BERTHA’S
VISIT TO HER UNCLE
IN
ENGLAND.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
MDCCCXXX.
LONDON:
Printed by W. Clowes,
Stamford-street.

ERRATA.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These little volumes consist of extracts from the Journal of a young person, who, having passed her childhood at Rio Janeiro, was sent, at the close of that period, on a visit to her English friends.

Her father, Colonel Montague, had been ordered to Brazil upon confidential business; and, foreseeing that it would occupy him for an indefinite time, he carried his family along with him. They had remained in that country several years, when their domestic happiness was suddenly destroyed by his death; and the effect of the shock on his unfortunate widow was such, that she was wholly unable to undertake a voyage to England. She was, therefore, obliged to continue her residence at Rio; but her brother, who had always been tenderly attached to her, requested that she would permit her daughter Bertha to visit him; and, though a most painful separation, she consented, knowing how much it would be for her child’s advantage.

Bertha promised to keep a constant Journal, and to send it whenever an opportunity offered; and such parts of that Journal have been selected by the Editor, as it is hoped may be found useful or interesting.

BERTHA’S VISIT.

H.M.S. Phaeton, June 17th.

My Dear Mamma,

Though I wrote to you yesterday by the Blossom, which “we spoke,” I am tempted by the delightful smoothness of the sea to begin another letter, in order to tell you a little of what I have seen and thought;—but how different from being with you every day—from being your companion as well as your child! I will not, however, say another word about my sorrow at leaving you; I will try to show that I remember your last words: “affection is best preserved by not yielding to violent feelings.” Indeed, I believe I said too much in yesterday’s letter of the misery I felt. I now try to console myself with the hope that as your health has been so much better for the last two years, you will soon, perhaps, be able to follow your poor little daughter to England; and I repeat to myself all the good reasons that you were so kind as to give for the propriety of sending me to my native country.

I am determined to follow your advice in keeping my mind constantly occupied; and as you have often said that there is no place in which something interesting may not be observed, I shall at once begin the journal you desired me to keep. It shall be ready to fold up whenever an opportunity may occur; so that I shall have the pleasure of making you and my sister, dear Marianne, frequently share with me in all that I see, and all that I enjoy.

20th.—For a day or two after our last faint view of the woody heights of Cabo Frio, I was diverted by the number of pretty land-birds, and even butterflies, that came about the ship, and fluttered in the rigging; and as they gradually disappeared I amused myself, as long as I was able, in gazing on the sea, and in watching the little waves as they dashed against the ship’s side. That pleasure soon ceased, for they became so rough that I suffered very much from sickness: but this evening there has been scarcely any wind; the dark blue sea is almost as smooth as a mirror, and I can walk, and read, and write, as if I was on shore. The captain took me on deck to see the sun setting behind the western horizon; it was indeed a beautiful sight, and the broad red line of light reflected from the water added greatly to the grandeur of the scene.

22d.—Mrs. P—— is very kind, and tries to rouse my mind, and to make me see whatever is worth observing. Just like you, Mamma, she thinks active occupation is the best remedy for grief, and she has suggested several employments in which she will be my companion. Among other things, we are to learn together the names and uses of the principal parts of the vessel.

24th.—We were much delighted yesterday evening with the luminous appearance of the sea, and the captain has promised to show us some of the insects from which the light proceeds. Many of them are common in all seas, he says; but there are some which are seldom found outside the tropics.

Just as I had written so far, Captain M. invited us to go on deck to look at some birds that were hovering about the vessel. One of them was a phaeton, or tropic-bird, of which there are many varieties;—that which I have seen to-day had a red bill, and very long white wings, tipped with black; the legs and feet bright red: the tail consists of only two straight feathers, almost two feet long, which they drop every year. These are worn in the caps of the Sandwich islanders, and in the mourning dress of the Otaheitans.

25th.—Last night we had the good fortune to procure one of the luminous creatures that make the sea so brilliant. After many fruitless attempts, a bucket of water brought up a fine specimen, about two inches long, and as thick as my finger; somewhat cylindrical and transparent. On its surface are numerous little tubercles; and as there seems to be a cavity all through the body, it might at first be thought one individual, but the captain showed me that it is an assemblage of animals united together. He examined the specimen very minutely, and then put it into a phial of spirits of wine to preserve it. He seems to be very fond of natural history, and told us that the sparkling appearance of the sea, which may be observed in all parts of the world, is produced by animalculæ, or little creatures that can only be discerned by a microscope.

26th.—We have seen more birds to-day. Some of them were petrels; they remained a long time skimming about the ship, and though they greedily devoured any fat substance thrown into the sea, all our endeavours to procure one failed. One species was the stormy petrel, which they say is seen all over the Atlantic Ocean. Some chopped straw being thrown overboard, we saw them stand on it with expanded wings; but these birds never settle or swim in the water. They skim along with incredible rapidity in the hollows of the waves. It is to the stormy petrel that these two lines allude—

She swept the seas; and as she skimm’d along,
Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung.

28th.—The captain was so good as to explain to us this morning the manner in which the rigging supports the masts, and how the yards are raised, and lowered, and braced in different positions, in order to adapt them to the force and direction of the wind. He also walked round the gun-deck with us, and showed us the cannon and all their implements, which are kept in such a constant state of readiness, that in five minutes, night or day, the whole battery would be ready for fighting. But nothing pleased me so much as the lower-deck, where he took us while the crew were all at dinner on nice pea-soup and salt pork, and all sitting comfortably on their chests placed round the tables; of which there is a complete row along the foremost half of the deck. The other end of this deck contains the officers’ cabins, which, although not above six or seven feet either in length, or breadth, or height, are very nicely fitted up with a chest of drawers, a little book-case, a chair, and even a sofa; besides a cot, or bed, which is only hung up at night.

30th.—We have seen the man-of-war bird to-day. It has a membranaceous bag like that of a pelican, bright red—the plumage is brown. It is always on the wing, very seldom having been observed to settle on the masts of ships. Other sea-birds, when tired of flying, generally rest themselves on the surface of the water; but the very great length of the wing makes it impossible for this bird to do so, as it could not easily rise again.

When we were becalmed this morning, we had an opportunity of seeing a number of birds of various kinds, the albatross, among others;—and one of the dark-coloured variety was caught with a small fishing-line; it measured seven feet between the tips of the wings. Its face is very remarkable, for its flat head and crooked bill give it some resemblance to the owl, which is increased by its large prominent eyes. As we advance to the north this species will become scarce, Captain M. says, but we shall have the great albatross, which is by far the largest of all aquatic birds.

July 2d.—I have been delighted with the flying fish, of which we have seen numbers for some days. They ascend sparkling out of the waves, sometimes singly, sometimes in great numbers, when pursued; but in avoiding one danger they are exposed to another, for it is said that the man-of-war bird has been seen to pounce upon them while in the air. Their flight is generally in a direction contrary to the wind, and seldom exceeds a hundred yards; nor do they rise high, though Captain M. says he has seen them fall on his deck. He showed me their enemies too, the bonito and the albacore, which, he says, are both of the mackarel tribe. They swim with great rapidity, and are so strong, that they sometimes, in the midst of the most rapid course, leap five or six feet perpendicularly above the surface, and plunge again head foremost into the waves.

4th.—I have been looking at Mother Carey’s chickens, the least of all the petrels, I believe; and the fulmar, which is certainly the most beautiful, for its plumage is of a snowy whiteness, and, as Mrs. P—— observed, seems unsoiled by the water, though constantly diving.

7th.—It seems a very long time since we have seen land, but I am not yet tired of a sea life. Much as I love all the works of nature, I never felt such admiration for any thing as I do for the sea. Its extent, its depth, and the grand and almost terrific sound of its waves—it fills one’s mind with awe; and it is wonderful to think that, powerful and uncontrollable as it appears, man should be able to pass over it to the most distant regions, and to guide his ships through its stormy and turbulent waves.

In speaking of the sea, Captain M. remarked how admirably the consistence of water, or as he calls it the viscidity, is adapted to its various purposes, and to the support of floating bodies. “How little,” said he, “do we observe the objects which are always before our eyes: we see without surprise masses of dust raised by the wind, and carried to a great distance; and we see also that water, though much lighter than dust, is not carried off by the winds in the same manner. If it were, every strong breeze from the ocean towards the land would bring an inundation; navigation would be impossible, and the banks of rivers and seas would be uninhabitable. The adhesion of the particles of water to each other is the cause of its preservation in masses; it would otherwise evaporate like æther, or be dispersed like dust. Such is the simplicity employed by Nature in all her works.”

8th.—We have twice seen the stormy petrel, but as yet it has not been the forerunner of storms;—it is black, with a very little white near the tail. One of the officers told me it is called petrel, after St. Peter, from his having walked on the sea.

9th.—We have been looking at a grampus, or a small kind of whale, and at a shoal of porpoises, that passed close alongside of the ship. The grampus was blowing water up in the air, in the most amusing manner, making beautiful jets d’eau that sparkled in the sun. The captain told me that in sucking in their food the whale tribe draw in a great deal of water, which they have the power of spouting out through a hole in the head.

