Chapter II

_The West Indies continued.--Discovery of Hayti.--Generosity of the Cacique.--Testimony of Columbus in favor with the Indians.--Character of the natives.--Columbus erects a cross.--Indian belief.--Effect of the Spanish invasion.--The Cacique._

Columbus entered a harbor at the western end of the island of Hayti, on the evening of the 6th of December. He gave to the harbor the name of St. Nicholas, which it bears to this day. The inhabitants were frightened at the approach of the ships, and they all fled to the mountains. It was some time before any of the natives could be found. At last three sailors succeeded in overtaking a young and beautiful female, whom they carried to the ships.

She was treated with the greatest kindness, and dismissed finely clothed, and loaded with presents of beads, hawk’s bells, and other pretty baubles. Columbus hoped by this conduct to conciliate the Indians; and he succeeded. The next day, when the Spaniards landed, the natives permitted them to enter their houses, and set before them bread, fish, roots and fruits of various kinds, in the most kind and hospitable manner.

Columbus sailed along the coast, continuing his intercourse with the natives, some of whom had ornaments of gold, which they readily exchanged for the merest trifle of European manufacture. These poor, simple people little thought that to obtain gold these _Christians_ would destroy all the Indians in the islands. No--they believed the Spaniards were more than mortal, and the country from which they came must exist somewhere in the skies.

The generous and kind feelings of the natives were shown to great advantage when Columbus was distressed by the loss of his ship. He was sailing to visit a grand cacique or chieftain named Guacanagari, who resided on the coast to the eastward, when his ship ran aground, and the breakers beating against her, she was entirely wrecked. He immediately sent messengers to inform Guacanagari of this misfortune.

When the cacique heard of the distress of his guest, he was so much afflicted as to shed tears; and never in civilized country were the vaunted rites of hospitality more scrupulously observed than by this uncultivated savage. He assembled his people and sent off all his canoes to the assistance of Columbus, assuring him, at the same time, that everything he possessed was at his service. The effects were landed from the wreck and deposited near the dwelling of the cacique, and a guard set over them, until houses could be prepared, in which they could be stored.

There seemed, however, no disposition among the natives to take advantage of the misfortune of the strangers, or to plunder the treasures thus cast upon their shores, though they must have been inestimable in their eyes. On the contrary, they manifested as deep a concern at the disaster of the Spaniards as if it had happened to themselves, and their only study was, how they could administer relief and consolation.

Columbus was greatly affected by this unexpected goodness. “These people,” said he in his journal, “love their neighbors as themselves; their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and accompanied by a smile. There is not in the world a better nation or a better land.”

When the cacique first met with Columbus, the latter appeared dejected, and the good Indian, much moved, again offered Columbus everything he possessed that could be of service to him. He invited him on shore, where a banquet was prepared for his entertainment, consisting of various kinds of fish and fruit. After the feast, Columbus was conducted to the beautiful groves which surrounded the dwelling of the cacique, where upwards of a thousand of the natives were assembled, all perfectly naked, who performed several of their national games and dances.

Thus did this generous Indian try, by every means in his power, to cheer the melancholy of his guest, showing a warmth of sympathy, a delicacy of attention, and an innate dignity and refinement, which could not have been expected from one in his savage state.

He was treated with great deference by his subjects, and conducted himself towards them with a gracious and prince-like majesty.

Three houses were given to the shipwrecked crew for their residence. Here, living on shore, and mingling freely with the natives, they became fascinated by their easy and idle mode of life. They were governed by the caciques with an absolute, but patriarchal and easy rule, and existed in that state of primitive and savage simplicity which some philosophers have fondly pictured as the most enviable on earth.

The following is the opinion of old Peter Martyr: “It is certain that the land among these people (the Indians) is as common as the sun and water, and that ‘mine and thine,’ the seeds of all mischief, have no place with them. They are content with so little, that, in so large a country, they have rather superfluity than scarceness; so that they seem to live in a golden world, without toil, in open gardens, neither entrenched nor shut up by walls or hedges. They deal truly with one another, without laws, or books, or judges.”

In fact, these Indians seemed to be perfectly contented; their few fields, cultivated almost without labor, furnished roots and vegetables; their groves were laden with delicious fruit; and the coast and rivers abounded with fish. Softened by the indulgence of nature, a great part of the day was passed by them in indolent repose. In the evening they danced in their fragrant groves to their national songs, or the rude sound of their silver drums.

Such was the character of the natives of many of the West Indian Islands, when first discovered. Simple and ignorant they were, and indolent also, but then they were kind-hearted, generous, and happy. And their sense of justice, and of the obligations of man to do right, are beautifully set forth in the following story.

It was a custom with Columbus to erect crosses in all remarkable places, to denote the discovery of the country, and its subjugation to the Catholic faith. He once performed this ceremony on the banks of a river in Cuba. It was on a Sunday morning. The cacique attended, and also a favorite of his, a venerable Indian, fourscore years of age.

While mass was performed in a stately grove, the natives looked on with awe and reverence. When it was ended, the old man made a speech to Columbus in the Indian manner. “I am told,” said he, “that thou hast lately come to these lands with a mighty force, and hast subdued many countries, spreading great fear among the people; but be not vain-glorious.

