BERTHA’S
VISIT TO HER UNCLE
IN
ENGLAND.

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

BERTHA’S VISIT.

Dec. 1st.—Colonel Travers, who every day tells us something curious that he has seen in his travels, has been describing the cultivation of the pepper vine in the East Indies. In July, at the beginning of the rainy season, from eight to twelve shoots are planted round some tree chosen for their support; as they grow up they must be tied to its stem, and in dry or hot weather they are watered. They begin to bear in six years; in ten, they are in full perfection, and continue so for twenty years more, when they die. When the fruit is intended for black pepper, it is not allowed to ripen, but collected while green. As soon as the berries become hard and firm, which happens between the middle of December and the middle of January, they are pinched off by the fingers, placed on a mat, and rubbed by the hands or feet till the seeds, several of which are contained in each berry, are separated. These seeds are then spread on mats; and at night they are collected in earthen jars, to preserve them from the dew. Two or three days’ exposure to the sun sufficiently dries them, when they are put up in bags, containing from 60 to 120 pounds, and are then considered fit for sale. When the berries are intended to produce white pepper, they are allowed to become perfectly ripe, in which state they are red. They are then well rubbed in a basket, and when the pulp is washed off, the seeds are white, and are immediately dried for sale. The vines, however, in this case are apt to die, and in the province of Malabar but little white pepper is now made.

A good plant produces about 32 pounds: this is the highest produce; 21 pounds is the average. The mango tree is preferred for supporting the pepper vine, as the fruit is not affected by it; but the fruit of the jack tree, which is also used for the purpose, is thought to be injured in flavour by the pepper being so near it.

The Colonel says, that the pepper plant is not a vine in reality, though the knotted stem when dry has much the appearance of a common grape vine. The leaf, too, is different, being pointed, and with deep veins in it, all meeting at the point.

2d.—Caroline amused us after dinner with a singular anecdote of a musician of the name of Davy; though she was at first unwilling to relate it, as she could not remember her authority.

He was the son of a Devonshire farmer, and when a little boy used to go continually to a neighbouring forge, where he seemed to be strangely interested in examining and sounding the horse-shoes.

After some time, the smith having frequently missed his shoes, began to suspect young Davy of stealing them; the boy was, therefore, watched, and one day he was observed to have separated two shoes from a parcel which he had been sounding for a long time. He took them up and went quietly off, but was followed, and traced to a loft, where he had formed a hiding-place for himself, unknown to any of his family. There he was found arranging his newly stolen treasure among a number of other horse-shoes which he had suspended with iron wires, so as to form a sort of musical instrument, on which with a small hammer he could play several tunes; particularly one with variations, which he had often heard chimed in the parish steeple.

The generous blacksmith not only forbore from punishing him, but joined in a subscription, by means of which he was apprenticed to a famous musician.—So much for genius.

4th, Sunday.—My uncle read to us this morning the account in Exodus of the institution of the feast of the Passover. It took place in the beginning of the sacred or ecclesiastical year, in the month named Abib, which signifies, he says, an ear of corn; but this month was afterwards called Nisan, which means the “flight,” in allusion to the escape of the Israelites. It was at this same season that our Lord suffered for our redemption; and it is a remarkable circumstance that there was always a tradition among the Jews, that as they were redeemed from Egypt on the 15th day of Nisan, so they should on the same day be redeemed from death by the Messiah.

My uncle then said, “many of the ceremonial laws of the Hebrews had a direct reference to the idolatrous opinions and rites of the neighbouring nations. For instance, some of the ordinances of the passover, which was, you know, a memorial of the deliverance of the Israelites, were strikingly in opposition to the most deep-rooted prejudices of the Egyptians. Amongst that people, lambs and kids were held in the utmost veneration, and never sacrificed; but the Israelites were instructed to sacrifice both. The Israelites were desired to ‘eat no part raw,’ which might appear a very unnecessary injunction, did we not know that it was usual to do so in the heathen festivals, as we learn from Herodotus and from Plutarch, who both mention it as being customary at the feasts of Bacchus, which had their origin in Egypt. Of the Paschal lamb, ‘no bone was to be broken;’ for on those occasions the heathens broke the bones, and pulled them asunder with frantic enthusiasm. Neither was it to be ‘sodden,’ as in their magical rites: but roasted by fire, and not by the heat of the sun, which was one of the chief objects of their idolatry. It was to be eaten along with ‘the purtenance,’ that is, the intestines, which the heathens reserved for their impious divinations. Lastly, ‘no fragments’ were suffered to remain, because the superstitious multitude had been in the habit of preserving them for charms; and they were, therefore, ordered to be burned.

“The lamb or kid was to be slain in the evening; the Hebrew expression is literally ‘between the two evenings;’—for among the Jews there was an early and a later evening; the first beginning at noon, as soon as the sun began to decline, and the second at sunset, which at this season of the year, the vernal equinox, took place at six o’clock. Thus the time ‘between the two evenings,’ when the passover was slain, was about three o’clock in the afternoon; and this was the very time of the day when Christ, the true passover, was sacrificed on the cross.

“What a striking analogy there is,” continued my uncle, “between that typical sacrifice of the Paschal lamb, and the grand sacrifice of Him who is called ‘the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world;’—between the deliverance of the Israelites from bondage, and the deliverance of mankind from sin, by a final atonement, which for ever closed all other offerings and sacrifices.”

I asked why they were desired to eat unleavened bread at this feast; and my aunt told us that some authors suppose it was to remind them of the privations and hardships they had formerly endured in Egypt, as it is very heavy and disagreeable. “But,” she added, “I have also understood that, in the ancient figurative mode, of expression, leaven was the emblem of hypocrisy and artifice; and therefore that eating the passover with unleavened bread, implied the performance of the ceremony in sincerity and truth. They were commanded to eat it with ‘their shoes on their feet, and their staff in their hand,’ or, in other words, equipped for a journey. It appears to have been, and indeed is still, the universal custom of the inhabitants of the East to put off their shoes during their meals; not only because that is a period of enjoyment and repose, but because, to people who sit cross-legged on the floor, shoes would be troublesome, and would soil their clothes and their carpets. This solemn meal, on the contrary, which was intended to commemorate their miraculous and abrupt deliverance from Egypt, was to be eaten by the Israelites in the dress and posture of travellers, as if ready for immediate departure.”

My uncle gave us an amusing instance of the punctilious regard that the Jews pay to the letter of the law; which not only prohibits their eating leavened bread, but their having it at all in the house. In Exodus xiii. 7, it is written, “Neither shall there be leaven seen with thee in all thy quarters.” On the eve of the passover, the master of the family, attended by all his children and servants, formally search every corner of the house with candles in their hands; but why with candles?—because in the prophet Zephaniah i., 12, it is written, “I will search Jerusalem with candles.”

“This feast,” continued my uncle, “was called the Passover, because the destroying angel of God passed over the Israelites without smiting them; and to pass over is a literal translation of the Hebrew word pesach. From whence also we have the expression of the Paschal Lamb.

“The deliverance from Egyptian bondage was a specific type of our subsequent deliverance from the yoke of sin, which we commemorate in the sacrament of the Lord’s supper; and it is remarkable, that both the Jewish and the Christian rite were enjoined as memorials of events which had not yet happened. To all mankind the privileges of this great second deliverance are offered; and let us remember that, like the Israelites, we are but strangers and pilgrims here, hastening on to a land of promise.”

6th.—Mary asked Colonel Travers to-day why rice is called paddy in the East Indies. He told us that the wet lands capable of being cultivated for rice, are called, in the province of Malabar, padda land; and thence has the name paddy been given to the grain before the husk is beaten off. It is cultivated in all the low grounds which are periodically overflowed; or where the water can be regularly let in. Sometimes it is sown dry, on fields properly ploughed and moistened beforehand, and when the leaf is a certain height, the water is gently let into the furrows; but in many places it is sown very thickly, and afterwards transplanted. The general mode of preparing the seed is to steep it in water, and then to mix it up with earth in a shed, where it heats a little, and soon sprouts: when the shoot is nearly two inches long, it is carried in baskets to the field, and planted in rows.