13th.—Yesterday we crossed the tropic of Cancer. There is already a great change in the sea, which was so beautifully smooth while we were in the torrid zone, that we danced almost every evening; but now it is rough and disturbed, and at times the waves break so violently that I see nothing but foam. I like very much to look at them in that state.

15th.—Mrs. P—— and I have seen several dolphins; one of them was struck with the harpoon, and, while hanging upon deck, it was continually changing into an endless variety of colours. The back was blue, then green; its breast a brilliant orange or yellow, spotted with blue and lilac; and its fins were just like a peacock’s neck. Indeed, the captain called it the “peacock of fishes.”

The sea is now quite rough; the tranquil water we had while near the line is gone; and I sometimes find my head too unsteady to be able to write.

16th.—We have seen a great deal of sea-weed for some days; they suppose it to be drifted here by the Gulf-stream. I asked the captain to explain to me what the Gulf-stream is; and he told me that the trade-wind, which constantly blows across the Atlantic ocean from the eastward, forces the sea into the Gulf of Mexico, and makes it rise there above its natural level. From the Gulf it escapes by the narrow channel between the West India islands and Florida, and takes a north-easterly direction along the coast of North America, as far as the island of Newfoundland. It is there turned off to the south-east, and runs to the Azores, or perhaps to the coasts of Europe and Africa, before it spreads out and entirely loses itself in the surrounding ocean. The first accurate account of this great current was published by Dr. Franklin, who had discovered that, after being heated in the torrid zone, it cools so gradually that its temperature continues always higher than that of the ocean through which it flows—so much so, that ships can tell when they enter it or leave it, by dipping a thermometer into the sea. Its velocity is very great, as it is said to run at the rate of four or five miles an hour, when it first leaves the Gulf.

A good deal of the sea-weed was hauled up for Mrs. P—— to examine. It seems to be all of one species—the floating fucus, she calls it; it is curious what quantities of it are matted together, like a tangle of ropes, and what a number of very small crabs take up their abode in it.

18th.—More sea-weed, but of different kinds. This day the captain shewed us some of the vine-leaved fucus, which is one of the most curious species. He says it is sometimes brought up, by the sounding lead, from the bottom of the ocean, where, even at the depth of one hundred and ninety-two feet, its leaves are as green as grass. He says this is considered as one of the few instances of plants vegetating in obscurity, without becoming white; for, though light is transmitted through the sea, yet it is much weakened by passing through such a depth. We have also seen the giant fucus, and one of the officers said he had once measured a piece that was eight hundred feet long.

The captain says, that the reason why we find such an extraordinary quantity of sea-weed in this part of the ocean, is, that the Gulf-stream finally expends its force about here; and therefore the weed which it conveys must accumulate, and remain till it perishes, or till it sinks; and he shewed us several specimens in different states of decay. “Yes,” said Mrs. P——, “its decay is very evident; but what can make it sink?”

He replied, by shewing us several little shell-fish adhering to the under side of a bit of weed. “These,” said he, “must have been deposited there before it was torn from its native rocks by the current; in the course of their long voyage they grow; and their increased size and weight gradually sink the weed. My attention was first turned to this curious circumstance from having observed some of the weed lying edgewise in the water; I had it taken up, and found some heavy limpets attached to the lower edge.”

Mrs. P—— acknowledged this was quite a new fact to her.

20th.—The captain amused us to-day by shewing a very simple method of ascertaining the saltness of the sea, which any person can try. He dried a towel in the sun, weighed it carefully, and I noted its weight. It was then dipped in sea-water, and being wrung sufficiently to prevent it from dripping, it was again weighed, the increase of weight being that of the water imbibed by the cloth. It was now thoroughly dried, and once more weighed, and the excess of this weight, above the original weight of the cloth, shows the quantity of the salt retained by it; then, by comparing the weight of this salt with that of the sea-water imbibed by the cloth, we found what proportion of salt was contained in the water.

22d.—This morning a little land bird flew on board; I begged to have it, and I keep it in the cabin, and feed it. I asked how they knew it was from the land, and a sailor answered, “No sea birds, Miss, except boobies[1], ever rest upon the ships they follow; this poor fellow has been blown off shore by some long north-easter.”

Our captain was laughing to-day at the mistakes that authors, who have never been at sea, make in some of their fine poetical descriptions. He mentioned the albatross, as an instance, which some one has described as rising off the deck. He says it never alights on the deck, and if it were there, it could not rise again. It finds great difficulty in rising even from the sea, and scrambles along the waves to a great distance before it can fairly use its wings. They have five joints to spread out, and appear to have no motion except at the moment the bird first raises itself into the air; when, at the same time, it makes several strokes against the water with its webbed feet. This impulse once given it seems to have no longer occasion to flap its wings; it holds them widely expanded while it glides along, balancing its body from right to left, and sweeping majestically over the surface of the sea.

24th.—We have passed two of the Azores or Western islands,—Flores looked very green; but the other, Corvo, seems little better than a lofty, naked rock.

25th.—We have had a very hot south-easterly wind this morning, which the captain says comes from Africa. He showed us that the sails and ropes were tinged with the reddish sand that these winds generally carry with them. It was quite impalpable to the touch; and he was for a long time trying to obtain some of it, by washing and roasting, for his microscope.

26th.—I am growing a little tired, dear Mamma, of this long voyage, though Mrs. P—— finds continual objects of amusement for me. Sometimes, when there is a heavy swell of the sea, and that the wind blows freshly, we divert ourselves watching the waves: it is curious to see the head of a large wave, just as it rises and meets the wind, dashed off, and changed into foam; and showing, when we can place ourselves between it and the sun, innumerable little rainbows.

I happened to say at dinner that I wondered how this constantly moving ocean should ever become frozen into one field of ice; but the captain told me that the deep ocean never freezes permanently. Any ice that may have been formed on it in winter is broken up by gales of wind, and is drifted about till it becomes fixed to the shores.

The great icebergs that are sometimes seen floating on the sea are formed by the accumulation of ages on high precipitous shores, and are afterwards broken off by their increasing weight.

How extraordinary every thing relating to the freezing of the sea is; and how strange that plants should grow on ice islands. How do they get there, or the earth in which they vegetate?

28th.—There was a sudden change of wind to-day; it drove the sea furiously before it, and the meeting of the new wind with the old waves made them break as high as the ship, and like the surf on a reef of rocks: it was most beautiful, but very terrific indeed.

29th.—I suppose that such a sudden change of wind is the forerunner of a storm, for last night there was a dreadful one for some hours. Mrs. P—— and I were a little frightened; but the vessel was not in any danger, Captain M—— says. Towards morning the wind subsided, the raging sea became less boisterous, and she and I read together the service for thanksgiving after a storm. Our hearts, indeed, felt what is expressed there. How beautiful are the psalms selected for it—particularly “O come! let us give thanks unto the Lord, for he is gracious.”

30th.—I hear the cry of “land!” They see the land—the cliffs of Cornwall. I must go on deck to see them;—how happy I am to be well and able to look at the first appearance of England.

I have run down to the cabin to tell you that we are entering a great harbour—Falmouth. There are two castles that protect the entrance: on the right is St. Mawes, and on the left Pendennis.

31st.—At Falmouth!—Yes; in England at last! We anchored last night in the country which you love so dearly. How glad I shall be to go on shore.

We are going; Mrs. P—— calls me.

Fernhurst, August 4.

My dear Mamma,

As I wrote to you on the day after we landed, and told you of the safe arrival of your child in her native country, and of all that I had seen at Falmouth, I will say no more on that subject.

My uncle was so good as to come for me, and Mrs. P——, who had been unceasingly kind and tender to me throughout the whole voyage, gave me into his care. I felt much regret at parting from her, and as I was going amongst relations whom I had never seen, I was the more sorry to lose this good friend; but my uncle made Mrs. P—— promise to visit him at some future time.

We set out very early in the morning from Falmouth, slept one night on the road, and arrived here yesterday evening to tea. My aunt and cousins received me in the most affectionate manner.

I cannot tell you how odd many things in this country seem. In coming here we passed along great wide roads, which are indeed very different from those in Brazil; they are so smooth that the carriage rolled on without impediment, and I was not half as much tired by the journey here as I have been going only from Rio to the Prince’s farm. The whole appearance of the country—the trees, the fields, the roads, the people, the houses, are so different from what I have been accustomed to, that I still feel in a state of constant surprise; but nothing that I see appears so remarkable, as that there are no slaves here—no poor negroes!

Though my aunt and cousins are very good-natured to me, I cannot help feeling a little afraid of them. Indeed, I must confess, though you, who love my uncle so much, will be surprised, that I felt quite a dread of meeting him; but I soon perceived that I was a fool, and that he was as kind and indulgent as you had told me he would be.

On our journey he talked to me of you, dear Mamma, and told me many delightful anecdotes of your youth, when you and he were so happy together. How I do wish your health may soon permit you to return to England, that you may be again with this dear brother.

I am determined to continue my journal regularly; for it will be my greatest pleasure to write every thing that interests me to you and my dear Marianne. I shall sometimes imagine I am speaking to you.