“According to our belief, the souls of men have two journeys to perform after they have departed from the body: one to a place dismal, foul, and covered with darkness, prepared for such men as have been unjust and cruel to their fellow-men; the other full of delight for such as have promoted peace on earth. If then thou art mortal, and dost expect to die, beware that thou hurt no man wrongfully, neither do harm to those who have done no harm to thee.”

When this speech was explained to Columbus by his interpreter, he was greatly moved, and rejoiced to hear this doctrine of the future state of the soul, having supposed that no belief of the kind existed among the inhabitants of these countries. He assured the old man that he had been sent by his sovereigns, to teach them the true religion, to protect them from harm, and to subdue their enemies the Caribs.

Alas! for the simple Indians who believed such professions. Columbus, no doubt, was sincere, but the adventurers who accompanied him, and the tyrants who followed him, cared only for riches for themselves. They ground down the poor, harmless red men beneath a harsh system of labor, obliging them to furnish, month by month, so much gold. This gold was found in fine grains, and it was a severe task to search the mountain pebbles and the sands of the plains for the shining dust.

Then the islands, after they were seized upon by the Christians, were parcelled out among the leaders, and the Indians were compelled to be their slaves. No wonder “deep despair fell upon the natives. Weak and indolent by nature, and brought up in the untasked idleness of their soft climate and their fruitful groves, death itself seemed preferable to a life of toil and anxiety.

“The pleasant life of the island was at an end; the dream in the shade by day; the slumber during the noontide heat by the fountain, or under the spreading palm; and the song, and the dance, and the game in the mellow evening, when summoned to their simple amusements by the rude Indian drum.

“They spoke of the times that were past, before the white men had introduced sorrow, and slavery, and weary labor among them; and their songs were mournful, and their dances slow.

“They had flattered themselves, for a time, that the visit of the strangers would be but temporary, and that, spreading their ample sails, their ships would waft them back to their home in the sky. In their simplicity, they had frequently inquired of the Spaniards when they intended to return to Turey, or the heavens. But when all such hope was at an end, they became desperate, and resorted to a forlorn and terrible alternative.”

They knew the Spaniards depended chiefly on the supplies raised in the islands for a subsistence; and these poor Indians endeavored to produce a famine. For this purpose they destroyed their fields of maize, stripped the trees of their fruit, pulled up the yuca and other roots, and then fled to the mountains.

The Spaniards were reduced to much distress, but were partially relieved by supplies from Spain. To revenge themselves on the Indians, they pursued them to their mountain retreats, hunted them from one dreary fastness to another, like wild beasts, until thousands perished in dens and caverns, of famine and sickness, and the survivors, yielding themselves up in despair, submitted to the yoke of slavery. But they did not long bear the burden of life under their civilized masters. In 1504, only twelve years after the discovery of Hayti, when Columbus visited it, (under the administration of Ovando,) he thus wrote to his sovereigns: “Since I left the island, six parts out of seven of the natives are dead, all through ill-treatment and inhumanity; some by the sword, others by blows and cruel usage, or by hunger.”

No wonder these oppressed Indians considered the Christians the incarnation of all evil. Their feelings were often expressed in a manner that must have touched the heart of a real Christian, if there was such a one among their oppressors.

When Velasquez set out to conquer Cuba, he had only three hundred men; and these were thought sufficient to subdue an island above seven hundred miles in length, and filled with inhabitants. From this circumstance we may understand how naturally mild and unwarlike was the character of the Indians. Indeed, they offered no opposition to the Spaniards, except in one district. Hatney, a cacique who had fled from Hayti, had taken possession of the eastern extremity of Cuba. He stood upon the defensive, and endeavored to drive the Spaniards back to their ships. He was soon defeated and taken prisoner.

Velasquez considered him as a slave who had taken arms against his master, and condemned him to the flames. When Hatney was tied to the stake, a friar came forward, and told him that if he would embrace the Christian faith, he should be immediately, on his death, admitted into heaven.

“Are there any Spaniards,” says Hatney, after some pause, “in that region of bliss you describe?”

“Yes,” replied the monk, “but only such as are worthy and good.”

“The best of them,” returned the indignant Indian, “have neither worth nor goodness; I will not go to a place where I may meet with one of that cruel race.”

(_To be continued._)

SOMETHING WONDERFUL.

The thing to which we refer is a seed. How wonderful that an acorn should contain within it a little plant, capable of growing up into an enormous oak, which will produce other acorns, capable of growing into other oaks, and so on forever! and yet there are seeds not one hundredth part as big as an acorn, which produce trees almost, if not quite, as large as an oak.

Or think of a grain of wheat. It is just as useful for food as if it contained nothing but a little flour mixed with a little bran. In fact, when it is ground there is nothing else to be seen; but beside these it contains a little plant, too small to be made out by common sight.

When one of these grains or seeds is put into moist earth, it begins to suck in water, which softens it and makes it swell. The little plant inside begins to grow, and in a few days a small, delicate root peeps out from one end of the seed. The seed may be lying on its side, or with the root end uppermost; but the little root, whether it comes out at the top or bottom of the seed, immediately turns downward, and grows in that direction.

Soon after, a little white shoot comes out at the other end, which turns upwards, and becomes green as soon as it gets into air and light; and thus we have a little plant.