The operation of cleaning rice is assisted by boiling for a short time; after which it is beaten in a mortar with a stick five or six feet long, the bottom of which is shod with iron. But the rice used by the higher class of Brahmins is not boiled, lest it should be in any way defiled: it is every morning cleaned dry by one of the family, the labour of which is very great, because the husk adheres so closely to the grain.

Paddy is often kept in small caves called hagay, the entrance to each of which is by a very narrow passage. The roof, floor, and sides are lined with clean straw, and the cave is then completely filled.

Colonel Travers is just like my uncle, he is so ready to answer all our troublesome questions; and you may suppose that some of us ladies asked him about the ottar of roses. He says that the rose from which that essential oil is made, grows only in the valley of Shiraz, where there are immense fields of it. The flower is small, and of a deep red, and quite a different species from the rosa indica. It does not thrive south of Shiraz, as the climate is too hot; and the plants which have been brought to Bombay have generally failed.

We have had several rainy days, on which it was impossible to walk out; though it seldom happens, my uncle says, in this climate that there is not some part of the day quite fair.

The gravel walks here dry quickly, but nobody seems to care much about wet or dirt, their feet are so well defended from damp; and my aunt has provided me with all the comfortable preservatives from wet that my cousins have, so I force myself to go out and to take long walks. Sometimes we visit the poor people, to whom a little sympathy and kindness seem to be a great comfort; and the school is so near the shrubbery, that, unless the rain is very heavy, Caroline contrives to go there every day.

When we are so much confined as we have been for the three last days, we take care to practise well at battledore and shuttlecock; yesterday evening I kept it up to three hundred. Sometimes four of us play at once without any confusion; and sometimes even my uncle joins us. My aunt encourages us to exercise ourselves with active plays; and if you and Marianne could peep at us, you would be amused at the vigour and emulation with which we perform Puss in the corner, and Friar’s ground, or “turn the blindfold hero round and round.” After luncheon is generally the time for these “laborious sports;” Grace, of course, delights in them, and my uncle and aunt seem fully to enjoy our glee and gaiety; for exercise and recreation, they say, should be mixed sufficiently with all our studious employments. You will smile when I confess that much as I like them now, I felt at first that these “romps,” as I called them, were rather too childish: my aunt told me to do as I liked; but, as I found that I only appeared conceited by sitting still, I soon conquered these silly feelings.

I have nothing more to say, except that I have begun to read Rollin’s Ancient History; for the purpose of comparing the sacred and profane parts, and because I have some idea of endeavouring to make an historical chart for myself, which shall combine those two objects.

7th.—Ducks were the subject of discussion this morning at breakfast. My aunt told us that the Chinese, by whom great numbers are consumed, usually hatch them by artificial heat. The eggs are placed in boxes of sand, upon a brick hearth, which is kept at a proper degree of warmth, during the process; and the ducklings are fed with boiled rice, crabs, and cray-fish for a fortnight. They are then supplied with an old stepmother, who leads them where they can find food; being first put into a boat which is to be their constant habitation, and from which the whole flock, perhaps three or four hundred, go out to feed, and return at command.

The masters of the duck-boats row up and down the rivers according to the opportunity of procuring food; and these birds obey them in an extraordinary manner. Several thousands, belonging to different boats, may be seen feeding in the same place, yet on a signal, each flock will follow their leader to their respective boats without a single stranger having intruded.

Colonel Travers told us, that in a description of the south coast of Asia Minor, which he had lately read, a duck of extraordinary beauty is mentioned. The plumage is white, with orange and dark glossy spots which are large and distinct, and in the males extremely brilliant. They fly in pairs, and their cry is loud and incessant. These ducks chiefly inhabit the cliffs of an island, and are peculiar to that part of the shore; and the author adds, what Colonel Travers considers to be a very singular fact—that, although the whole coast lies in nearly the same parallel of latitude, yet several species of the feathered race seem to be confined to particular districts.—For instance, at the western end, there were multitudes of the red-legged partridge; the middle of the coast was occupied by crows, and every hole and crevice in every rock had its family of pigeons; then came the ducks, and when they disappeared, the elevated cliffs seemed to be usurped by eagles. As he advanced still further to the eastward, even the common gull, which is so plentiful every where else, became scarce, but its place was filled by swarms of the noisy sea-mew; and at the furthest extremity of the coast, he entered a shallow bay which was covered with swans, geese, and pelicans.

8th.—Mary was quite triumphant to-day in our genius argument, and produced two examples on her side, which she said were very strong.

The celebrated Dolomieu, she told us, entered very early in life into the religious order of Malta; but having unfortunately resented some insult and killed his adversary, he was condemned to die, it being contrary to the rules of the order to use arms against any one but an “enemy of the Faith.” The grand-master, however, pardoned him; but the pardon not being immediately confirmed by the Pope, he continued in captivity nine months, before he was released. By this time, Dolomieu had become, as it were, a new man; the solitude and silence of his prison, and the necessity of dispelling his inquietude by occupation, had given him a habit of deep meditation; and he determined to devote the rest of his life to the acquirement of knowledge. He hesitated for some time between classical literature and natural history; but, at length, decided for the latter, in which he afterwards made so conspicuous a figure.

It cannot be denied, Mary says, that this is a proof that the mind may be led by circumstances to any pursuit. She then gave us some anecdotes of Baron Guyton de Morveau, as being still more favourable to her system.

“Guyton’s education was not neglected in the common routine of classical and theoretical learning; but his father, who had a passion for building, employed various artificers about his house, and young Guyton insensibly caught a taste for mechanics. This, which might have been considered as a natural inclination, was merely the effect of example; and it was further excited by a circumstance that happened during his vacation: at a public sale in the neighbourhood, an old clock had remained unsold, owing to its bad condition, and he persuaded his father to give six francs for it. The ardent boy soon took it to pieces and cleaned it; he even added some parts that were wanting, and put the whole in order without assistance. In 1799, that is, fifty-four years afterwards, this clock was purchased at a higher price than was given for the estate and house together where it had originally been sold; having during the whole of that time preserved its movement in the most satisfactory manner. He once undertook the same operation for his mother’s watch, and succeeded perfectly, though he was then only eight years of age. These details are sufficient to shew how impossible it is to predict, from the whims of childhood, the vocation likely to engage any individual at a more advanced period of life.—This little boy appeared to have a genius for mechanics, in consequence of circumstances attending his infancy—but no one has shewn less taste for mechanics than Guyton de Morveau, during his long and brilliant career as a chemical philosopher.”

9th.—My uncle told us to-day a curious mode of catching fish by diving, which is practised in the Gulf of Patrasso, in Greece, and which is, he believes, peculiar to that place.

The diver being provided with a rope, made of a species of long grass, moves his boat where he perceives there is a rocky bottom: this done, he throws the rope out so as to form a tolerably large circle; and such is the timid nature of the fish, that instead of rushing away, they never attempt to pass this imaginary barrier, which acts as a sort of talisman; they only descend to the bottom, and endeavour to conceal themselves amongst the rocks. After waiting a few moments till the charm has taken effect, the diver plunges in, and generally returns with several fine fish. As he seldom finds more than their heads concealed, there is the less difficulty in taking his prizes; and these divers are so dexterous that they have a method of securing four or five fish under each arm, beside what they can carry in their hands.

The effect of the circle formed by the rope reminded Frederick of the singular manner in which pelicans and cormorants catch fish in concert with each other. They spread into a large circle, at some distance from land; the pelicans flapping on the surface of the water with their great wings, and the cormorants diving beneath, till the fish contained within the circle are driven before them towards the land. As the circle becomes contracted, by the birds drawing closer together, the fish are at length brought within a narrow compass, where their pursuers find no difficulty in securing them.