August 6th.—It still seems like a dream to think that I actually am here, where I have so often wished to be.

This place is altered in many respects, I am told, since you saw it last. Some of the old windows are enlarged; new walks are made; and there is a new flower-garden and conservatory, of which my aunt is very fond. Your favourite walk has been preserved quite unchanged. My uncle loves it so much, that he shewed it to me himself, and we sat under your favourite tree, where you and he used to play and read together in those happy times when you were companions.

I sleep in your room, which has the same dear old projecting window, which you described to me,—a half hexagon, with stone divisions, and pretty casement work between.

8th.—I begin to feel more at ease with all my new friends; indeed, I do not know why I am afraid of them. Generally, before we leave the breakfast table, one of my cousins reads aloud for about half an hour. This morning, before we separated, my uncle said, “My dear children, I hope you will consider my little Bertha as another sister;—we must make her feel at home. Let us go on just as usual with all our employments, and she will gradually cease to be a stranger.”

“I hope,” said my aunt, “that Bertha does not feel herself a stranger—she will soon become accustomed to our mode of life; but we must give her a little time—we must become acquainted by degrees.”

“But, Mamma,” said Caroline, “will not my cousin feel a little neglected, if we continue our own pursuits, without any attention to hers?”

“Certainly, were that the case—but I think, my love, that as Bertha will have her own employments, she may not, perhaps, at first like to make one of our happy family school; but though occupied ourselves, I am sure we shall never be inattentive to her feelings.”

“I dare say Bertha knows that to be always employed is the chief secret of happiness,” said my uncle; “and I am convinced that both you and she will perceive that we never enjoy the society of our friends so much, as when we have earned it by useful labour or moderate restraint.”

Just then the letters were brought in; one of them from cousin Hertford, who is now visiting the Western Isles, seemed to give great delight to the whole party.

10th.—After breakfast is over, Mary and Caroline retire to my aunt’s dressing-room, where they go on with their studies. I long to be admitted to sit there in the mornings, and share in their employments.

Mary is not so pretty as Caroline, but she has a most expressive countenance; her health has been delicate, and she is timid and reserved in company, but very lively when we are quietly together. They are both very charming, but different in many respects.

I generally sit part of the morning in the library, where my uncle invited me, and am very happy, except that when Wentworth and Frederick are engaged with him I feel afraid of being an intruder. But my uncle likes to have me there, and his conversation is always pleasant and instructive.

Yesterday evening my cousins sung, and then we all danced for an hour—even my uncle danced, while my aunt played for us.

11th.—After I had written yesterday, I went out to walk with my aunt and uncle—my cousins did not come. In the hot-house I saw many plants, nursed with great care, which I had been accustomed to see growing wild and unheeded, such as our beautiful pink and blue passion-flower, the coffee-plant, jessamines, the many-flowered gloxinia, which ornaments our rocks with its beautiful blue flowers, and several others.

In this sheltered place many plants grow wild in the open ground, which do not live in more exposed places in England. The tigridia, a native of Mexico, grows here in great profusion; having heard that the Mexicans eat its roots, or bulbs, my uncle tried them, and found them almost as good as chestnuts.

The little lawn into which the library opens is well defended from all winds, and there the most delicate plants are placed. A miniature grove of orange trees in tubs stands there during the summer—they have fruit and flowers on them, and smell delightfully; but, though healthy, they look stunted to my eyes, accustomed to those of our favourite valley at the foot of the Corcorada—I mean the Laranjeros, where the orange trees are so numerous at each side of the little stream along which we used to have such delightful walks. When shall I walk there again with you, or wander about the pretty green plain, at the entrance of the valley? How often Marianne and I have made you loiter there, while we looked at the rivulet dashing over its stony bed, or at the grotesque war-horsemen, in all their various dresses!

In my aunt’s flower-garden are hedges of Chinese rose and sweet-brier, with pyrus japonica intermixed. They are very pretty, but not equal to ours of acacia and mimosa, with the passion-flower twining through them, and the bignonia and maranta forming such beautiful garlands, particularly on our favourite green plain. How unequal, too, in strength to those fences that we saw at Pernambuco, made of woven palm leaves, and covered with our brilliant creeping plants; or to those of yucca and prickly pear, through which neither dog nor sheep can penetrate. Her garden is on a bank, which slopes from the conservatory to a little stream that runs through the grounds—the flower-beds are intermixed with smooth grass-plats—and a walk extends a little way from the conservatory, covered by a sort of trellice-work made of thin oak-laths bent and crossed, with roses and climbing plants twisted into it. The bramble-flowered rose is particularly suited to this purpose, and covers it with wreaths of pretty little pink flowers. It is curious to observe the effect of even the small degree of shade caused by the trellice on the young autumn shoots, which hang within from the rose-trees. They are pale and tender, appearing as if in a house, and not in the open air.

We spend the finest part of the evenings out of doors—walking, sauntering, or sitting—then comes tea; and once or twice we have been tempted to go out again afterwards. Some evenings we read to ourselves, but now and then my uncle is so good as to read aloud, and that is very delightful, he reads so well.

He likes to see us employed while he reads, for he says it is a useful exercise of the attention to listen, and at the same time to employ the fingers. Last night he read, at Mary’s request, “The Midsummer Night’s Dream,” while his audience employed themselves in needle-work or drawing. As I had not any work in the room, my aunt said she would supply me. I find that she has always a little store of things to be made for the poor, in readiness to employ those who wish for work—caps, aprons, bedgowns, and baby-linen. By these means she has always some useful article of clothing ready to give the distressed people who apply to her; and, besides, she likes that young people should acquire the habit of employing some of their time for the benefit of others.

My aunt truly practises what she advises—to be useful is her great object; but she mixes usefulness and domestic pleasures so well, as my uncle says, that one is scarcely aware of all she effects.

12th.—When I was in the library to-day, looking at some books of prints, and Wentworth and Frederick engaged in their algebra, my uncle coming to the window said, “Bertha, my dear, are you a good arithmetician?”

“No, uncle, I am not; Mamma has always found it difficult to get arithmetic into my head—I do not know why, but I cannot learn it.”

“Perhaps you mean, will not attend to it.”

“No, indeed, uncle; but there was always some little thing that was not quite clear, and which prevented me from advancing as fast and as far as I ought.”

“Yes,” said my uncle, “that is the secret—some little step, which appears to the instructor so simple as to require no explanation, becomes a stumbling-block to the understanding, and then we imagine we cannot learn; but cannot learn I never allow my pupils to say.”

Dear Mamma, my uncle reminds me so much of you sometimes: oh! if I had attended better to your instructions, I should not blush as I do now at my own ignorance; but one comfort is—my uncle knows you so well that he cannot attribute my faults to your neglect.

But I must tell you all that happened about this same arithmetic. I was so vexed at my own stupidity, and at appearing as if you had taught me nothing, that a few tears forced their way into my eyes, though I tried to struggle against them:—my uncle good-naturedly went back to the table where Wentworth and Frederick were employed, and I soon recovered.

When they had finished their algebra, to which they seemed to give their whole attention, my uncle said, “Bertha, if you like to try arithmetic again, my daughter Mary will readily assist you: she has one of the clearest heads I ever knew; and will make every step plain. But I must remark that, if we were to force ourselves to repeat every day the substance of what we learn to some third person, we should instantly discover what part is not clear to us.”

I went then with him to Mary, who undertook the task in the kindest manner—to-morrow we are to begin.

After this was all arranged, Mary and Caroline invited me to play at shuttlecock, as the day was rainy. Shuttlecock I had never seen, and knew only from your description; my first attempts, therefore, produced a great deal of laughter.

14th.—Sunday. I am sure you would like the way that Sunday is spent in this house, my dear Mamma. There is no day that brings you so particularly to my mind, because several things that occur here make me remember what you have often said in regard to it, and the good habits you tried to give me.

My uncle generally selects some passage, in Scripture, for the purpose of conversing upon it, and leading us to think; or else some expression which he sees requires explanation, and on which some light can be thrown, either from parallel passages, or from profane authors. These little conversations are, generally, between breakfast and the time of setting out for church.

This day he read the 11th chapter of 2d of Corinthians, and told us, that St. Paul’s expression “to triumph in Christ,” v. 14, alludes to the Roman triumph, or the celebration of a victory; and as the conqueror went in procession through the streets of Rome to the Capitol, with the attendant captives following the triumphal car, so the apostle describes himself as led from city to city, and from province to province, triumphing over the powers of darkness, while the name of Christ, “as a sweet savour,” was diffused wherever he came.

My uncle said that this expression, “sweet savour,” alludes to the custom in the Roman procession, of strewing the streets with flowers, and causing the altars to smoke with incense; while, immediately before the victorious general, a long train of attendants marched, carrying perfumes, which exhaled a sweet and powerful fragrance;—and thus was the knowledge of Christ, like a reviving odour, diffused around, to improve and strengthen all who received it. Indeed, it is still the custom of all eastern nations, he says, to introduce sweet waters and other perfumes, on solemn occasions, which makes the propriety of the allusion still more strong.