In the mean time, the seed itself spoils and decays; or, as St. Paul calls it, dies. The flour changes into a kind of gummy sugar, which is sucked up by the young plant as its first nourishment; the husk shrivels and rots, and the plant grows up until it becomes a thousand times as large as the seed. At last it produces many other seeds, just as wonderful as that from which it grew.

In all the works of man, there is nothing like this. A watch is a remarkable invention, and a man would be set down as mad who should think it should be made by chance. But how much more wonderful would a watch be, if it could make other watches like itself! Yet a seed does this; and every cornfield in harvest-time contains millions of seeds, each of which is far more wonderful than the best watch.

The reason is, that men make watches, but God makes seeds. It is true that the skill by which men make watches comes from God, and should be acknowledged as his gift; but the more wonderful power by which a seed is made, he keeps in his own hands, that we may know that we have a Maker and a Master in heaven, and may serve him with reverence and godly fear.

Fanny Gossip and Susan Lazy;

A DIALOGUE.

_Susan._ Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your house. I thought I never should see your face again. Did you ever know such a long, stupid storm? nothing but rain, rain, rain for three everlasting days!

_Fanny._ And in vacation-time too! it did seem too bad. If our house had not been on the street, so that I could see something stirring, I believe I should have had the blues.

_Susan._ And I _did_ have the blues outright. I never was so dull in my life, moping about the house. Mother won’t let me touch such books as I like to read, and the boys went to school all day, so I had nothing on earth to do but look at the drops of rain racing down the windows, and watch the clouds to see if it was going to clear up. I assure you I fretted from morning till night, and mother got out of all patience with me, and said I was a perfect nuisance in the house; but I am sure it was not my fault.

_Fanny._ Well! I was a little better off. I sat half the time making fun of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that turned out in the rain. There was Mr. Skimmer went by every day with a cotton umbrella; and Mr. Saveals with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones started out on one side, as if he wanted to poke people’s eyes out, and a great slit to let the rain through:--both of them misers, I know! And there was Miss Goodbody! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, and won’t take a carriage, though she can afford it, because she says that would be ridiculous. I wish you had seen her come paddling through the wet! such shoes, and such stockings! I do think it is unladylike. Then, when everything else failed to amuse me, there were our neighbors opposite to be speculated upon.

_Susan._ Ah! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I believe?

_Fanny._ Yes, and there she sat at the window, on purpose to be seen, stitching away, and reading, and setting herself up as a pattern to the whole neighborhood.

_Susan._ I would not have such a strict mother as she has for all the world. I don’t believe she enjoys her vacation at all.

_Fanny._ I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so close. I should think she was bringing her up to be a seamstress; and yet, considering that everybody knows Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura extravagantly. Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on examination day?

_Susan._ Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would go over and look at it, but couldn’t take the trouble.

_Fanny._ Why, how you do gape, Susan!

_Susan._ I know it; mother says I have a terrible trick of gaping. But I do get so tired.

_Fanny._ Tired of what?

_Susan._ I don’t know; I am tired of the vacation, I believe: and before the term was over I was wishing so for it! I was tired to death of school, and dare say I shall be so again in a fortnight.

_Fanny._ Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from mamma’s workbasket. Just see how fast she walks;--ah ha! she is going to the circulating library; look at that novel under her arm.

_Susan._ I shall tell my mother of that; she thinks everything right that the Busy family do.

(_Enter Laura._)

_Fanny._ Well, Laura, poor thing! you are so glad to get out of the house that I suppose you are running away from it as fast as you can.

_Laura._ I am not quite running, I believe, but you know I always walk fast.

_Susan._ I can’t think why, I am sure.

_Laura._ It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me more good than if I were to go sauntering along.

_Susan._ Saves time? and in the vacation too? why, of what consequence is time now, when you have no school-hours to mind?

_Laura._ Because if I don’t take care I shall not get through what I have planned. Only think how fast the vacation is going! Next Monday school begins.

_Fanny._ So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the vacation is almost over. I thought you told the master, when school broke up, that you wished there was no vacation.

_Laura._ I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would be a dull time.

_Susan._ I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I should think it must have been worse yet for you.

_Laura._ Why?

_Susan._ Because your mother keeps you at work all the time.

_Laura._ Indeed she does not. She sent me out to walk this very afternoon, and she always makes me put my work away at just such hours, for fear I should sit too close at my needle.

_Susan._ Mercy! do you love to sew? oh, I suppose you are learning fancy work: well, I don’t know but I might like that for a little while.

_Laura._ No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till I can do plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking how I should manage to pass the vacation, and I took it into my head that I would try to make a shirt by a particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I shall be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall present my father with a shirt of my own making.

_Susan._ Did you do all the fine stitching yourself?

_Laura._ To be sure.

_Susan._ I am sure I would not make myself such a slave.

_Laura._ There is no slavery about it; it was my own pleasure; and you cannot think how fast it has made the time go. I set myself a task every day, and then, you see, trying to get just so much done by twelve o’clock, made me feel so interested!

_Fanny._ And the rest of the time you have been reading novels, I see.

_Laura._ No, indeed; I never read one in my life. Did you think this library-book was a novel?

_Fanny._ Let me see it; “Astoria;” is not that the name of some heroine? let me look at it a little. (_Turning over the leaves._)

_Laura._ You can’t think how interesting it is. It gives an account of a place away on the western coast of North America; and of all that the people suffered to get there; and about the very wildest Indians, and the trappers, and the Rocky Mountains; and here is a map, you see, Susan.