One species of cormorant is so docile, Frederick added, that they are trained by the Chinese to fish for their masters. Sir George Staunton saw several boats with a dozen of these birds in each; at a signal they plunged into the water, and quickly returned with a prize in their mouths, which they never attempted to swallow without permission.

My aunt said that those birds were formerly kept in this country for the same purpose; but the English cormorants were not so tractable, for a thong was tied round their neck to prevent their eating the fish. Charles the First, she says, had his master of cormorants as well as his falconers.

11th, Sunday.—My uncle this morning repeated his advice never to allow ourselves to judge of detached phrases or single texts in the Bible, without carefully comparing them with similar passages in other parts; and he added, that it was very unjust to charge the Bible with the errors of its translators, or to ascribe the mistakes and inconsistencies of human learning to the inspired original. “The wonder is,” he says, “not that there are some mistakes, but that there are not many more, and that of those there should be so few of importance. It is, however, the duty of every body to make known those errors, slight as they are, and to try to remove all blemishes from a work of such high importance, as a correct translation in our own language. Words have now a much more definite meaning than they had a few centuries ago; and some words may then have fairly conveyed the original sense which is now greatly perverted by their continuance.

“For instance, in Exodus iii. 22, it appears that every woman is enjoined to borrow of her neighbour valuable jewels and raiment, and then to keep possession of them. But children,” said he, “should be taught that the Hebrew word, which our translators have rendered borrow, signifies to ask as a gift. It is the very word used in Psalm ii. 8,—‘Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance;’ and the fact was this: God told Moses that the Israelites should not go out of Egypt empty, but that every woman should ask her neighbour for certain valuable presents, and that He would dispose the Egyptians to give them. And all this seems to have been perfectly just, when you consider the slavery that the Israelites had been obliged to endure, and the hardships which had been inflicted on them, not only by the king, but by the people, who ‘made their lives bitter with hard bondage.’

“Josephus, the Jewish historian, represents this transaction agreeably to the true sense of the sacred text. He says, ‘the Egyptians made gifts to the Hebrews; some in order to induce them to depart quickly, and others on account of their neighbourhood and friendship for them.’

“As an additional confirmation of this being the true meaning of the expression,” my uncle continued, “we may recollect that the custom of giving, receiving, and even demanding presents is common to all parts of the East at this day; it is especially practised on the arrival or taking leave of strangers, and therefore may be well applied, in this case, to the departure of the Israelites. It seems to have been the same in all ages; for I need scarcely remind you of the ‘gold, and spices of very great store, and precious stones,’ that the Queen of Sheba gave to Solomon; nor of the magnificent gifts he presented to her when she was going away, even ‘all her desire, whatsoever she asked, beside that which Solomon gave her of his royal bounty.’ Nor is this exchange of presents looked upon as any degradation to dignity, nor any mark of a rapacious meanness.

“I have been the more desirous to explain that passage, because, from the ambiguity of one word the Israelites have been accused of cheating the Egyptians; and, what is of more consequence, it has been said that they were commanded to do so. But when the word is corrected, you see that these calumnies at once fall to the ground. And I would recommend you all to adopt a general rule in reading the scriptures, of which I have found the benefit. Whenever you meet with any expression that seems to be inconsistent with the moral justice of God—pause—compare the different parts where the same, or a similar phrase, occurs, and, before you come to a rash conclusion, study the acceptation that the words had at the period when the present version was made. If it requires a knowledge of the original language, apply to some learned person; not so much to reason for you, as to furnish the data on which to satisfy yourselves. However bounded may be our notions of the qualities of the Deity, and though his attributes far transcend our conception, yet it is certain that our ideas of justice must have been derived from principles implanted by Him; and no decree of His can ever be contrary to that justice—for the nature of God is immutable: He is ‘the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.’”

12th.—I am sure, Mamma, that you must feel very grateful to Colonel Travers for all the interesting things which I have picked up from him, and which I put in my journal for your amusement. To-day there was a conversation about our fisheries, and he related two facts which I am in hopes will be quite new to you.

You know that the great cod fishery which supplies almost all Europe with salt-fish, is on the sand-bank that extends from the island of Newfoundland. The water is from twenty to sixty fathoms in depth; and when the Colonel was returning from Canada with his regiment, he persuaded the Captain of the ship to stop for some hours on this bank, in order to catch cod for the soldiers. He saw a great many hooked with long lines and pulled up; and he observed, that when that was done very rapidly the air-bladder burst, and pushed part of the stomach out of the mouth. He explained to us that it is the air-bladder that enables fish to raise or lower themselves in the water, by taking in or letting out more or less air; but this they can only do gradually; and therefore when the air has been highly condensed at the bottom of the sea, the pressure of fifty or sixty fathoms of water, it expands the bladder more quickly than the fish has the power of giving it vent. The air-bladder is cured or salted with the fish, and is then called the sound.

This led the conversation to the different depths which are inhabited by different classes of fish. My uncle told us that turbots, soles, and other flat fish, are not furnished with an air-bladder, because they never quit the bottom of the sea; and Colonel Travers, to prove that some fish are not intended to sink very far below the surface, mentioned the following curious circumstance. When a whale is attacked by a sword-fish, he immediately dives; and the sword-fish, not being calculated by Nature to bear the enormous pressure of the sea at very great depth, is obliged to withdraw his weapon;—if he cannot speedily extricate it, he dies. My uncle said that this fact helped to explain the facility with which those great monsters are killed by our Greenland fishermen: when a whale is struck by a harpoon, he imagines it to be a sword-fish, and, as usual, dives; this he does with such velocity, that the harpooner is obliged to throw water on the part of the boat over which the harpoon-line runs, to prevent its taking fire; but the power of diving is probably limited even in a whale, and the length of line, perhaps a mile or two, which he has taken out and is obliged to drag through the water, at last tires him—he stops—and the men, by slowly pulling in the line, in fact haul the boat towards him; again he sets off—he is again tired—and is ultimately exhausted and killed by fatigue! If he ran straight out, near the surface, no line could be long enough, or strong enough, to check him—whenever a whale does do so, the line snaps, and he escapes.

13th.—The last thing that Colonel Travers told us—for I am sorry to say he is gone away—was a pretty little story that he learned at Ceylon.

When the pearl-fishing in Condatchy Bay is going on, which is, he says, a most lively, amusing scene, the Indians of the continent attend in great numbers, and being occasionally employed, they find ample opportunity to exercise their dexterity in sleight of hand, and every sort of roguery. A set of these Indians contrived an ingenious method of cheating the boat-owner who employed them to open his oysters. While one of them made a preconcerted signal, whenever any pearls worth stealing were found, another at the same moment pretended to conceal about him a few small ones, and while he thus attracted the attention of the superintendents and occasioned some bustle, the real thief was able to secrete his prize.

This contrivance was discovered by one of the poor Ceylonese who attended the washing of the pearls; he made it known to the master of the boat, and then, having reason to dread the vengeance of the thieves, he immediately fled. For some days he proceeded without shelter, till arriving at the hut of a farmer, who lived near a cinnamon plantation belonging to government, he supplicated him for relief and a lodging. This man was very poor; he had a large family, and could with difficulty shelter the fugitive for one night; besides, suspecting that the story was not quite true, and that it was the thief instead of the informer who told it, he was not willing to let him continue there, lest it should bring himself under suspicion. The Ceylonese was hurt at a doubt which he so ill deserved, and left the farmer early next morning, wandering he knew not whither, till he found himself, just when the sun was at its height, in a tangled and extensive forest; there he sat down to rest under a banyan-tree, whose self-rooted branches, entwined with creepers, had become nearly impenetrable;—and there he determined to remain, as long as the forest supplied him with fruit and wild honey. Fear had taken such possession of him, that he was afraid to venture back to the more inhabited parts of the country; and yet he was here in equal dread of the Bedahs, a race who live in the forests and mountains, and who refuse to associate with the more civilized Ceylonese.