15th.—As we walked through the flower-garden to-day, I ventured to suggest that the yucca and the prickly pear would make more impenetrable hedges than the sweet-brier and china rose.

“I cannot help smiling,” said my aunt, “at your partiality to the plants to which you have been accustomed, when you would prefer hedges of the frightful prickly pear to these. If, indeed, we could have such hedges of the Chinese hibiscus as they have in India, they might be desirable.”

I assured my aunt that I did not prefer those plants for beauty, but as useful from their strength, and, therefore, worth introducing into England.

“I am afraid,” said she, “their succulent nature might make them liable to be injured by frost.” “Besides,” said my uncle, “these plants have not yet been well naturalised to our climate, though they do grow in the open ground in some few gardens; and then we have our beautiful whitethorn and our furze, both of which, if kept in order, and well clipped, make a secure fence against all depredators; the holly, too, with its bright and beautiful dark green foliage, makes an admirable hedge.”

As we walked along, my uncle shewed me all these and other plants for hedges, saying, “You may observe, Bertha, that one of the numerous marks of a gracious Providence is the variety of means which he puts at our command in the different parts of the world. In every region we find plants suited to the soil and climate, and adapted for the use and advantage of its inhabitants; and we may generally discover some circumstance attending them, which renders those native productions of peculiar value to the people who possess them.”

“But, uncle,” said I, “can that be the case in such countries as Lapland and Norway, which give one an idea of the utmost misery and want?”

“You have named a part of the world,” he replied, “which is an excellent proof of what I have just said. There, you know, the rein-deer, that most useful animal, contributes in every way to the comfort and the sustenance of the inhabitants. They drink the milk—they eat the flesh—they make clothing of the skin—and, besides, with its assistance, they can move from place to place with delightful swiftness, when otherwise they must be confined by the snow, during three-fourths of the year. But what would become of the rein-deer, was there not an abundant supply of the vegetable on which its vast herds are supported—the rein-deer moss. No vegetable grows throughout Lapland in such abundance; for many miles together the surface of the sterile soil is covered with it, like snow: and on the destruction of forests by fire, when no other plant can find nutriment, this moss, or lichen, springs up and flourishes. Here the rein-deer are pastured, and whatever may be the depth of snow during the long winter of that climate, they have the power of penetrating through it, and obtaining the necessary food.”

“But still, uncle,” said I, “useful as that same moss is, you cannot consider it among the vegetable productions on which man can live. It supports the rein-deer, and the rein-deer sustains man—but man could not live on moss or lichen.”

“There is a common saying, my little Bertha,” replied he, “that one-half of the world knows not how the other half live. Now, there is a certain lichen called Iceland-moss which is brought to England as a medicine, and which no one would suppose could be used as food; yet it is a fact that, in those northern regions of which we are speaking, immense quantities of it are gathered for home consumption as an article of common food. When the bitter quality has been extracted by steeping in water, the lichen is dried and reduced to a powder, and then made into a cake, with the addition of a little meal; or else boiled and eaten with milk—and it is eaten with thankfulness too, my dear Bertha, by the poor natives, in years of scarcity, who say that a bountiful Providence sends them bread out of the very stones.

“I might also mention the tripe de roche, on which Captain Franklin and his unfortunate companions were reduced to live; but my object was, I believe, to shew, not how many mosses or lichens might be eaten, but that every country contains within itself some vegetable productions which are, at times, an invaluable resource to the poor inhabitants. For instance, in that part of the Russian empire near the Caspian Sea, called the Steppes, their principal food, in some years, consists of mushrooms, dried and powdered, and made into bread, which is neither unwholesome nor unpleasant.”

16th.—My aunt’s flower-garden is certainly very pretty, and with those of my cousins, which join it, make a delightful spot; and they all seem to be so fond of their flowers, and to find so much pleasure in gardening, that I begin to think I should like to assist them; but at present I am contented with watching what they do.

My aunt said to me, when we were walking there, “After all, Bertha, I must confess, that the objection I made yesterday against the prickly pear, of its not being adapted to this climate, was not very wise; for had our gardeners been prevented by such fears, we should not now have the variety of foreign plants that we possess, and many of which are not only pretty, but highly useful.”

I asked her whether it was true, that many of the vegetables, now common in kitchen-gardens, have been brought from other countries.

“Yes,” said she, “several of the most useful species have been brought from Asia into Europe, and in the course of two thousand years have been gradually spread over it—in former times by the Greeks and Romans, then by the Crusaders, and more recently by the direct means of navigation; and these again have passed on to America, to which we have given all our vegetable treasures.”

I asked if America, which abounds in delightful plants, has given any thing useful in return to Europe.

“Yes,” said my aunt, “one plant in particular, which is so useful that its cultivation is almost universal. In this country it makes so important a part of the food of millions, that I think it better deserves the name of ‘the hundred ounces of gold’ than the famous Peony tree, called in China ‘Pe-hang-king,’ which has that meaning on account of the enormous price given for it.”

I could not help interrupting her to say, I was sure that was what Mrs. Barbauld alluded to in the line,

And China’s groves of vegetable gold.

She smiled and went on:—“The American plant, I speak of, is no longer curious, nor high in price, though it is in value. Can you guess what it is, Bertha?—it is a native of Peru, where, however, it does not seem to grow with half the luxuriance that it does in Europe.”

“I believe, aunt, you mean the potatoe.”

“Yes,” said my aunt, “the potatoe. It was first brought to England by a traveller, more as a specimen of the vegetable productions of other countries, than with any view of bestowing an extensive benefit on society. And thus it is, my dear, that all things really useful are diffused over those parts of the globe to which they are at all suited. While man is occupied in gratifying his love of conquest, his curiosity, or his avarice—while he is searching after the hidden treasures of the earth, or trafficking for the sake of gain, Providence employs those worldly passions and pursuits to dispense blessings and comforts to all nations.”

“I suppose, aunt,” said I, “that when people settle in new countries, all that is useful amongst us is gradually introduced there.”

“Yes, my dear,” said she, “both the moral acquirements and the natural productions of the parent countries are spread throughout the world by colonies. Emigrants of different nations meet and blend those customs in which some are superior to others; and thus proceeds the slow but sure improvement of the great families of the earth.”

I said that it would be amusing to trace the gradual changes of those great families, and the progress of nations from one country to another by the similarity of customs.

“Nothing could be more useful or entertaining than such an inquiry,” replied my aunt; “but in consulting the historian on those subjects you must take the traveller to your assistance: they each throw light on the other; and each becomes doubly interesting, when we read with the view of comparing the past and the present, and of tracing the progress or the failure of arts and civilization.”

And now, dear Mamma, I smile when I think of your reading this philosophic page in my journal. So, adieu, for this day!

17th.—In these fine evenings there is a soft calmness in the air that is delightful; last night we enjoyed it till the sun’s last faint rays had retired, and not even a streak of red appeared in the west. Before we came home I had the pleasure of seeing the glow-worms light their little lanterns—

Stars of the earth and diamonds of the night.

But, I must say, our fire-flies of Brazil are much superior to them in brightness. Indeed, all the productions of nature here are less brilliant; the birds, insects, and flowers of Brazil are quite dazzling, compared with the dull things that I see in this country. But I am told that this deficiency in beauty is more than made up by some greater merits. For instance, the singing of the birds here in spring is said to be so sweet and so various, that I feel a little childish impatience for their singing time to return, that I may hear them. I am, however, already acquainted with the robin redbreast. I have repeatedly heard its plaintive autumn song.

I never rightly understood till now that the glow-worm is the female fire-fly, though it looks just like a worm, and does not fly. My aunt showed me to-day that this insect, though it possesses neither wings nor elytra, and differs but little in appearance from a caterpillar, is, notwithstanding, an insect in the last or perfect state: the head and corselet are formed exactly like those of the male, who is furnished with both elytra and wings. My aunt also showed me that under the last ring of the body there are two very small reservoirs of a thick oily fluid of the nature of phosphorus, which, if the animal is killed, continues to give light till it becomes dry. It is a slow-moving creature I am told, and seems to drag itself on by starts or slight efforts.

My uncle says that in the Philosophical Transactions for 1684, there is a paper by a Mr. Waller describing an English flying glow-worm, which he observed at Northaw, in Hertfordshire, the light of which was so vivid as to be plainly perceived even when a candle was in the room.

Mary put a common glow-worm into a box of transparent paper with some grass and moss, two days ago, and when we went to examine it last night we saw its beautiful light illuminating every object within a small space around it.

When I saw the glow-worm shining on its mossy banks, I amused myself in imagining how many other living creatures were perhaps lighted by its soft beams. The various beetles, which seem at all hours running to and fro; the slugs, which are for ever in one’s path; and the numerous family of spiders, who are so industrious, that they must, I suppose, work “by midnight lamps.” The moth tribe, also, who seem to love light only at night, can please themselves at this little lamp, without injuring their delicate wings; and I must not forget the little airy beings, of whose histories I am so fond—the fairies—who say so prettily—

And when the moon doth hide her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

Frederick and I were devising various expedients for making the light of the glow-worms and fire-flies useful; when Mary, who heard us, told me that at Cape Comorin there are certain birds that build pendulous nests; and that it is a fact that these nests are lighted, at night, by fire-flies: the bird fastens a bit of clay to the top of the nest, and sticks a fire-fly on the clay, as if to illuminate the dwelling, which consists of two chambers; but the real object is, probably, to deter the bats from approaching, as they kill the young of these birds. This is mentioned in the life of Dr. Buchanan, who says that the blaze of light dazzles the eyes of the bats. A friend of my uncle’s has written some lines on the glow-worm, which I will copy here.