_Susan._ Oh, well! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose.

_Laura._ Such books will make your geography pleasanter than ever, I am sure; do read it.

_Susan._ Not I; I have hardly touched a book or a needle this vacation, and I have no idea of it. These long summer days are tedious enough without that.

_Laura._ But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you were only occupied about something or other.

_Fanny._ And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole vacation without a bit of amusement? I must say I think there is a little affectation in that.

_Laura._ Oh no, indeed! I do not like to sit still from morning till night any better than you do; and mother would not let me if I did. I have taken a long, brisk walk every day.

_Fanny._ What, alone? I hate walking alone.

_Laura._ Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes walks over the bridge into the country with me, and we get wild flowers, and she explains all about them; that we call going botanizing, and it makes the walks much more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled a common head of clover to pieces and showed me how curiously it is made up of ever so many florets, as she calls them; and even the dandelion is very queer.

_Susan._ And did you go botanizing in the rain too?

_Laura._ No; of course we could not stir out then.

_Susan._ Then I rather think you found the last three days as dull as any of us.

_Fanny._ Not she, Susan. No doubt it was very pleasant to sit perched up at the window all day, for the passers to admire her industry.

_Laura._ O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable! if you had not been at the window so much yourself you would not have seen me.

_Fanny._ But I was not making a display of myself, with a book or a needle forever in my hand.

_Laura._ No, Fanny; if you had been occupied, however, you would not have been making such unkind remarks about your neighbors, would you? Did you not observe that my mother sat at the window with me? The reason was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the room when it is cloudy. You know our little breakfast-room has only one window.

_Susan._ So for the last three days you have been reading and poking your needle in and out from morning till night? Well! it would be the death of me. (_Gaping._)

_Laura._ Why no; I tell you I do not like sitting still forever, any more than you do; I like to use my feet every day as well as my hands, and I presume they expect it. Too much stitching gives me a stitch in my side; so when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shuttlecock with father when he came home to dinner, and one day we kept it up to five hundred and two. Then before tea I used to skip rope along the upper entry sometimes; and then there was something else--but I suppose Fanny will tell all the girls in school and make them laugh at me; but I really enjoyed it best of anything.

_Fanny._ What was it? tell us, do. I hate secrets.

_Laura._ You like to find them out, I am sure; but it is no mighty secret, after all; and I don’t know why I need be ashamed to tell, for my father and mother made no objection. I went up into the nursery every evening before the little ones went to bed, and played blind man’s buff with them.

_Fanny._ And could you take any pleasure in it?

_Laura._ To be sure.

_Fanny._ Then I must say I had no idea you were such a baby. Mr. Teachall’s best scholar playing romping games with little children! I am six months younger than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too much of a woman for blind man’s buff! I gave that up three years ago!

_Laura._ Well! it seemed to make the children enjoy their fun all the better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, and did nobody any harm; so I am content to be called a baby.

_Susan._ I don’t see how you could take the trouble; it tires me just to think of going racing about the room at that rate. I should as soon think of sitting down to study French for amusement.

_Fanny._ I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. I declare she looks as if she had! Who would have thought of that?

_Laura._ I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those last lessons were before the term ended, and I was afraid I should forget them; so I have been reviewing the last thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep what I had got, as she says, and make the next come easier.

_Susan._ A pretty vacation, to be sure! How upon earth did you find time for it all?

_Laura._ Why, I don’t know. There are no more hours in my day than there are in yours, Susan. But good-by, girls; I am going to see if aunt Kindly has come to town again.

_Fanny._ Stop a minute, Laura; I am going shopping, and I want to know where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean to tease my mother for one just like it.

_Laura._ Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me.

_Fanny._ Oh ho! a present, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder what put it into her head.

_Laura._ I believe she was pleased because, when mother was fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for them. Your mother helped too, Susan.

_Susan._ Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed school a single day: how _could_ you find time then?

_Laura._ I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd moment; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was waiting for something or somebody, and even that helped on the work. I think that is a great advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our time. Good-by; you creep so like snails, I should think you would fall asleep. (_Exit._)

_Susan._ Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would not lead such a life for anything.

_Fanny._ I begin to think I would, Susan! she really makes me ashamed of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when you know your mother is always grieving at your laziness. I have heard her tell my mother twenty times that your indolence makes your life a burden to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks what kind of woman you will make.

_Susan._ It is better to be idle than to be always talking about people, Fanny! (_Pouting._)

_Fanny._ You are incurable, I do believe; but I am not, and I am going home this minute to find some work, and mind my own affairs.

_Susan._ Why, I thought we were going shopping!

_Fanny._ But I am not in want of anything; I was only going to kill time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I will lead Laura’s life a couple of days and see how I like it. I really think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue will not get me into so many difficulties. Good-by, Susan.

_Susan._ Good-by. Oh dear! I wonder what I shall do with myself now!

* * * * *

“In this country,” says an English editor, “it is considered the height of folly for a man to get drunk and lie across a railroad with the idea of obtaining repose.” The same opinion obtains to a considerable extent in America.

Antiquities of Egypt.