It is supposed, Colonel Travers told us, that the Bedahs are descended from the original inhabitants; and that, having fled from the Ceylonese invaders, they have retained, with their ancient customs, their hatred and fear of the invaders. They live by hunting, they sleep in the trees, placing thorns and bushes on the ground round them to give warning of approaching wild beasts; and on every alarm a Bedah climbs the highest branches with the expertness of a monkey.

There are some tribes of the Bedahs in the southern part of the island who are rather less wild, and who even carry on a little traffic with the Ceylonese; but they are so afraid of being made prisoners, that when they want to procure cloth, knives, iron, or any thing of that kind, they approach the town where it is to be had, at night, and deposit in a conspicuous place a fair quantity of goods, such as ivory, or honey, along with a talipot leaf, on which they contrive to express what they want in exchange. On the next night they return, and generally find what they had demanded; for if their requests are neglected they seldom fail to revenge themselves.

Fruits of various kinds are so abundant in Ceylon, that for some time our poor fugitive was supplied with tolerable sustenance; and he often refreshed himself with the pure limpid water found in the Bandura, a most curious plant, whose leaves terminate in a kind of tube which contains nearly half a pint of water covered by a little valve. At last, anxiety brought on a low fever, his strength failed, and he lay under the banyan expecting to die of hunger. Early one morning he was roused from a sort of half stupor, by hearing the low growl of a dog; and on opening his eyes, he saw a man stooping to place something near him; he tried to speak—but the person had vanished. He had perceived, however, by his tall light figure and his copper complexion, that the stranger was a Bedah; and this would have been a very terrific idea, had he not smiled as he went away, and pointed to a little basket that he had left. Plantains and refreshing fruits were again within his reach; and the poor starving man ate thankfully, and felt as if he should live. Every morning he found a fresh supply in the same place; and as his strength began to return, the Bedah, besides the basket of fruit, added some more nutritious food. This was dried meat preserved in honey, to keep it from the air; and tied up in a particular substance which grows on the betel tree, at the root of each leaf; it somewhat resembles a tough skin, and is of so strong a texture, that it retains water. He wished to thank the Bedah, and frequently beckoned to him to stay; but the good natured savage shook his head, and disappeared.

When he felt himself quite recovered, and his strength restored, he resolved to procure employment, if possible, in the cinnamon groves. The grand harvest, which lasts from April to August, had begun, and he hoped that in some of the various processes of cutting, scraping, or barking, which are parcelled out among several classes of peelers, or choliahs, he might find work.

On his way from the forest, in passing by the same house where he had been permitted to lodge one night, he perceived that the farmer’s cattle had broken through the inclosure and made their way to the cinnamon trees, on which they were then feasting. This tree is such a favourite with cattle that they break down every fence to get to it; and most of the natives who live in the neighbourhood of those plantations are deterred from having cows, because all that are found trespassing there are forfeited.—This poor creature knew that, by giving information to the head officer, he might receive a reward which would relieve him from distress; but he had a more generous mind. He hastened to the farmer, and assisted him to drive back the cows and repair the fence, before they were discovered. The farmer was anxious to shew his gratitude, and he felt convinced that he had wronged him by his former suspicion. By his recommendation to the superintendent of the cinnamon groves, our wandering Ceylonese obtained employment, and in a short time felt himself so happy, that he had reason to reflect with satisfaction on his honesty and generosity.

As soon as he was able to save a little money, he purchased some few articles which he thought might be acceptable to the friendly Bedah; and by setting out in the night he arrived early in the morning at the forest, and deposited his offering on the very spot where, for so many successive days, the food had been placed which saved his life. In vain he delayed there in hopes of seeing the Bedah, till he was obliged to return to his work; but as he heard the well known growl at no great distance, he knew that he was observed, and that his present would be found. Colonel T. says, that the dogs of the Bedahs are remarkable for their sagacity in tracing game and in distinguishing the scent of different animals. On the approach of a stranger, or of any dangerous beast, they first put their master on his guard, and then help to defend him; and so invaluable are they to this tribe, that when their daughters marry, these dogs form their portion.

Our industrious Ceylonese had built a hut during his residence at the cinnamon plantation; it was formed from a single cocoa nut tree; the stem furnished posts; the branches supplied rafters, and the leaves formed a covering sufficient to repel both sun and rain. The Ceylonese huts are fastened entirely by withes of ratan, or by coya rope, which is made of the fibrous threads of the husk of the cocoa nut. They are sometimes strengthened with slender pieces of wood or bamboo, and daubed over with clay; and round the walls are benches to sit or to sleep on.

Colonel Travers took the opportunity of telling us, that the cinnamon twigs are first scraped with a peculiar kind of knife, convex at one side, and concave opposite; the bark is then slit with the point, and the convex side of the knife is used to loosen it, till it can be taken off entire; it appears like a tube in that state, and the pieces are laid one within another, and spread to dry. When quite dried they are tied up in bundles of about thirty pounds weight, and are carried by the choliahs to the cinnamon store-houses at Columbo.

Being no longer afraid of the pearl-gatherers, he returned to Condatchy; and as it is a usual practice to search for pearls which may by chance have dropped from the oysters while they lie in the pits, he also went to see how far his present good fortune would continue to befriend him. Those pits are dug about two feet deep in the ground, and lined with mats; and the oysters are left there to putrefy, as they are then easily opened without injuring the pearls. His search was successful beyond his hopes; he found a pearl of uncommon size, and joyfully carried it to the collector, who rewarded him with a large sum of money.

It is easy, dear Mamma, to guess the rest of the story. He bought cloth, axes, knives, and various useful things; and making his way once more to the banyan tree, he laid these offerings of gratitude in the spot so well known to him and the good Bedah—and again he heard the faithful dog growl his knowledge of his being there. He then visited the farmer, and found him in the greatest distress; for his cattle having again trespassed on the cinnamon grounds they had been all seized. The kind-hearted Ceylonese bestowed on him a sum more than sufficient to replace his cows, and it was difficult to say which felt the most happy—the farmer suddenly relieved, or the generous creature who relieved him.

16th.—We all petitioned my uncle to read the Tempest to us yesterday evening. He consented, upon condition that Mary should assist; and it was arranged that she should read the parts of Miranda and Ariel.

Mary is so timid, that she does not like even such a moderate exhibition: she complied, however, and they both read so delightfully, that every one perceived beauties in that play which they had never noticed before. At the end of each act we talked it over; and my uncle encouraged every one to give their opinions, which he says is the best way of compelling people to think.

My aunt said that none of Shakespeare’s plays are so perfect as to the time in which the action takes place, as the Tempest, or displays so much imagination; for, while he seems to leave one at liberty to wander through the wild and the wonderful, yet such is the correctness of his taste, that in this piece he never suffers it to pass the bounds of consistency.

Caroline was most pleased with the part of the “delicate” Ariel. “It is quite charming,” she said, “he is so well imagined: his qualities and offices and his expressions are so suitable to each other, and so nicely described by himself. Besides, he seems so amiable and good-natured to the shipwrecked strangers, that even while we consider him as the artful agent of the magician, he seems to have the qualities of almost a celestial being.”

I asked her which she liked best, Ariel, or the fairy sprites in Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Like you, Bertha, I delight in all Shakspeare’s fairy-land,” said she; “but I think Ariel in every way superior to Puck: even his tricks are more elegant and graceful, and he seems to sympathise with the people he is teasing; but Puck, however amusing, is a wild mad-cap, that revels in his antics, and ridicules the poor victims of his merry mischief. I like to think of Ariel as he ‘lies in the cowslip’s bell’—or ‘rides on the curled clouds, to do his master’s bidding,’ with such swiftness as to ‘drink the air before him.’”

My uncle praised the drawing of Caliban’s character. “Every time I read it,” said he, “I see fresh proofs of its complete originality.—Shakspeare could have had no model for such a creature—it could only be the work of his own extraordinary imagination, and it shews what powers of invention he possessed. Caliban is just what the offspring of a witch and a demon should be: he is a prodigy of cruelty and malice; and Shakspeare heightens the effect by giving him a language so poetical and yet so gross, that all he says, whether in brutal malice, or in uncouth kindness, is in perfect keeping with his general character. It expresses the instinctive barbarity of the monster; and the mind is throughout divided between the detestation excited by such a horrible being, and astonishment at the versatile genius by which it was conceived.”