TO THE GLOW-WORM.

Thou little gem of purest hue,
That, from thy throne o’erspread with dew,
Shedd’st lustre o’er the brightest green
That ever clothed a woodland scene,
I hail thy pure and tranquil light
Thou lovely living lamp of night!
Thy haunt is in the deepest shade
By purple heath and bracken made:
By thee the sweetest minstrel sings,
That courts the shady grove;
O’er thee the woodlark spreads his wings,
And sounds his notes of love
Companion of the lights of heaven!
Thine is the softest breeze of even;
For thee the balmy woodbine lives,
The meadow-grass its fragrance gives.
And thou canst make thy tranquil bower
In Summer’s sweetest, fairest flower.
The hour of peace is all thy own;
Thy lamp is lit for one alone;
Shedding no transitory gleams,
No rays to kindle or destroy;
Constant, innocuous—still it beams
The light of life, of love, of joy.

My aunt has been so kind as to permit me to make an extract from my cousin Hertford’s last letter to her. I enclose it with my journal, which my uncle is going to dispatch to-morrow.

“At last I have overcome every obstacle; and have visited Staffa and its curious caves.

“The natural columns of basalt, near the landing-place, lie in so many different directions that I cannot give a clear notion of them—erect, oblique, and horizontal; and sometimes in each of these positions they are curved. In the first cave which occurs, the columns are bent in such a manner as to have given rise to its name of the scollop; but I think they look still more like the inside of the timbers of a ship. On the other side, the wall which leads into the cave, is formed by ends of columns, which make it appear something like a honeycomb; and immediately beyond this cave, the broken ends form a sort of stairs to the causeway, and up to the great cave. Beneath this part of the cliff is situated a single rock, called Buachaille, (the herdsman) a name commonly applied in the Highlands to remarkable mountains and rocks. There is a very striking coincidence between the Gaëlic and the Greek languages, not only in this, but in other words; and my companion, who is well acquainted with the Gaëlic, thinks that they must have had a common origin.

“Of the three caves in the south-west side of the island, the westernmost is called the cave of Mackinnon; who seems, from the number of places to which he has given his name, to have been a hero of considerable celebrity. Its height is 50 feet, and length 224 feet; but although grand and sublime in general effect, it has not the beautiful regularity so remarkable in the cave of Fingal; which I will now endeavour to describe.

“The opening into this celebrated cave finishes above, in a sort of Gothic arch, which is 66 feet above the surface of the water. The breadth, at the entrance, is 42 feet; the whole length of the cave, 227; and the height within, from 40 to 50 feet. The sides, like the front, consist of groups of columns; and the ceiling, at least towards the middle, is composed of the sections, or broken ends of columns, which give it a very architectural appearance. The sea never ebbs entirely out, and, therefore, forms the only floor of the cave; but the broken range of columns which produces the exterior causeway, is continued on each side within, and admits of access over the broken summits to the farther end, if the water be not too high.

“After all, it is so impossible to describe this cave, that the very attempt is presumptuous.—The more it is studied, the greater is the admiration of the beholder. The richness arising from the multiplicity of the parts—the great extent—the twilight gloom—the varying effects of the reflected light—the transparent green of the water—the echo of the surge rising and falling—and the profound solitude of the whole scene, must make a strong impression on any mind at all sensible to beauty, in art or nature. I only wish you could all have seen it, my dear friends.”

18th.—This has been a most charming day; the mild calm dry feel of the air reminded me of the lovely weather that we are accustomed to at Rio. Here the days are very changeable; but then the nights have not that extreme chilliness that they have in Brazil.

It was resolved, at breakfast, in order to shew me a little of the country, that we should take a long walk—visit a farmer who lives about a mile and a-half from this—and then return by a different way, through a hamlet, inhabited by some of the poorest class.

We were all ready at one o’clock, which was the appointed hour.—My uncle dislikes very much that people should not be ready in time, and really considers it a fault not to be punctual; he says, it shews a selfish disregard of the wishes of others, and besides, that a great deal of time is wasted—melted away by waiting for each other.—I hope I shall learn to be more exact than I used to be, when with my indulgent mother.

We walked through several fields; but they all had a confined appearance, from being so much more fenced than the open country to which I have been accustomed. Some were all life and bustle; the reapers cutting the corn with their sickles, and dexterously laying it in a line, so that the binders who follow them can tie it up into sheaves without delay; several of these are then made to stand endways, in a little tight group, called a shock. In another place, horses and waggons were engaged in drawing home the corn which had been reaped first, and was now dry enough to preserve it, to the farmyard, where it was to be stacked; and they were succeeded by many little girls, who were gleaning the scattered ears. Farmer Moreland was in his farmyard, overseeing the stacking of his corn, and I could not but admire the neatness and regularity with which the sheaves were placed, with the tops pointing towards the centre, all being made quite firm, and the outside of the stack kept perfectly even. My uncle made me also observe that open passages, for the circulation of the air, were left in the stack, to prevent its fermenting or heating, which would spoil the grain. What a curious thing it is that decaying vegetables, when thus pressed together, without a free passage of air should produce such a chemical change, as to cause them to take fire!

After we had rested ourselves in Farmer Moreland’s comfortable house, we looked at his garden, where I observed several rows of large sunflowers, with the seed of which he feeds his fowls; and we then left him and Dame Moreland, as we saw they were very busy.

In the nice smooth green fields which we passed through, there are no beautiful flowers, like those which spread a brilliant carpet over our plains; nor is there any of that rank grass, nearly the height of a man, so common in some parts of Brazil. The hay was all made up some weeks ago, so that I cannot see the delicate flowers of the grasses, nor their slender stalks or culms. My aunt says, that grass contains a great deal of very nourishing sugary juice; and if the hay is cut and made up early, before that juice is exhausted by maturing the seed, it becomes much more strengthening food than when mowed late.

Nor are there any herds of wild cattle here, like those in parts of our country; and, therefore, the Brazilian custom of catching the cattle by a noose is not in use. I described to Wentworth the dexterity with which the peons fling the noose, or lasso, over the head of any animal, even in full gallop. Here the cattle are in small numbers, and submit readily to the restraint of being confined in fields. The person who takes care of them has comparatively little trouble; and though he does not live on beef for every meal, like the peon, yet he is in fact more comfortable. We saw some very poor people in the hamlet by which we returned home, and found them civil in their manners, and contented with their employment. As to their houses, they are very different, indeed, from the peon’s hovel of upright posts, interwoven with branches of trees, and plastered with mud, thatched with nothing but long grass, and a hide stretched on four sticks, by way of a door.

I was surprised to see with what docility a number of cows allowed themselves to be driven home by a little boy to Farmer Moreland’s. My uncle told me, that it is a great relief to them to have their milk taken away; and that were the fields open, they would go home at the regular hours to be milked. I had imagined that cows had but a small portion of sense or instinct; but my uncle told me several instances of their sagacity, and among others, one which he read lately in travels in Norway and Lapland.

The author frequently saw cows feeding close to precipices several hundred feet high, where an English cow would have but little chance of escape; but the Norway cows, turned out amidst the mountains to procure their subsistence, become as nimble as goats, and climb the rocky crags with the greatest ease.

The manner in which instinct has taught them to descend the mountains is curious. Sitting on their haunches, they place their fore-feet close together, and in this way slide down places, which from their steepness would appear quite impassable with safety.

We went into several cottages belonging to the poor labourers. They are either built of brick, or of frame-work filled in with bricks and plaster, with good doors and glass windows; and inside, every thing, though shewing poverty, gave the idea of comfort. The walls papered, or nicely white-washed, the floors scowered and sprinkled with sand; plates, cups, and saucers displayed on shelves; beds with clean patchwork quilts; and in two of the houses, wooden-clocks to call the people up to their business. And to all of them there was a detached shed for the pig, unlike the filthy place left, between the posts, that support the floor of the Brazilian huts. In the last cottage we visited, we found that the hospitable people it belonged to had contrived to make room for a poor traveller and her child. She had come there on Saturday evening, when they gave her lodging for charity. On Sunday, she begged permission to remain, because she did not think it right to travel on that day; and on Monday she grew ill, and has been in bed ever since. These good people seemed so kind and generous to her, though very poor themselves, that my aunt is much interested for them.

How gratifying it is to see the poorest people assisting each other, even when really distressed themselves, but the most delightful thing of all, dear Mamma, is that there are no slaves here; every body is free, and may work or be idle as they like; but if they prefer idleness, they must of course want the comforts possessed by the industrious;—for industry, as you used to say, brings comfort and happiness.