Egypt is situated in the northeastern part of Africa, and very near to Asia. The descendants of Noah first settled in the valley of the river Euphrates, and thence they spread over the land in all directions. Egypt is about five hundred miles westward of this valley, and being a very fruitful country, was speedily filled with inhabitants. These soon began to build cities, and in the space of a few centuries after the flood, Egypt was the seat of a great and powerful empire. The people increased with astonishing rapidity; a knowledge of various arts was diffused among them, schools of learning were established, men of profound science flourished, and the kings and princes built vast cities, made artificial lakes, constructed canals, caused vast chambers as depositories of the dead to be cut out of the solid rock, raised mighty pyramids which still defy the tooth of time, and carried on other great and mighty works.

Thus it was that while America was unknown; while nearly all Africa, nearly all Europe, and more than half of Asia, were uninhabited, except by wild beasts; and while most of the people and nations on the globe were rude and uncivilized, the empire of Egypt contained many millions of people who were far advanced in civilization. Thus at the earliest period Egypt took the lead in knowledge and science, and therefore it is called the cradle of learning. Here it was that Homer and other celebrated Greek scholars, almost 3000 years ago, went to school, as young men go to Cambridge and New Haven to acquire learning now-a-days. Here it was that Moses, almost 3400 years ago, was educated, by direction of Pharaoh’s daughter, in a very superior manner, thus qualifying him, with the aid of Divine Providence, for the wonderful task of leading the Jewish nation for forty years through the wilderness of Arabia.

The history of the Jewish nation, as told in the Bible, gives us a good deal of information about Egypt in those early days, for the Jews were held in bondage there, and after they escaped, they settled in Palestine, a distance of only about 250 miles from Egypt. There was much intercourse therefore between the two nations, and the history of one naturally runs into that of the other.

But besides this knowledge of the history of Egypt afforded by the Bible, much other information is given by the ancient Greek and Roman historians; in addition to all this, the remains of ancient cities scattered along the banks of the Nile,--a famous river that runs through Egypt,--assure us that the half has hardly been told us. Notwithstanding the wonderful accounts of the splendor and populousness of ancient Egypt, handed down by antiquity, the existing monuments prove that these accounts fall short of the truth. And these remains are not only interesting as proving this, but also because they illustrate history, and throw much light upon the manners and customs of the ancient Egyptians.

Among the famous ruins of Luxor, which are found on the borders of the Nile, and which excite the wonder of every beholder by their splendor and magnificence, are the ornaments of buildings, which consist of carvings in marble, portraying various scenes, some relating to history and some to domestic life. Many of these sculptures exhibit men fighting, and therefore show how they carried on war 3500 years ago; there are carvings of men hunting, which show how they pursued the chase in those times. There are representations which show what kind of carts and carriages the people had; how they harnessed their horses and cattle; what kind of weapons they used in war; and many other things are shown by these remains of antiquity.

But recent discoveries have developed still more curious and interesting things. Vast chambers or rooms have been discovered, cut in the rock beneath the ground, where it seems the people used to live. On the walls of these chambers are paintings, which still preserve their colors and outlines so perfectly as to be easily understood. Here the traveller is able to study the manners and customs of ancient Egypt: here he finds pictures telling how the people dressed; how they cooked their food; what sort of furniture they had; how they amused themselves; in short, how they lived, in almost every respect. And what is curious to remark is this,--that many articles which have been invented in modern times, appear to have been in use among these Egyptians at least three thousand years ago. This subject is full of interest, for by the monuments and paintings of Egypt we have, as it were, discovered a wonderful book, that tells us a story which has been more than half hidden for about thirty centuries.

But there is no aspect in which these modern discoveries seem so interesting, as in regard to the light they throw upon numerous passages in the Bible. I will mention a few instances; the following is one. Among the animals mentioned as illustrative of the wisdom and power of Providence, is one called in Hebrew the Reem, a word which literally signifies “_the tall animal_.” It is thus described in scripture: “Will the reem be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy crib? Canst thou bind the reem with his band in the furrow? or will he harrow the valleys after thee? Wilt thou trust him because his strength is great? or wilt thou leave thy labor to him? Wilt thou believe him, that he will bring home thy seed and gather it into thy barn?” (Job xxxix. 9-12.) Our translators have rendered the word reem, _unicorn_, which is absurd. Some commentators assert that it is the rhinoceros, or the buffalo, because the cognate Arabic word is sometimes applied to a species of gazelle, and the Arabs frequently speak of oxen and stags as one species. But neither the rhinoceros nor the buffalo can be called a tall animal, and the analogy between them and any species of gazelle with which we are acquainted, would be very difficult to demonstrate. But we find upon the monuments an animal fulfilling all the conditions of the description, and that is the giraffe, which is represented several times among the articles of tribute brought to the Pharaohs from the interior of Africa. The preceding sketch represents one of these carvings.

A most interesting proof of the accuracy and fidelity of the Bible narration is furnished by the following considerations. The artists of Egypt, in the specimens which they have left behind, delineated minutely every circumstance connected with their national habits and observances from the cradle to the grave; representing with equal fidelity the usages of the palace and the cottage,--the king surrounded by the pomp of state, and the peasant employed in the humblest labors of the field. In the very first mention of Egypt, we shall find the scriptural narrative singularly illustrated and confirmed by the monuments.