“Miranda is my favourite,” said my aunt; “I am sure there is as little common-place in it as in either of the singular characters you have been praising; in hers, innocence and gentleness are the predominant features; while the union of the softest tenderness for Ferdinand with her candour and dutiful deference to her mysterious father, give it the most amiable finish; and I think the skill of Shakspeare in painting it is at least equal to that shewn in any other of the play; for the many beautiful little touches by which it is brought out, appear to me to shew more talent than when violence of passion and great strength of expression are used.”

“On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.”

I repeated these lines in Ariel’s song, and asked the meaning of “after summer.” “Some critics,” said my uncle, “have thought it should be after sunset, because Ariel speaks of riding on the bat; but commentators delight in deep and hidden meanings, and it has therefore been suggested, that as the fairy tribe dislike winter, Ariel, who is now to be restored to liberty, rejoices that he may follow summer round the globe; and therefore he is said to fly after summer.”

17th.—We have been reading the life of that delightful musician, Mozart; and he is claimed by each party. But I think he can give very little support to Mary; for though his father was a teacher of music, and early began to instruct him, his rapid progress and juvenile success seem to have gone far beyond the effect of circumstances, which in a hundred cases have been the same with other musical teachers, and other children. Mozart was but four years old when his great delight was seeking for thirds on the piano-forte. When five, he learned difficult pieces of music from his father so quickly, that he could immediately repeat them; and in the following year he invented little sonatas, which he played for his father, who always wrote them down to encourage him.—Music was introduced into all his sports, none of which were acceptable to him without it; and if sometimes a fondness for the usual occupations of childhood did influence his mind, yet music soon became again the favourite object.

Before he was six years of age, his father, observing him writing busily, asked what he was doing: the little boy said, he was composing a concerto for the harpsichord. The father took the paper, and laughed heartily at the blots and scribbles; but when he examined it with more attention, he shewed it to a friend with tears of delight, saying, “Look, my friend, every thing is composed according to the rules; it is a pity that the piece cannot be made use of, but it is too difficult, nobody would be able to play it.”

The progress of this wonderful child was equal to this beginning, and in various public exhibitions in Germany, and particularly at Vienna, he excited, at a very early age, the astonishment of all musical people by his science, by the correctness of his ear, and by his powerful execution.—At the age of thirteen, he composed his first opera; and you well know, Mamma, the numerous beautiful compositions which distinguished his short life; for he died at the age of thirty-six. Surely this was a genius!

18th, Sunday.—My uncle read to us this morning the chapters which relate the humbling of Pharaoh, and the going forth of the Israelites; he afterwards said, “In the wonderful judgments inflicted on the Egyptians, and in the miraculous institution of the Passover, when the destroying angel passed over the house of every Israelite, we see, my dear children, the operation of that Being whose will controuls the elements of nature, and directs the passions of mankind.

“No human force is exercised—no Israelite lifts the sword; yet the Egyptian monarch is humbled, his people are terrified, and both urge the departure of the Israelites; who even demand and obtain from their late oppressors silver and gold, as payment for their past labours. ‘Rise up and get you forth,’ said Pharaoh, and they immediately commenced their march before his hardened mind again repented of yielding to the decrees of the Almighty.”

Wentworth asked his father how the Israelites could carry their kneading troughs on their shoulders.

“It appears,” said my uncle, “from the accounts of various travellers, that to this day the Arabs, who dwell in the countries through which the Israelites passed, are in the habit of eating unleavened cakes; and that the vessels still used there for kneading them, are small wooden bowls; these you see could be very conveniently bound up in the kneading cloths, and tied on their shoulders. The Arabs have also, among their travelling furniture, a round thick piece of leather, which they lay on the ground, and which serves them to eat upon; round it there is a row of rings, by which it is drawn together with a chain: and it hangs by a hook at the end of the chain to the side of the camel, in travelling. In this leather, they carry their meal made into dough; and when the repast is over, they wrap up in it all the fragments that remain.”

“I wonder,” said Frederick, who was looking at the map, “I wonder, heavily laden as they must have been, that they did not take the shortest road to the promised land, instead of going round about by the Red Sea.”

“The regular route to the promised land,” my uncle replied, “was certainly along the coast of the Mediterranean, towards Gaza and the other cities of Palestine, which were a portion of Canaan, and at no great distance from the Lower Egypt. But the way by which it was the divine will to lead them, was through the Red Sea; as being not only impracticable for their return, but being eminently calculated to impress them with a sense of the miraculous power which guided and protected them through the ‘deep.’”

I asked my uncle then what was meant by the word wilderness. He said, “The word occurs in a great many places, both in the Old and New Testament, where it sometimes means a wild, uninhabited desert, and sometimes only an uncultivated plain: the wilderness through which the Israelites were conducted, partook of both these descriptions, being partly rocky, and partly a sandy, unproductive district. It occupied the space between the two branches of the Arabian Gulf, which was sometimes called in Hebrew, and is indeed at this day in the Coptic language, the ‘Sea of Weeds.’”

“Why, then, do we give it the name of the Red Sea?”

“We have borrowed the term from the Greeks,” said my uncle: “from whence they derived it is not so easily answered; certainly not from the colour of the water, or of the sand at the bottom. The most probable notion is, that it was originally called the sea of Edom, as it washed the coast of that country; and that, as Edom signifies red in Hebrew, the Greeks, not understanding the geographical allusion, simply translated it, just as the Romans and ourselves have done after them.”

A general conversation then ensued, about the passage of the Israelites through the sea; and I shall write here some of what I picked up, by way of exercise only, for I am sure, Mamma, that you are already well acquainted with all that is known on the subject.

The exact spot at which they quitted the Egyptian shore has been much contested among commentators; but the greatest number of opinions seem to be in favour of Clysma; a point several hours journey from the town of Suez, which stands at the head of the western gulf. The names that some of the places in the vicinity still retain, appear to confirm this supposition; for instance, the ridge of hills extending from the Nile to this part of the coast is called Ataka, which means deliverance; and the narrow plain to the southward of that ridge preserves the name of Wadi-et-tiheh, or the Valley of the Wandering. On the opposite shore of the Red Sea there is a headland called Ras Mousa, or the Cape of Moses; farther to the southward, Hammam Faraun, Pharaoh’s Baths; and the general name of this part of the gulf is Bahr el Kolsum, or the Bay of Submission. From these circumstances it may be concluded that the Israelites crossed the western arm of the Red Sea, about twelve or thirteen miles from Suez; and it appears from my uncle’s maps that the sea there is eight or nine miles broad.

My uncle says it is the opinion of some geographers that formerly the Red Sea did not stop at Suez; and modern travellers have described a large plain which is considerably lower than the surface of the sea, and which extends seven or eight leagues to the northward of that town. This plain is two leagues in breadth; and from the thick layer of salt, and the quantity of shells which are every where found under the soil, they say there can be no doubt that it was once the bed of the sea. I asked what could have driven the sea out, if ever it had been there? But he said there was no difficulty in that; for rivers and narrow seas are continually changing their boundaries by the sand which their tides and currents throw up; and as soon as ever the Red Sea had washed up a new barrier at Suez, evaporation in that climate would rapidly dry the part that had been cut off.

It has been asked, were there not ledges of rock lying across the Red Sea, on which, when the tide was out, the Israelites might have forded it. “But,” says my uncle, “if we do not believe the transaction to have been miraculous, we may as well not believe it all; for the event, as well as the miracle, rest on precisely the same authority. At the same time, do not suppose that I wish to discourage these inquiries; they are of considerable use;—they lead to the investigation of facts, and the more strictly the Bible is examined, the more we shall be satisfied of its truth. The attention of the celebrated travellers Niebuhr and Bruce was particularly directed to that question; and they distinctly assert that there are no rocks there whatever.”

