred yards of me, but I reserved my fire.

“Although I had taken the field expressly to look for giraffes, and had put four of the Hottentots on horseback, all excepting Piet had as usual slipped off unperceived in pursuit of a troop of koodoos. Our stealthy approach was soon opposed by an ill-tempered rhinoceros, which, with her ugly calf, stood directly in the path; and the twinkling of her bright little eyes, accompanied by a restless rolling of the body, giving earnest of her intention to charge, I directed Piet to salute her with a broadside, at the same moment putting spurs to my horse. At the report of the gun, and the sudden clattering of hoofs, away bounded the giraffes in grotesque confusion, clearing the ground by a succession of frog-like hops, and soon leaving me far in the rear. Twice were their towering forms concealed from view by a park of trees, which we entered almost at the same instant; and twice, on emerging from the labyrinth, did I perceive them tilting over an eminence greatly in advance. A white turban, that I wore round my hunting cap, being dragged off by a projecting bough, was instantly attacked by three rhinoceroses; and looking over my shoulder, I could see them long afterwards fagging themselves to overtake me. In the course of five minutes, the giraffes arrived at a small river, the deep sands of which receiving their long legs, their flight was greatly retarded; and after floundering to the opposite side, and scrambling to the top of the bank, I perceived that their race was run.

“Patting the steaming neck of my good steed, I urged him again to his utmost, and instantly found myself by the side of the herd of giraffes. The stately bull being readily distinguishable from the rest by his dark chesnut robe and superior stature, I applied the muzzle of my rifle behind his dappled shoulder, with the right hand, and drew both triggers; but he still continued to shuffle along, and being afraid of losing him, should I dismount, among the extensive mimosa groves, with which the landscape was now obscured, I sat in my saddle, loading and firing behind the elbow, and then placing myself across his path, until, the tears trickling from his full, brilliant eye, his lofty frame began to totter, and at the seventeenth discharge from the deadly grooved bore, bowing his graceful head from the skies, his proud form was prostrate in the dust.

“Never shall I forget the tingling excitement of that moment! Alone, in the wild wood, I hurraed with bursting exultation, and unsaddling my steed, sank exhausted beside the noble prize I had won.

“When I leisurely contemplated the massive frame before me, seeming as though it had been cast in a mould of brass, and protected by a hide of an inch and a half in thickness, it was no longer matter of astonishment that a bullet discharged from a distance of eighty or ninety yards should have been attended with little effect upon such amazing strength. The extreme height from the crown of the elegantly moulded head to the hoof of this magnificent animal, was eighteen feet; the whole being equally divided into neck, body, and leg.

“Two hours were passed in completing a drawing; and Piet still not making his appearance, I cut off the tail, which exceeded five feet in length, and was by far the most estimable trophy I had gained; but proceeding to saddle my horse, which I had left quietly grazing by the side of a running brook, my chagrin may be conceived, when I discovered that he had taken advantage of my occupation to free himself from his halter and abscond.

“Being ten miles from the wagons, and in a perfectly strange country, I felt convinced that the only chance of recovering my pet was by following the trail, whilst doing which with infinite difficulty, the ground scarcely deigning to receive a foot-print, I had the satisfaction of meeting Piet and Mohanycom, who had fortunately seen and recaptured the truant horse. Returning to the giraffe, we all feasted heartily upon the flesh, which, although highly scented at this season with the rank mokaala blossoms, was far from despicable; and after losing our way in consequence of the twin-like resemblance of two scarped hills, we regained the wagons after sunset.

“The rapidity with which giraffes, awkwardly formed as they are, can move, is beyond all things surprising, our best horses being unable to close with them under two miles. Their gallop is a succession of jumping strides, the fore and hind leg on the same side moving together instead of diagonally, as in most other quadrupeds, the former being kept close together, and the latter so wide apart, that, in riding by the animal’s side, the hoof may be seen striking on the outside of the horse, momentarily threatening to overthrow him. Their motion, altogether, reminded me rather of the pitching of a ship, or rolling of a rocking-horse, than of anything living; and the remarkable gait is rendered still more automaton-like by the switching, at regular intervals, of the long black tail, which is invariably curled above the back; and by the corresponding action of the neck, swinging, as it does, like a pendulum, and literally imparting to the animal the appearance of a piece of machinery in motion. Naturally gentle, timid, and peaceable, the unfortunate giraffe has no means of protecting itself but by kicking with its heels; but even when hemmed into a corner, it seldom resorts to this mode of defence.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.