19th.—This forest of Deane is very extensive, I find, for it is nearly twenty miles long, and ten broad. Here, at the south-east, it is bordered by the Severn, and on the north-west it stretches to the Wye; so that it forms the chief part of the western district of Gloucestershire. It was once the chief support of the English navy; but the timber is much diminished in consequence of the iron works in its neighbourhood, which it supplied a long time with fuel. My uncle says, however, that it has more the appearance of a forest than almost any other in England; and it still contains many noble old oak and beech trees, besides birch, holly, and underwood.

Here and there a few acres, surrounding cottages, have been cleared and cultivated, which make a beautiful variety. These cottages, and some farm-houses which stand upon the forest land, are free from taxes, and belong to no parish.

My aunt says, it is quite remarkable for the quantities of primroses and lilac wood-sorrel that are every where found. There are a few deer in some parts of the forest, but I have not yet seen them.

20th.—What a difference between this country, and that which I have left! I scarcely know which to call my own: should it not be that where I lived during my happy childhood with my dear Mamma? The kindness and affection of all my friends here will, I am sure, soon make this country dear to me also; but beautiful I can never think it, when I recollect Brazil, and all its various charms, and all the innumerable flowers and trees that are at this moment in brilliant beauty; while here, the principal flowers are all gone by, and symptoms of the decay of autumn already appear.

It was just about this season that you used to take us to the cottage you had on the Lagoa de Bodingo Freitas. What various amusements we had there! The road along the slope of the mountain was so pretty, among myrtles, begonias, and paullinias; and there we were always sure of finding the diamond-beetle; and then when gradually descending from the hill, we drove along the banks of the sea covered with lofty ferns; and when you used to allow us to stop on the shore and search for sea-stars, urchins, shells, and plants. Oh, those were happy times! Or when we used to go with you to the low grounds near the lake, and lose ourselves in the thickets of mangrove trees, while gathering their curious seeds, and wondering at the long roots they shoot out to the ground, and while you were searching for marsh plants and fern bushes. Indeed, I never, never can forget those days; nor the still solitude of that valley, the beauty of the rock of Gavia, covered with the blue gloxinia, and the wild mountain stream that came tumbling down into the lake; nor the poor fishermen who used to look so happy when you gave them a few reals.

Though we live here on the borders of a forest, it is quite unlike that forest near which the Senhor Antonio Gomez lives, and where we used sometimes to spend a few weeks so pleasantly. I miss several little things that seemed to me to belong to a forest, and which used to amuse Marianne and me so much—the howling of the monkeys in the wood, that wakened us in the mornings, and the deep noises of the frogs and toads, with the chirp of the grasshoppers and locusts, like a monotonous treble mixed with that croaking bass.

And then when playing about in the wood after the mists of the night had been dispelled by the rising sun, and when every creature seemed to be rejoicing in the return of day, we had such delight in chasing the pretty butterflies. Nothing at all here like those great butterflies that used to flutter from flower to flower, and hover among the bushes under which we sat; or that sometimes collected in separate companies on the sunny banks of the little stream that ran through the valley near the Senhor’s house. None of those great owl-moths sitting quietly on the trees waiting, with their wings spread open, for the approach of evening. Alas! I see none of those beautiful creatures here; nor the long nests of the wasps hanging from the trees; nor the beetles sparkling brightly on the flowers and fresh leaves; nor the beautiful little serpents, equal to flowers in splendour, gliding out of the leaves and the hollows of trees, and creeping up the stem to catch insects.

I have just been describing to Mary those woods which seemed actually alive, when the monkeys came leaping and chattering from tree to tree, and enjoying the sun; as well as all our birds with their bright plumage, whose various notes formed such extraordinary concerts. The urapong, which makes the woods resound with a noise like the strokes of a hammer on the anvil. The showy parrots of every colour, and the manakin, whose melodious morning song you loved, because it was so like the warbling of the nightingale; and which Mary tells me is called the organiste, in St. Domingo, on account of the compass of its song, as it forms a complete octave. And besides all these, the dear little busy orioles, that my sister and I have so often watched creeping out of the little hole at one side of their long bag-shaped nests, to visit the orange trees, while their sentinels gave them notice by a loud scream of the approach of strangers.

Mary smiled when I told her, what I am sure Marianne remembers—how we used to like to listen to the toucan rattling with his large hollow beak, as he sat on the extreme branches, and calling, in plaintive notes, for rain; and how sometimes, when he was sitting comfortably and almost hid in the nest which he had scooped in the stem of a tree, we used to pretend to alarm him, that we might see how instantly he prepared to attack the invader with his bill.

But these are all passed away. Dear Mamma, forgive this list of pleasing recollections: describing them to you makes me feel as if I was again enjoying them in your company. There is such a glowing splendour, as I told Mary, in the sunny days of Brazil, when the glittering humming-birds dart about, and with their long bills extract the honey from the flowers, that I cannot avoid perceiving how gloomy every thing appears here; but pray do not think me discontented.

Mary, to whom I had been describing all these past delights, came back to me just as I had written so far; and, seeing the tears in my eyes, she seemed to feel with me, and to think it quite natural that I should every moment perceive the difference between two countries so opposite in climate and in every thing; though she laughed a little at my repeating to you all that you see continually; but you know, Mamma, you desired me to write all I thought, and you may well suppose how constantly my thoughts turn towards the country in which you live.

Mary said she should have been surprised if I had not felt the change. “But indeed, Bertha,” said she, “you must not forget how well balanced are our blessings. If Brazil has a climate, and various beautiful productions which England does not possess, England, on the other hand, has far more substantial comforts; and, by her commerce, she has the means of enjoying those of all other countries. We have not your brilliant flowers and birds, but you will find that we have many which are more useful, and which will interest you, who love natural history. Our birds have no pendent nests, because they are in no danger from such depredators as your monkeys and snakes, and therefore their instinct does not lead them to contrive such means of defence; but you will see, amongst both our birds and insects, many whose habits are equally curious.”

I said that I believed, as you, Mamma, have often told me, that there is no country which does not possess much to attach its inhabitants to it, and to interest an observant mind.

“And it is in the mind,” she replied, “that our real happiness will always be found. It rests on our own disposition and thoughts, much more than on those outward circumstances which appear coloured by our feelings; just as objects appear the colour of the glass through which you look at them. But,” added she, “I came not to moralise, but to beg of you to come out and walk.”

Out we went; and my thoughts soon turned from the scenes I have been lamenting, to the satisfactory feeling of having, in both my countries, such dear and good friends.

21st. Sunday.—In the course of a conversation this morning about the Sabbath day, a lady, who is here on a visit, remarked that it was the idea of some people, that the Sabbath, having been instituted at the time that the Israelites received the Ten Commandments, is not binding on Christians, any more than the other Levitical institutions.

In order to show what a mistaken idea that is, my uncle read to us the extract which I am going to copy here.

“It is a great mistake to consider the Sabbath as a mere festival of the Jewish church, deriving its whole sanctity from the Levitical law. The religious observation of the seventh day is included, in the Decalogue, among our first duties; but the reason assigned for the injunction is general, and has no relation to the particular circumstances of the Israelites, or to the particular relation in which they stood to God as his chosen people. The creation of the world was an event equally interesting to the whole human race; and the acknowledgment of God as our Creator is a duty, in all ages and countries, incumbent on mankind.

“The terms of the ordinance plainly describe it as an institution of an earlier age—‘Wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day, and set it apart,’ which is the true meaning of hallowed it. These words express a past time. It is not said, Wherefore the Lord now blesses the seventh day, and sets it apart, but, Wherefore he did bless it, and set it apart in times past; and he now requires that you, his chosen people, should be observant of that ancient institution.

“In confirmation of this fact, we find, by the 16th chapter of Exodus, that the Israelites were already acquainted with the Sabbath, and had been accustomed to a strict observance of it, before Moses received the tables of the law at Sinai. For, when the manna was first given for their nourishment in the wilderness, they were commanded to lay by, on the sixth day, a sufficient portion for the succeeding day. ‘To-morrow,’ said Moses, ‘is the rest of the holy Sabbath unto the Lord: on that day ye shall not find it in the field; for the Lord hath given you the Sabbath, therefore he giveth you on the sixth day bread for two days.’ He mentions the Sabbath as a divine command, with which the people were well acquainted; for he alleges the well-known sanctity of the day, to account for the extraordinary supply of manna on the preceding day. But the appointment of the Sabbath, to which his words allude, must have been earlier than the appointment of the law, of which no part had yet been given. For this first gathering of manna was in the second month of the departure of the Israelites from Egypt; and they did not arrive at Sinai, where the law was given, till the third month.

“An institution of this antiquity and importance could derive no part of its sanctity from the authority of the Mosaic law; and the abrogation of that law no more releases the worshippers of God from a due observation of the Sabbath, than it cancels the injunction of filial piety, or the prohibition of theft or murder.

“The worship of the Christian church is properly to be considered as a restoration of the patriarchal church in its primitive simplicity and purity; and of the patriarchal worship, the Sabbath was one of the noblest and simplest rites. As the Sabbath was of earlier institution than the religion of the Jews, so it necessarily survives the extinction of the Jewish law, and makes a part of Christianity.