My uncle concluded the conversation by saying, “Many of the Fathers have supposed it to have been the opinion of St. Paul, that the passage through the waters of the Red Sea was intended as a type of the Christian baptism, and of our conditional resurrection to eternal happiness. And it was this idea that probably induced the framers of our liturgy to introduce the history of that event into the service appointed for the day of our Lord’s resurrection.”

19th.—We amused ourselves for some time after dinner this evening with our favourite question-play, animal, vegetable, and mineral; Marianne is well acquainted with it.

I thought of sponge as a good puzzling thing: however, it puzzled me not a little, in the progress of their questions, to describe it satisfactorily. In the first place, I had heard some one tell you that sponge was a vegetable production—but I have since read that it is a substance formed by some species of marine worm; so when I was forced to give distinct answers to the questions, was it animal, or was it vegetable, I was divided between those two ideas. Then came questions as to what part of the world it was found in; and I set them all wrong by saying, only in the Mediterranean. In short, I found that even in children’s plays people may have to blush for their ignorance.

After I had puzzled in and out of the question, and that our play was ended, my uncle told me that sponges, of which there are now known more than a hundred different species, are found in a multitude of places, on the shores of both the old and new Continents. “Those most valued in the arts,” said he, “are inhabitants of the Mediterranean, and part of the Indian Ocean; two small kinds of sponge thrive even on the frozen shores of Greenland; and forty species have been discovered on the coasts of Great Britain. They are found equally in places that are always covered by the sea, and in those which it leaves dry with the ebb tide. They adhere to rocks, and spread all over their surface; in some places they keep possession of the most exposed cliffs, but they thrive best in sheltered cavities, and are found lining the walls of submarine caves, attaching themselves indifferently to mineral or vegetable, or even to animal substances.

“The size to which sponge attains is very uncertain; I lately saw an account of one found at Singapore in the East Indies, which was shaped like a goblet, and measured round the brim fifty-one inches; the stem was seventeen inches, and it contained thirty-six quarts of water! Naturalists have agreed to seven general divisions of form; so as to make something like an arrangement of this most singular class of organized beings.”

I interrupted my uncle here, to ask whether, in calling them organized beings, he meant the substance of the sponge, or the insects that are supposed to form it.

“It is curious,” replied he, “that two thousand years ago, the Greeks were occupied with this very inquiry; some endeavouring to prove the vitality of sponge, and others, to shew that it was merely the work of certain worms: and even so late as the year 1752, Peysonnel, the naturalist, communicated to the Royal Society a paper in support of this last opinion.

“Most naturalists, however, now agree in regarding sponge as a zoophyte, or a kind of animal approaching nearly to the form and nature of a plant; and Linnæus himself, latterly, classed it amongst animals. As the large orifices appeared to be the only means of entrance to the internal canals, it was supposed that the nourishment of this animal was drawn in through them; but later discoveries have shewn that, besides those apertures, there are minute pores over the whole surface; that through these pores the water is imbibed, by which the creature is nourished; and that the large round holes convey a constant stream of water away from the interior of the body. This stream carries off the particles of matter which are constantly separating from the interior, and which are not only perceptible by the assistance of the microscope, but may be occasionally seen by the naked eye, like small flakes. When a living sponge is allowed to remain a day at rest, in a white vessel filled with pure sea water, an accumulation of feculent matter is always found immediately under each orifice. If it is confined in the same basin of water for two days, the currents appear to cease; but, on plunging it again into water newly taken from the sea, they are renewed in a few minutes; and the continual circulation of water through the body, Dr. Grant, who appears to have studied this subject with great perseverance, says, he no longer doubts, forms one of the living functions of this animal.

“It would only burthen your memory,” continued my uncle, “were I to tell you all the various opinions which have been formed respecting the anatomy of the sponge. I will merely say, that Dr. Grant affirms, though in opposition to M. Cuvier, that the fibrous part of the sponge, which is insoluble in water, and forms a net work through every part of the body, is the skeleton of this zoophyte, serving, as in other animals, to give form to the body, and support to the softer organs.

“Sponge attaches itself sometimes to marine plants, so as to choak up their pores. Small bits of the same species will spread towards each other, and become one piece; and it is amusing to observe, says Dr. Grant, the growth of the young Spongiæ parasiticæ on the back and legs of a species of crab, where they frequently collect to the number of forty or fifty, interrupting the motion of its joints, and spreading like a mantle over its back, or perhaps rising in fantastic ornaments upon its head, which the crab is unable to remove.”

21st.—When I parted from Mrs. P. at Falmouth, my uncle, who was much pleased with her kindness to me, made her promise to pay a visit here in some little time. That time has, at last, come. We have her now actually in the house, and I have once more the pleasure of being with a friend who was so kind and tender to me when I left you, my beloved Mamma.—How many little circumstances are recalled to my mind by seeing her! She has just the same quiet composed look that she used to have; and, though always ready to converse and to impart the information she possesses, yet her countenance seldom loses a certain expression of sadness.

She arrived last night, and has promised to stay till after Christmas. I believe a few other friends are to be here also; but I am no longer such a fool about strangers.

Many a time, things which you have said to me, and which then I scarcely heeded, return to my mind. How often, for instance, you have told me that we lose much real enjoyment by that sort of fear or reserve which I used to feel at the sight of a new face; and now that I have learned to listen attentively to conversation, I see what amusement, as well as knowledge, one may gain from the mixture of characters to be met with in society. Indeed, every day shews me how much real goodness there is, though of various kinds, among people who at first sight seem only intent on their own affairs.

I am sure that I at least have received a great deal of kindness in my short life—and particularly since I have ceased to be what you used to call farouche.

23rd.—This day has been remarkably cold and wet, and stormy; nothing could appear more dreary; and when I looked out, I persuaded myself that I felt quite melancholy. We had, notwithstanding, been all as cheerful as usual, and had contrived plenty of amusements for ourselves, in addition to shuttlecock, which warms one so comfortably; but this very dark and gloomy day we could scarcely distinguish our little feathery plaything after three o’clock.

In the evening Mrs. P. taught us a new way of capping verses, which is a little more difficult, but I think much more amusing than the common method. Instead of each person being confined to a single line, as much of a poem is to be repeated as will complete the sense; and the succeeding quotations are all to allude, either to one general subject, or at least to something touched upon by the previous speaker.

I will give you a sample in which we all joined:—

Uncle. “Heap on more coals: the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our merry Christmas still.”
Aunt. Still linger in our northern clime
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our vallies here,
We hold the kindred title dear.
Frederick. Decrepit now, December moves along
The plashy plains.
Caroline. Phœbus arise,
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed,
That she with roses thy career may spread.
Bertha. Sad wears the hour! heavy and drear
Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year;
And sullen, sullen heaves the blast
Its deep sighs o’er the lonely waste!
Wentworth. Who loves not more the night of June
Than dull December’s gloomy noon;
The moonlight, than the fog of frost?
And can we say which cheats the most?
Mrs. P. Mustering his storms, a sordid host,
Lo! Winter desolates the year.
Mary. Yet gentle hours advance their wing,
And Fancy, mocking winter’s night,
With flowers, and dews, and streaming light
Already decks the new-born spring.

December 24th.—

’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

How happy every one looks in these good Christmas times! Besides those feelings of gratitude and hope, which now come home to every Christian’s breast, it is delightful to see the satisfaction the rich feel in this country in sharing their comforts with the poor.

I need scarcely tell you, who know my uncle and aunt so well, how much they enjoy the pleasure of giving food and clothing and blankets to those who are in want; while to the cottagers who do not require such assistance, they make some useful present, such as a book, or some little article, which is sure to be highly valued, as it marks the approbation of their landlord. Of course the Franklins and our old basket-maker have not been forgotten. My aunt says she likes to make the poor more than commonly comfortable now, that they may remember the season with pleasure.