“And there was a famine in the land (of Canaan,) and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was grievous in the land. And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou art a fair woman to look upon; therefore it shall come to pass when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This is his wife; and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive. Say, I pray thee, thou art my sister, that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall live because of thee. And it came to pass, that when Abram was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she was very fair. The princes also of Pharaoh’s house saw her, and commended her before Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s house.” (Gen. xii. 10-15.)

Now let it be remembered that at present the custom for the Egyptian women, as well as those of other eastern countries, is to veil their faces somewhat in the manner here represented. Why then should Abram have been so anxious because the princes of Pharaoh’s house saw his wife Sarai? How indeed could they see her face, and discover that she was handsome, if she had been veiled according to the custom of the country now? The question is answered by the monuments, for here is a representation of the manner in which a woman was dressed in Egypt in ancient times.

It seems therefore that they exposed their faces; and thus the scripture story is shown to be agreeable to the manners and customs of the country at the date to which the story refers. It is impossible to bring a more striking and conclusive proof of the antiquity and minute accuracy of the Bible record than this.

The period at which the custom of veiling the faces of women was introduced into Egypt, was probably about 500 years before Christ, when Cambyses, king of Persia, conquered that country. It was but natural that the conquered country should adopt the fashions of the conquering one, particularly as at this period Persia was an empire of great wealth and power, and likely not only to give laws in respect to government, but in respect to manners also. The probability, therefore, that the Bible record was made previous to this event, even had we not other testimony, is very strong, from the fact that it relates, in the story of Abraham and his wife, a tale which implies a fashion which probably never existed in Egypt after the conquests of Cambyses. How wonderful it is, that these mute monuments, after slumbering in silence for ages, should now be able to add their indubitable testimony to the truth of that book, which we hold to be the Word of God!

A Drunkard’s Home.

It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a sky so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet note, and earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path that led to the village school was trod by happy children, whose glowing cheeks and merry voices testified that they partook of the general gladness.

In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed and smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and vice. She looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful countenance, and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she carried, lingered by the fence till the children were out of sight, and then, turning into another road, proceeded to perform her usual errand to a grocery called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning had no charm for her. Her little heart felt none of the lightness and gayety the hearts of children feel when nature is beautiful around them. She could not laugh as they laughed; and as the sound of their merry voices seemed still to linger on her ear, she wondered that she could not be as happy as they.

And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home, of the cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her mother, of the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had just passed, of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often felt; she thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just seen, and then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was, till the tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than ever.

Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew what made those happy children so different from herself. She well knew that they would spend that day in school, learning something useful, while she would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to quiet the hungry baby, and please the other children, while her mother was picking cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was that very morning to carry home something that would make her mother cross and wholly unmindful of her destitute children.

When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there, but his son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the counter, playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a faltering voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman, looking upon her with mingled contempt and pity, said, “What does your mother drink rum for?” Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad that the boy was sorry for what he had said. He gave her the liquor, and tied up the scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy heart and hasty step, proceeded upon her way.

When she reached her dwelling--and who needs a description of a drunkard’s dwelling?--her mother met her at the door, and hastily snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to gather some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed before the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered round to watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently baked, they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the empty tin remained.

The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the wants of her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in trying to soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just succeeded in lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been in the meadow, picking the cranberries which had been preserved during the winter under the snow, and which could now be sold for a few cents a quart. Though once a strong and active man, so degraded had he become, that few persons were willing to employ him, and he resorted to picking cranberries as the only means left him of obtaining what his appetite so imperiously demanded.

On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he uttered a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the crying child and put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell the cranberries, and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.

Mary put on her bonnet, and with a trembling heart commenced her walk. On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them that, as their father was then at home, they had better keep away from the house till her return. She then called from door to door; but at every place her timid inquiry, “Do you want any cranberries here?” met the same chilling answer, “No.”

At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of them at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the sun had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the western sky. She _must_ go home, and what would her father say if she returned with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and she determined to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her father wanted.

After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly retraced her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the cottage.

Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring where Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as long as she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father would be, if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother, regardless of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized the jug and drank a large part of its contents.

It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and, enraged at seeing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary first, and then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies of the latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary, fearing for the safety of herself and her brothers, crept with them into an empty closet, where, with their arms round each other, they remained, almost breathless with alarm, trembling at their father’s loud threats and their mother’s fearful screams.

At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the low groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe. The children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some food, before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to forget their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a crust of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the remainder of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was too late to attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the hearth, and it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry children, with their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves down to sleep.

In the village in which Mary’s parents lived, the wretched condition of the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them to abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were then induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his address. Whispers and significant looks passed between the acquaintances when Thomas and his wife entered the church, and scarcely one among the number thought they could be at all benefited by what they might hear. But they did not see Thomas’ heart, or know what a wretched being he felt himself to be. Through necessity, neither he nor his wife had now tasted spirit for several days, as their means of obtaining it had failed. The cranberries were all gathered from the meadow, and persons of their character could not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas knew he must take a different course, or himself and family would be sent to the work-house. It was on account of these circumstances that he this evening consented with his wife to attend the meeting.

When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy, wished himself away. But by degrees he became more and more interested, until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling down his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind, and he inwardly exclaimed, “I _can_ do it--I _will_ do it, if I die in the attempt;” and at the close of the service, going boldly up to a group of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of his wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband’s coat as she heard her name mentioned, and said, faintly, “Not mine, not mine, Thomas.” But the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily over the shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of Thomas and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged themselves to abstain from all use of ardent spirits.