“It differs from all other ordinances, of similar antiquity, and is a part of the rational religion of man, in every stage and state of his existence, till he shall attain that happy rest of which the Sabbath is a type.

“Let us remember, always, that to mankind in general, and to us Christians in particular, the proper business of that day is the worship of God in public assemblies. Private devotion is the Christian’s daily duty; but the peculiar duty of the Sabbath is public worship. Every man’s conscience must direct him what portion of the remainder of the Sabbath should be allotted to private devotion, useful duties, and sober recreation. And, perhaps, a better general rule cannot be laid down than this—that the same proportion of the Sabbath, on the whole, should be devoted to religious exercises, public and private, as each individual would employ, on any other day, in ordinary business.”

22d.—I have just been made very happy, dear Mamma. I was sitting in my aunt’s dressing room, labouring through a difficult question in arithmetic, which Mary had given me, when my uncle came in; and, after a little conversation, he said to my aunt and cousins, “I am very much pleased with this good girl. I have not judged of her hastily—I approve of her as a companion for my daughters; and she has my free permission to be with them in this room and every where, as much as she pleases.”

It is a great satisfaction to add, that my cousins looked as much pleased at this as I did; but they could not feel the delight that I felt, when he continued,—“Bertha, my dear, when you write to your mother, I desire that you will say I am highly pleased with her education of her little daughter. Separated from her friends and country by ill health, with little of good society, and labouring under many disadvantages, she has not sunk into indolence or indifference—she has preserved her good sense and energy, and has made you a gentlewoman in mind and manners; and I rejoice to see you so much what the child of my excellent sister ought to be.”

My beloved mother, this little message to you gave me such heartfelt delight, that my eyes very nearly overflowed.

My kind uncle afterwards said, “But, Bertha, do not imagine that I think you have no faults.”

“No, dear uncle,” said I, “that never came into my head; but I am sure you and my aunt will be so good as to assist me in conquering them.”

“Most readily I will,” said he: “indeed I will write myself to your mother, and tell her how much I like her Bertha, who deserves to be the companion of my daughters; my sister knows how particular I am about their intimacies and early friendships.”

Though I know his letter will be a most welcome one to you, I could not resist the pleasure of telling you all this myself, dear Mamma. I shall feel much more bright and cheerful now, than I have felt, since I left you.

23d.—I can walk much more here than I could in our own hot country, so I am out a great deal every fine day.

Yesterday, we all set out on a ramble through the forest, that I might see some of its wildest parts; and the morning was so fine, that we went much farther than my cousins had been for a long time. There is but little of it that answered to my ideas of a forest; some parts are quite cleared away, and in others, the trees are spoiled by being copsed. I must confess, that some of the oaks are fine trees; but how insignificant the best of them would appear by the side of our noble bombax, or of our tall palms, which spread their leaves like immense umbrellas. And besides, the green of the foliage is so dull, when compared to the vivid tints of the trees in Brazil! We found, however, some very nice and smooth grassy paths through the wood, of which I might say—

All around seems verdure meet
For pressure of the fairies’ feet.

As we walked along one of these, we were surprised by the appearance of smoke curling through the trees; and we soon after came to a little cottage, in a very solitary part of the forest. Frederick ran on, “to discover,” he said, “whether it contained a giant, ready to devour us with fee, fau, fum, or some hermit who had retired to this sequestered spot, to expiate his crimes in solitude and silence.”

We soon followed, and instead of either giant or hermit, there was a poor man almost blind, employed in making a basket, while his daughter, a pretty looking young woman about twenty, sat within, engaged in needlework; and the house, though one of the poorest that I have seen, looked clean and airy. But as it is built against a sloping bank, it must be damp, I think—and his daughter has rather a delicate appearance, and looks pensive, as if she was not in good health.

I was very much interested in observing the method by which he made his basket. It was not made of willow, which I thought was always used; so we inquired what the material was, and I was surprised to find that it was oak. He splits the wood into long strips when it is quite fresh, or after it has been soaking in water for some time; these strips are about an inch broad, and being only a tenth of an inch thick, they are so pliable, that he weaves them without difficulty. The shape of his basket was circular, with a flat bottom. A sort of skeleton frame is made first, of stronger slips of wood; then the long thin pieces are woven in and out, close together; and the ends are neatly fastened under each other. It seemed a tedious work; he is to have half a crown for the basket he is now making, for a washerwoman; and as it is more than two days’ employment, his gain is but very small.

He lost his sight many years ago in the mines, and though never idle, he cannot easily support himself. I believe his wife is dead. He says he has lived in that place several years; and I understand that the inhabitants of the Forest of Deane have certain privileges in regard to taxes, that make it a very desirable residence to a poor man.

My uncle is to go in a few days to bespeak some of those baskets, and I hope to walk there with him: it will have been very happy for this poor man that we found him; for my uncle and aunt will certainly be of use to him. They assist the industrious very much; and all they do for the poor, is done in such a kind and cheerful manner, that it doubles the favour.

24th.—This morning brought another letter from Hertford—it has been delayed on its road, for it was written several weeks ago. Here are some extracts from it: perhaps they may entertain you, as he describes his visit to the little island of North Rona.

“It is accessible in one spot only, and that with difficulty. The landing place is on an irregular cliff, and you must watch for the moment to jump out on the first ledge of rock to which the boat is lifted by the waves. It is a perilous operation to remove sheep from this island; the animal being slung by the legs round the neck of a man, and thus carried down the face of a rock, where a false step exposes him to the risk of being either strangled or drowned.

“The violence and height of the waves, which in winter break over the island, are almost incredible. The dykes of the sheep-folds are often thrown down; and stones of enormous bulk are removed from their places, at elevations of 200 feet above the high-water mark. It is inhabited by one family only, who cultivate it, and tend about fifty sheep. Twice in the year that part of the crop which is not consumed on the farm, together with the sheep’s wool, and the feathers obtained from the sea-fowl, which these poor people are bound to procure, are taken away by the boat to Lewis, and thus some little intercourse with the external world is preserved. But they are so little accustomed to the appearance of any one but the proprietor of the island, that when we appeared, the women and children were seen running away to the cliffs to hide themselves, loaded with whatever moveable property they possessed, while the man and his son began to drive away the sheep. A few words of Gaëlic recalled the men, but it was sometime before the females ventured from their retreat, and when they did, the impression they made on us was not very favourable to the progress of civilization in Rona; the mistress of the family would have ill stood a comparison with Iliglaik, whose accomplishments are so well described by Captain Lyon.

“Not even the solid Highland hut can withstand the violence of the wind in this region. The dwelling is, therefore, excavated in the earth, the wall requisite for the support of the roof scarcely rising two feet above the surface, and the whole is surrounded with turf stacks to ward off the gales. The entrance to this subterranean retreat is through a long winding passage, like the gallery of a mine, commencing by an aperture not three feet high, and very difficult to find. Were it not for the smoke, the existence of a house could never be suspected; indeed, we had been talking to its possessor for some time, before we discovered that we were actually standing on the top of his castle. Like a Kamtschatkan hut, it receives no other light than that from the smoke hole; it is floored with ashes, and festooned and ornamented with strings of dried fish. Its inmates, however, appeared to be contented and well fed, and little concerned about what the rest of the world was doing; they seemed to know of no other world than North Rona, and the chief seemed to wish for little that North Rona could not supply. The great object of his wishes was to get his two younger children baptised, for no people are more zealous in the observance of their religious duties than the Highlanders; and even in that dreary solitude, this poor man had not forgotten his.”

I am quite established now as one of the dressing-room party. A nice little table has been allotted to my use, and I shall be very comfortable as well as happy.

In the library, I was frequently interrupted in drawing or reading, by morning visiters—but into this charming retired room no visiters are admitted, and we shall seldom be disturbed. My aunt has given me just such a nice little table as each of my cousins has: the top serves as a desk for reading, or writing, or drawing, and can be raised to any slope, as it is joined by hinges at one side; while on the other side there is a light frame, which supports the book or drawing I am copying; and which, when not wanted, folds in under the top. It has places for pens, ink, and knife, and two drawers, besides many other conveniences. Indeed, I must be happy in this room, where a variety of useful and agreeable things, and much gaiety too, are always to be found.

I wish, Mamma, you could know your nieces. There is a nice mixture of gaiety and steadiness in both. Mary would be almost perfect, if she were not too timid. Caroline is the handsomest; she has such a fresh, bright complexion, and such pretty waving ringlets; yet she never seems to think of herself or her beauty. She is very active and very useful; always punctual, and ever ready to oblige and assist others, to walk out or stay at home with them—to search for a book, or to hunt out a passage in it—to converse or to remain silent. Yet she contrives to have time for all her own employments, and to lay up stores of knowledge, which are always ready when called for. Her temper is so mild, and her feelings are so much under her own controul, that one does not at first see exactly how much she enters into those of other people; but every day, her character has opened more and more to my observation.