Farmer Moreland, and two or three other rich farmers in the neighbourhood, are very considerate of the comforts of their labouring men at this season; and they have joined with my uncle and aunt in trying, by giving them constant employment, to enable them to struggle on by their own exertions without applying to the parish for support. Many have large families, some of which are taught, even while very young, to help their parents; and it is to these people that my aunt distributes the largest portions of her Christmas bounty.

In speaking of Christmas, my uncle told me that in the heathen times of these countries, and of the northern parts of Europe, a festival took place exactly at this season, which was dedicated to the sun, the chief deity of our heathen ancestor; and when they were converted to Christianity, it was thought prudent that they should continue to have their festival, although the object of it was of course changed. It was called Jol or Yule—a Gothic word, signifying a feast, and particularly applied to a religious one. Christmas is even still called Yule in many places in the north of England; and it is said that the custom of making a large fire on Christmas eve, on which great logs of wood are piled, is still kept up. These are called Yule clogs, and, before they are quite consumed, a fragment of them is taken out, and preserved safely for the next year.

This is probably one of the remnants, my uncle says, of the feasts of fire instituted by the worshippers of Bali, from whom there appears reason to think the Druids were directly descended; as a coincidence of customs, words, names, and ancient worship is in many instances observable.

Just as we had done tea this evening, while my uncle was talking on this subject, he was interrupted by a loud ringing at the hall-door, and it was scarcely opened, when there was such a noise in the hall, such singing, talking, laughing and dancing, that I was alarmed at first; but my aunt told me it was only the Mummers. We went to look at them, and I understood that they were acting St. George and the Dragon; but it was such a strange, confused medley, that I could only distinguish a word or two. They had all hideous masks, and were dressed up in the most grotesque way; and everybody was highly diverted except poor little Grace: she was so frightened by the bustle and strange figures, that my uncle was obliged to reason with her. A word or a look from him has unspeakable power over the minds of all the family, and indeed of all who know him.

The mummers’ song I could not understand, except one stanza, which they repeated always more distinctly than the rest, as a hint, I suppose, to my uncle:—

In Christmas time is found
The best of stout old beer,
And if it now abound
We shall have dainty cheer;
Then merrily dance we round,
And so conclude the year.

My uncle good-humouredly gave them a few shillings to get their “stout old beer,” and they hurried off to visit some other house.

25th.—We all met in health and cheerfulness this good Christmas morning, and in our heartfelt wishes for mutual happiness, yours, dear Mamma, was included as ardently, as if you had been present.

To the usual old fashioned expressions of kindness, my aunt added, in her impressive manner, a tender wish that we might receive such gracious aid from above, as would enable us to rejoice indeed on this great day.

After some general conversation, my uncle explained to us the 45th Psalm, which is appointed for the service of Christmas-day; and which, he says, like many of the other psalms, is constantly read and but little understood.

“It appears,” said he, “to be a song of congratulation upon the marriage of a great king; but, from a consideration of all the subjects on which it touches, there is no doubt that it prophetically alludes to the mystical wedding of Christ with his church. This was the unanimous opinion of all the Jewish expositors—for though prejudice prevented them from discovering the completion of the prophecies in our Saviour, yet they well understood their meaning, and all allowed that this psalm related to Him, and not to any earthly prince.

“This figure, of the union of a husband and wife, has been consecrated by our Lord himself, to signify his own union with his church, in the parable of the king making a marriage for his son. Some commentators have imagined that the marriage of Solomon with Pharaoh’s daughter was the subject of the 45th Psalm; but it is in many respects wholly inapplicable to that king. The hero of the poem is a warrior, who reigns at length by conquest over his vanquished enemies: Solomon, on the contrary, enjoyed a long reign of uninterrupted peace. He is also distinguished by his love of righteousness; whereas Solomon, during the latter part of his reign, fell far short of the excellence here described. But, above all, the king is addressed by the title of God in a manner which is never applied to any earthly king.

“The Psalmist begins with our Lord’s first appearance in the human form, and passing rapidly through the different periods of Christianity, makes them the groundwork of this mystic and inspired song, which may be divided into three parts.

“The first three verses describe our Lord on earth in the days of his humiliation. The second section consists of the five following verses, which relate to the propagation of the gospel by our Lord’s victory over his enemies; and this includes the whole period, from his ascension to the time, not yet arrived, of the fulfilling of the Gentiles. The sequel alludes to the re-marriage—that is, to the restoration of the converted Jews to the bosom of the true church.

“‘Thou art fairer than the children of men.’ Though we have no account in the gospels of our Saviour’s person, yet it is evident, from many circumstances, that there must have been a peculiar dignity in his appearance. But it was the sanctity of his manners; his perfect obedience to the will of God; the vast scope of his mind, which comprehended all knowledge; his power to resist all temptation, and to despise shame and to endure pain and death, to which that expression alludes—this was the beauty with which he was adorned beyond the sons of men.

“‘Full of grace are thy lips.’ This is put figuratively, for that perfect doctrine which he delivered, and which, if sincerely adopted, was to sustain the contrite, to console the afflicted, and to reclaim the guilty.

“‘The king’s enemies’ are the wicked passions of mankind, against whom he wages a spiritual war; and, the ‘sword and arrows,’ St. Paul tells us, mean ‘the sword of God.’

“The seventh and eighth verses shew the King seated on the throne of his mediatorial kingdom, where he is addressed as God, whose throne is everlasting, and as a Monarch whose heart is set upon justice and righteousness.

“In the first dispensation of the law through Moses, the perfumed garments of the priest were typical of the graces and virtues of the Redeemer, and of the excellence of his word; so the Psalmist describes the King, of whom the high priest was the representative, as scented with myrrh, aloes, and cassia.

“In the figurative language of scripture, ‘king’s daughters’ express peoples and nations, and here mean, that the empires converted to the faith of Christ will shine in the beauty of holiness, and will be united to the Messiah’s kingdom.

“The ‘Queen’ evidently represents the Hebrew Church, re-united by conversion in the fulness of time. The restoration of Israel to the situation of consort in the Messiah’s kingdom is the constant strain of prophecy; whole chapters might be quoted; but I think it will be an interesting employment to some of you to search for them yourselves. I will only remind you of that passage in the epistle to the Romans, where St. Paul says, that blindness is in part only happened to Israel, till the time shall arrive for the fulness of the Gentiles to come in; and then all Israel shall be saved.

“The Queen’s ‘vesture of gold’ denotes those real treasures, of which the church is the depository, the written word, and the dispensation of its gracious promises to mankind.

“‘Forget thine own people, and thy father’s house.’ This applies to the ancient Jewish religion, and its typical ceremonies and sacrifices, now no longer necessary. The remainder of the psalm alludes to the churches established under ‘the King’; to the simplicity and excellence of the Christian dispensation; and closes with an assurance that the children of the Queen Consort, that is, the church, after collecting the lost sheep of Israel, shall be, as their fathers were, God’s peculiar people.”

My uncle concluded by saying, that this beautiful psalm, which is written in such majestic language, and presents such cheering hopes to Christians, Jews, and Gentiles, has been a constant subject of discussion amongst our learned divines; and advised us to read with attention the excellent commentaries on it by Bishop Horne and Bishop Horsley.

26th.—This day is so calm and bright that it is not like winter; it almost brings to my mind some of our own days at home. Oh! mamma, if you were but here, all would be delightful.

We are all going to walk to Farmer Moreland’s, except Wentworth and Frederick, who are mounting their ponies to visit a friend just returned from Eton.

I am called—Yes, quite ready. Good day, dear mamma.

Well, mamma, evening has come, and I have but little to tell you about our Christmas visit to Farmer Moreland and his dame, which was happily accomplished; but a great deal to tell you about Wentworth and Frederick, and their adventures. When they had ridden about a mile, they were stopped by a little boy, who came running from a lane in the wood, crying piteously, “Mother, mother, oh! come to mother!” To all their questions he gave no other answer but “Come to mother; oh! do come, she is a dying.” The child was a very little creature, and seemed scarcely to know any other words.