As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober, industrious man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had long abandoned the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and after expressing his satisfaction at the course he had pursued, invited him to call at his house on his way home. After some hesitation, Thomas and Nancy consented; the latter being exceedingly pleased at being invited again to call on Hannah Stevens.

As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the cradle, and glanced first at her husband, and then at his companions, with a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded, however, to one of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her husband said, “I have brought you some friends, Hannah.” “Yes,” said Thomas, “and may we henceforth merit the title.” Nancy hung down her head, as if ashamed of the thoughts that were passing through her mind. Hannah, noticing her appearance, feared she did not sympathize much in her husband’s feelings. “I must encourage the poor woman,” thought she, “or her husband will be undone. If Nancy does not encourage him by her example, all will be lost.”

The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and while Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah threw aside the quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of her own, but oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before her, in its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind her own pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty dress, so seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the recollection. Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and wishing to increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room to see her other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and knowing the strength of a mother’s love, she wished to make use of this strong principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a sense of duty.

Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment. Nancy was evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable appearance of her neighbor’s house, and Hannah seized this opportunity to point out to her her dreadful neglect of duty. It was a kind, but a faithful reproof, calculated to awaken in her bosom every feeling of a mother that yet remained. Nancy did not leave the room until she had promised, by her own example, to encourage her husband to return to the uniform practice of sobriety. Thomas and his wife then took leave of their kind neighbors.

We will leave this happy fireside, and accompany Thomas and Nancy to their desolate home. As they approached the house, the faint cries of the neglected baby first struck the parents’ ears. Poor Mary was endeavoring, as usual, to quiet the little sufferer. There was no fire upon the hearth, and no light upon the table, but the moonbeams through the changing clouds were sufficient to reveal the gloom and wretchedness of the drunkards’ home. Thomas and Nancy could not but perceive the contrast between the home they had just left and their own. It was a contrast most sad and humiliating.

Early the next morning, the first person the family saw coming down the lane was little William Stevens. He had in his hand a basket of potatoes, which his father had sent to Thomas Millman, with a request that he would call at his work-shop after he had eaten his breakfast. This unexpected present gave much joy to this destitute family, and Mary, with her little brothers, will not soon forget how acceptable were their roast potatoes that morning, though eaten without butter or salt.

Thomas called, as he was requested, at William Stevens’ work-shop, and found there a job which would employ him for a day or two. It was joyfully and speedily undertaken, and after an industrious day’s work, he received, at the close, a part of his wages to lay out in food for his family. Thomas had little to struggle with this day, and on the whole, it passed by easily and pleasantly. Not so with poor Nancy. Having less to employ her mind than her husband, she was sorely tempted, more than once, to send Mary to the Yellow Shop to exchange what remained of her kind neighbor’s gift for rum. But the thought of Hannah’s kindness, and her own promise, so solemnly made, restrained her.

At last, the day wore by, and it was time for Thomas to return. As soon as the children saw him enter the lane, they ran, as was their custom, to their hiding-place; for, knowing nothing of what had recently transpired, they expected to find him intoxicated, as usual.

“Can that be father?” whispered they to each other as they heard a steady step and a calm voice. The youngest boy peeped out his head to see.

“Come here, my poor boy,” said Thomas, kindly; “you needn’t be afraid; I am not drunk.” “Oh, he isn’t drunk! he isn’t drunk!” said Jemmy, clapping his hands in great joy; “come out, children, father won’t hurt us.” Half faithless, half believing, the children left their hiding-place and came around their father.

“Mother hasn’t sent you for any rum to-day, has she, Mary?” “No, father; I hope I shall never go to that shop again.” “You never shall, to buy rum, Mary, I promise you. Do you believe me?” Mary looked as if she did not quite believe, but she said nothing.

* * * * *

A year has passed by since the period when our history commenced. It is a fine morning in April, as it then was. The children of the village are pursuing their way to school as pleasantly as they then were. But where is the little girl, with soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, that then attracted our attention? Look for one of the happiest girls among that gay, laughing group, and you will find her. Her dirty, tattered garments are exchanged for neat and comely ones; her bare feet are covered with tidy shoes and stockings, and in her hand she carries, not a tin pail, but a basket containing her school-books and work. The scenes through which this day will carry her will be very different from those through which she passed a year ago.

A great and blessed change has indeed come over this once wretched family. They have left the miserable habitation which was once theirs, and are now living upon a small but excellent farm, whose owner is not afraid to rent it to so sober and industrious people as Thomas and Nancy have become. Within the year, Thomas has been able to purchase comfortable clothing for his family, decent furniture for his house, and has besides partly paid for two yokes of oxen and four cows.

Look at Thomas at work in his field, and managing his little farm, thriving at home and respected abroad, and say what would tempt him to come again under the influence of his former ruinous habits? Look at Nancy, too, superintending her dairy and supplying the wants of her family--does she wish for a return of those days when she was the intemperate mother of hungry, neglected children? But are there not hundreds of mothers who _are_ at this time what she once _was_? and can they not, will they not, be induced to become what she _now_ is?

The Boastful Ass.