Grace is a dear, little, animated creature—very obedient in general, very intelligent, and my uncle’s play-fellow, but never spoiled. What a pity you cannot see all these children of a brother you love so much. My aunt often expresses her anxiety for your return; she says, that if my uncle and she had their dear sister within reach of them, their family happiness would be complete.

I told you before, I believe, that my uncle, and my aunt too, though she does not say much, are not pleased, if we are not punctual—and must I confess it?—yes, I must acknowledge, that several mornings I have been rather late for breakfast; my uncle has been very patient however, and says he will make allowance a little while for the indolent habits I have acquired by living in a warm climate, and with “too indulgent a mother.”

So good night; I have been writing when I ought to have been in bed.

25th.—There was a good deal of conversation about salt and salt mines to-day. My uncle asked me, if there were many such salt marshes in Brazil as abound in North America, and of which cattle are so fond. I forgot at first, and said very foolishly, that I could not tell—I was in a silly fit, till at last I recollected myself, and told him I had heard that there were some, though they are obliged to import a great deal of salt. What an extraordinary appearance a salt plain must have, where the salt is open and uncovered! When we went up stairs, Mary showed me Mr. Salt’s description of one in Abyssinia.

He says, that some of his party and Mr. Coffin “stopped at the edge of an extensive salt plain to refresh themselves, under the shade of a group of acacias, near some wells of fresh water. At this place they were provided by the natives with a sort of sandal, for walking on the salt, made of the leaves of a dwarf palm.

“The plain lies perfectly flat, and is said to be four days’ journey in length. The first half mile was very slippery, and the feet sank at every step into the mud. After this, the surface became strongly crusted, resembling, in appearance, a rough coat of ice, covered with snow.

“On the Assa Durwa side of the plain, a number of Abyssinians were engaged in cutting out the salt, which they accomplished by means of a small adze. The salt lies in horizontal strata, so that when the edges are once divided, it separates without any great difficulty: that which is immediately under the surface is exceedingly hard, white, and pure; but as the workmen advance deeper, it becomes of a coarser quality, and much softer. In some places it continues tolerably pure to the depth of three feet, below which it becomes mixed with the soil, and consequently unfit for use.

“This salt plain, from which the whole of Abyssinia is supplied, is infested by a cruel race, who make it a practice to lie in wait for the individuals engaged in cutting it. These poor fellows, in the absence of their guards, lie down flat on the surface, when working, that they may escape the observation of their barbarous enemies, and on the approach of a stranger, they run in alarm to the mountains.”

When we had finished reading this extract, Mary said, that since I was so much amused by it, she would find a description of some curious salt cliffs on the banks of the Indus.

“Near Callabaugh, on the banks of the Indus, the road is cut out of the solid salt, at the foot of salt cliffs, which in some places are more than 100 feet high above the river. The salt is hard, clear, and almost pure; and would be like crystal, were it not a little streaked and tinged with red. Several salt springs issue from the rocks, and leave the ground covered with a crust of the most brilliant whiteness. The earth is blood red, and this, with the beautiful spectacle of the salt rocks, and the Indus flowing in a deep and clear stream, through lofty mountains, presented a most singular scene.”

I have copied these for Mamma, for I am sure you have neither of the books.

26th.—I have been out till very late this lovely evening, which was so calm, and still, and fragrant, that it made me think of some of our own evenings; and the brightness of the stars, and the clear blue sky, increased the resemblance. While walking, I described to Mary and Caroline the country-house of the Condé de San Lourenço, on the slope of the hills which extend from the city towards the south-west; and the fine view, from that spot, of the city and part of the bay. I endeavoured to make them understand the beauty of our evenings, after the sultry day, when the mimosas, that have folded up their leaves to sleep, stand motionless beside the dark manga, jaca, and other trees; or if a little breeze arises, how it makes the stiff, dry leaves of the acaju[2] rustle, and the myrtles drop a fragrant shower of blossoms; while the majestic palms slowly wave their crowns over all.

My cousins appeared so much interested, that I endeavoured to complete my picture of a Brazilian evening. I described to them the shrill cries of the cicada, and the monotonous hum of the tree frog. The singular sound of the little animal called the macue, which almost resembles a distant human voice calling for help. The plaintive cries too of the sloth; and the various noises of the capuira, the goat-sucker, and the bullfrog; along with the incessant chattering of the monkey tribe; while myriads of fire-flies, like moving stars, complete, as you used to say, the beauty of our evenings. I did not forget to mention those palms, whose flowers suddenly burst out in the evening, and join their fragrance to that of the orange groves. Indeed, all these things were so strongly pictured in my mind, that I could almost have thought myself walking amongst them.

Caroline, in her ardent manner, expressed a wish to visit this interesting scene; but quiet Mary repeated a few stanzas of a poem supposed to be written by a European in South America. Two of them are worth sending you.

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannahs in boundless magnificence spread;
And, bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fern-tree waves o’er me—the fire-fly’s red light
With its quick glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read, in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

27th.—I do not wonder at the attachment you feel, Mamma, to this place: it is, indeed, very pretty. These wooded banks, and green lawns and fields that slope towards the Severn, and form such a lovely view from some of the windows! But there is no view so pretty to my fancy, as that from the little bedchamber which my aunt has been so kind as to allot to me. I have a glimpse of the river and its woody banks; and very near my window there is a group of laburnums, and an old fir-tree, in which there are numbers of little birds, that I amuse myself in watching. I am very fond of sitting in the projecting bow window, also, at the end of the library: I call it the poetical window, for all that you see from it suits the feelings that descriptive poetry excites.

By the way, I must say that I can read Thomson’s Seasons now, and other descriptive poetry, with much more pleasure than I could before I came to England, because so much of the scenery described was unknown to me, and so many of the rural occupations I had scarcely seen.

I shall now remember, much better than I used to do, some of your favourite descriptions, that I have learned over and over again. My aunt says, that it has been remarked, by a philosopher who has written a most interesting book on the human mind, that in descriptive poetry we always remember best those scenes which we can picture to ourselves. I am sure this is the case; for now, as I begin to understand the allusions, it requires but little effort to recollect those beautiful lines of Thomson on harvest-home.

When I came here, several of the fields were still unreaped: all is now cut, dried, drawn home, and stacked; and the fields only show, by the yellow stubble remaining in the ground, what treasures gilded the earth but a short time since.

All the farmers in this neighbourhood have finished their harvest; and my uncle took me again to Farmer Moreland’s, that I might see the whole of the process. The stacks, I see, are placed on stands, supported by stone pillars, with a projecting cap of flag-stone, so that the corn has a free passage of air underneath, and is out of the reach of rats.

Farmer Moreland is one of the most comfortable farmers in this part of the country; and, being an old, experienced man, and very much respected, he seems to be considered at the head of the yeomanry.

Every year, when his great harvest is well secured in his farmyard, he gives a feast to all his labourers and the neighbouring farmers; and, when he saw that we were so much interested, he very civilly said to my uncle, “If so be the young ladies would like it, and if you have no objection to a little mirth or so, they shall be heartily welcome to see my harvest home, on Saturday, at three o’clock.”

We were all delighted to go, and have had a lovely day for it. We walked through the little beech-grove and the pretty fields to the farmer’s; we found all his labourers and their families assembled, dressed in their Sunday clothes. The farmers’ wives and daughters amused me by the varieties in their dress;—some in fine flourishing caps, with broad ribbons and borders, and flounces in imitation of the Squire’s lady; and others, plain, clean, and tidy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————— Thus they rejoice: nor think
That with to-morrow’s sun their annual toil
Begins again the never-ceasing round.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For rarely human eye has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,
With its dark ledge of barren stone.
The wildest glen, but this, can show
Some touch of Nature’s genial glow.
But here—above, around, below,
On mountain or in glen,
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,
The weary eye may ken;
For all is rock, at random thrown,
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,
As if were here denied
The summer’s sun, the spring’s sweet dew,
That clothe, with many a varied hue,
The bleakest mountain-side[4].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good morn, good morn—see the sweet light breaking,
O’er hill and dale to greet thy waking!
The dark grey clouds are flitting away,
And the young sun sheds forth a twilight ray;
And an halo of bloom is in the skies,
Yet the night of slumber is on thine eyes.
The dew lies fresh on the opening flower,
And sweetly cool is the youthful hour;
And the birds are twittering their tender song
The bright and weeping boughs among;
And all seems fresh and with rapture rife,
While wakening into conscious life.
Oh, rouse thee! rouse thee! the precious time
Is fleeting fast—and merrily chime
The morning bells; and the beautiful view
Thy touch should arrest, is fading too!
The glow of the cloud is darkening fast,
And the sunny mist is almost past;
And thy lyre is lying all unstrung;
And thy matin hymn is still unsung;
And thy lip is mute, and thy knee unbending,
Nor is yet the sweet prayer to heaven ascending.
—— What! slumbering still! Arise, arise!
For thy lively dreams are fantasies,
And mock thy waking; but come with me
And listen to life’s reality.
And come and muse on that deeper sleep,
O’er which Hope will her silent vigils keep,
And soothe and shield with her guardian wing
The Spirit’s secret fluttering;
And lead it on to that brighter day,
Which knows no evening and no decay.

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