I can hardly tell the reason, but the fact seems to be, that the ass, an honest and somewhat stupid animal, seems to have given rise to more fables than any other beast, except the fox. I have already told some fables in which this long-eared personage is made to utter a great many wise things. I am now going to tell another fable, in which the creature is represented as talking rather foolishly.

A man was once going along the road with an ass, whom he treated somewhat roughly, upon which the beast first whisked his long tail, and then groaned, and finally spoke outright. “It seems to me, sir,” said the honest creature, “that you use me very ill, particularly as I belong to a race of great antiquity, and one that has been honored above all four-footed beasts!”

“Why, how’s that?” said the man.

“How’s that? indeed!” said the ass. “If you had read the Bible as much as you should, you would remember that it was one of my ancestors which conversed with a prophet, and stood in the presence of an angel on a certain occasion. This is an honor which belongs exclusively to the ass family, of which I am one, and therefore it seems meet that you should treat me with proper respect.”

“Well done!” said the countryman; “well done! poor brute. This is ever the way. It seems to be with asses as with men: when one has no merit of his own, he always boasts the dignity of his family, or the virtues of his ancestors. For my part, I know of nothing that sinks a beast or a man lower, than to see him attempt to cover up his own vices, or weakness, or folly, by showing off the dignity of his pedigree, or the respectability of his connections.” Then, giving the ass a somewhat contemptuous kick, the man passed on.

* * * * *

TRAVELLING BEEHIVES.--In Switzerland, the traveller often sees a man trudging up the mountains with a hive of bees on his back. The people move the bees, because they know how good change of place is for them. This, too, is done almost everywhere in Scotland. In France, they put their hives into a boat, some hundreds together, which floats down the stream by night, and stops by day. The bees go out in the morning, return in the evening, and when they are all at home, and quiet, the boat floats on.

Architecture of Birds.

There is no topic in Natural History more curious than the architecture of birds. In the building of nests many species are exceedingly ingenious. The humming-bird constructs its nest of thefinest silky down, or of cotton, or of the fibres of the flag-top that the boys call cat-tail, or of some other similar material. Within, it is lined in the most delicate manner with downy substances. The outside is covered with moss, usually of the color of the bough or twig to which the nest is attached, and giving it simply the appearance of an excrescence. The delicacy and ingenuity of workmanship in this case, as well as the skill displayed in the whole management of the affair, could hardly be excelled by human art.

There are several species of warblers which are very skilful in the formation of their nests, but we do not recollect to have met with anything more remarkable in this way than the nest of a species of grosbeak found in one of the Asiatic islands.

It is shaped somewhat like an inverted bottle, with a long neck, through which the bird passes up to the snug and downy little chamber above. The nest consists of soft vegetable substances, basketed and sewed together in a very wonderful manner. But the strangest part of the story is to come--the whole is suspended on the leaf of a plant! How the bird could have built the nest in this position, it is not easy to say, but we have many evidences that instinct makes that easy to birds, which is difficult to the industry and ingenuity of mankind.

* * * * *

THE SECRET.--“Mother,” said a girl of ten years of age, “I want to know the secret of your going away alone every night and morning.” “Why, my dear?” “Because it must be to see some one you love very much.” “And what leads you to think so?” “Because I have always noticed that when you come back you appear to be more happy than usual.” “Well, suppose I do go to see a friend I love very much, and that after seeing him, and conversing with him, I am more happy than before, why should you wish to know anything about it?” “Because I wish to do as you do, that I may be happy also.”

“Well, my child, when I leave you in the morning and the evening, it is to commune with my Savior. I go to pray to him--I ask him for his grace to make me happy and holy--I ask him to assist me in all the duties of the day, and especially to keep me from committing any sin against him--and above all I ask him to have mercy on you, and save you from the misery of those who sin against him.” “Oh, that is the secret,” said the child; “then I must go with you.”

* * * * *

THE LOGUE FAMILY.--The crier of a country court was upon a certain occasion required to go to the court-house door, and, as is usual in the absence of a witness, call out for Philip Logue, one of the sons of Erin, who was summoned in a case then pending. The man of the baton accordingly, stepping to the door, sung out at the top of his voice, “Philip Logue!” A wag of a lawyer happening to be passing the door at the time, whispered in his ear, “Epilogue, also.” “Epi Logue!” sung out the crier. “Decalogue,” said the lawyer in an under tone. “Dekky Logue!” again sung out the crier at the top of his voice. “Apologue,” whispered the lawyer. “Appy Logue!” reiterated the crier, at the same time expostulating with the lawyer--“You certainly want the whole family of the Logues!” “Prologue,” said the persevering lawyer. “Pro Logue!” rung through the halls of the court-house, from the stentorian lungs of the public crier, attracting the attention of everybody, and shocking the dignitaries on the bench themselves, who, not understanding the cause of his vociferousness, despatched the sheriff, with all haste, to stop the constable from further summoning the family of the Logues.

HYMN.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

When morning pours its golden rays,
O’er hill and vale, o’er earth and sea,
My heart unbidden swells in praise,
Father of light and life, to Thee!

When night, from heaven, steals darkly down,
And throws its robe o’er lawn and lea,
My saddened spirit seeks thy throne,
And bows in worship still to Thee!

If tempests sweep the angry sky,
Or sunbeams smile on flower and tree,
If joy or sorrow brim the eye--
Father in Heaven, I turn to Thee!

My own Life and Adventures.

(_Continued from page 133._)