My cousins, without hesitation, or any thought about their ride, determined to follow the child, who, though he could not say much, knew very well what to do. He led them along one of the green lanes a considerable distance into the wood, and there they found his poor mother lying, without any other shelter than that of a large spreading holly—without blanket or covering—her head resting on a little bundle, and looking deadly pale. The child ran towards her, and gently patting her face, cried, “Here, mother; look, look.”

As Wentworth approached, she opened her eyes, and seeing a benevolent countenance, smiled faintly. She tried to raise herself, but could not. In reply to his inquiries she made him understand that, having travelled two days with little rest or food, suffering much from grief, along with fatigue, she had grown so ill that she was obliged to stop there. Not seeing any cottage near, in which she could beg a lodging, and feeling totally unable to walk farther, she had lain there many hours, but had not seen any one pass, and fearing that the child would be starved, she had sent him in search of some kind-hearted person. She added that she was sure her illness was a fever; and as there was, therefore, little chance of her being admitted into any house, all she wished for was a shed to cover her, some water to drink, and some bread for her little boy.

My cousins, promising assistance, rode home instantly, in hopes of finding my uncle, but we were all at Farmer Moreland’s. They tried then to find some one who could erect a shed over the poor woman, but it was a holyday no labourers were at work; and the steward, who was the only person they found, had received orders not to leave the yards all day, because many idle people might be about. He told Wentworth he could easily supply materials for a shed, if there was any one to build it. Wentworth and Frederick looked at each other for a moment, and then both said together—“Let us do it ourselves, and give up the ride.” Each had been afraid of disappointing his brother by the proposal, but they agreed to it with equal good-will, and set about their new occupation so earnestly, that in a quarter of an hour the garden ass-cart was loaded with straw and stakes, and the necessary tools. Before they went away, they applied to my aunt’s housekeeper for bread and medicine; and she very good naturedly went herself to see what state the woman was in, and what could be done for her. She afterwards told my aunt that it was “a beautiful sight to see the kindness of the young gentlemen, just as careful, ma’am, not to disturb the sick beggar woman as if she was a lady, and they so happy, ma’am, and never seeming to cast a thought about their ride.” While they were at work, the housekeeper learned the history of the unfortunate creature; she thinks her dangerously ill, and has therefore procured a careful old woman to take care of her.

My cousins not being very expert in driving stakes into the ground, or in fastening on thatch, it was nearly dark when they reached home. We had long returned from our walk, and had been listening to the history the housekeeper gave. My aunt and uncle were very much pleased at hearing of the benevolence and the decision with which Wentworth and Frederick had acted; and they determined not to interfere with them till their task was completed.

The story of the poor woman can be told in a few words. When very young, only sixteen, she was tempted to leave her father’s cottage, and to go off secretly with an idle wandering man, belonging to a party of gipsies, to whom she was afterwards married. Her husband had lately grown very unkind, and last week he forsook her entirely. She heard that he had come to the forest of Deane, and without waiting to make further inquiry, she took her little son, and set off in search of her wicked husband. Her parents are dead, and she has no friends but the gipsies, among whom she has lived for several years; she says they are bad people indeed, and to leave her boy with them would be his ruin. Her only anxiety is about him; were she sure of his being in safe hands, she says she has no longer any wish to live.

The housekeeper inquired the name of the child; but his mother acknowledged that he had never been christened, as the people she was with did not attend to those kind of things. He has generally been called Quick-finger amongst them, because he was so clever at little thefts; but she had intended, she says, to have had him baptized, and to call him Charley, after her own father. She then fell into an agony of grief at the remembrance of her father and the time when she was happy and innocent, as well as at the wickedness her poor little boy has already been taught.

Dec. 28th.—During our passage from Brazil, Captain M. lent me one of your old favourites, Anson’s Voyage; and, next to Robinson Crusoe, it interested me more than any thing of that kind I ever read. You may guess then with what pleasure I have been looking over the account of a late visit to Juan Fernandez by Mr. Scouler, who was employed by the Hudson’s Bay Company to examine the natural history of the north-west coast of America. I think two or three little extracts will amuse you; and I must tell you, by the way, that Mr. Scouler seems to feel great admiration for our city of Rio, and the bay, and the view from the Corcovado, and all our beautiful plants, birds, and insects.

“Dec. 14, 1824.—The island of Juan Fernandez was approached with equal interest by every one in the vessel, but with different feelings; as classic ground by the seamen, and as a new field for research by the naturalist.

“We landed at a small bay at the northern extremity of the island. The level land near the coast had more resemblance to a European corn-field, than to a desolate valley in the Pacific Ocean, being entirely overgrown with oats, interspersed in different places with wild carrots. On penetrating through the corn-fields, we discovered a small cavern, excavated in the decomposing rock, and bearing evident traces of having been recently inhabited. A kind of substitute for a lamp hung from the roof, and the quantity of bones scattered about, shewed there was no scarcity of provisions. Near this, a natural arch, about seven feet high, opened into a small bay, bounded on all sides by steep perpendicular rocks, which afforded an inaccessible retreat to multitudes of sea birds.

“The next day, on approaching the landing place in Cumberland Bay, we were surprised by the appearance of smoke rising among the trees; and we had the pleasure of finding an Englishman there. When he first saw our boat, he was afraid it belonged to a Spanish privateer, and had concealed himself in the woods, as they had formerly destroyed his little establishment. He belonged to a party of English and Chilians, employed in sending the skins of cattle, which are now plentiful, to Chili. We were delighted with the beautiful situation where they had fixed their dwelling; close to a fine stream, and surrounded by a shrubbery of Fuchsia, mixed with peach and apple-trees, pears, figs, vines, and strawberries, rue, mint, radish, and Indian cress, besides oats, were all growing in the greatest profusion; and the sea abounded with fish.

“Our new friend had a little collection of English books; and one piece of furniture, which seemed particularly valuable,—an old iron pot, though without a bottom; but he had fitted a wooden one to it, and when he had occasion to boil any thing, he plunged the pot into the earth, and kindled a fire round its sides.

“We made an excursion to the interior, and found many beautiful plants and shrubs. The dry soil was covered by an evergreen arbutus, and a shrubby campanula, and every sheltered rock afforded a different species of fern, the greatest vegetable ornament of the island. We refreshed ourselves with strawberries, which were small and pale, but of a very agreeable flavour; and the vine plants were loaded with grapes; they were still unripe.”

I am quite disappointed at Mr. Scouler’s not mentioning the myrtle trees described in Anson’s Voyage, that tall wood of myrtles that screened the lawn where the commodore had pitched his tent; and which, sweeping round it, in the form of a theatre, extended up to the rising ground. I should like to have known what species of myrtle produced timber of forty feet in length. But above all, I felt disappointed at his account of the cavern; I was thinking of Alexander Selkirk, and could not help hoping that it was to prove the very one in which he had lived; or perhaps that some other romantic Selkirk was then its solitary master, instead of those Chilian cattle-killers.

29th.—There was a long conversation to-day on corals, corallines, and particularly on the formation of islands of that substance, which seems to take place so rapidly in some parts of the world.

Mr. Salt, the traveller, says that the islands in the Bay of Amphila are composed entirely of marine remains, strongly cemented together, and now forming solid masses; the surface of which is covered by only a thin layer of soil. These marine remains are chiefly corallines, madrepores, and a great variety of sea-shells, of species still existing in the Red Sea. Some of the islands are thirty feet above high-water mark; a circumstance which, he says, makes it difficult to account for the process of their formation. When a pillar of coral rises to the surface of the sea, birds, of course, resort to it; the decay of fish-bones, and other remains of their food in time produces a soil, which is followed by vegetation, and then it quickly assumes the appearance of a little island, covered with a solid stratum of earth. But in the present case, large pieces of madrepore are found, disposed in regular layers, far above the sea; and for this no satisfactory reason can be assigned, he says, except that the sea must have retired since they were so deposited; for this tribe of animals cannot work in the air.

There is nothing more curious, my uncle observed, than the changes produced on the face of the globe by the operations of the coral worm, a little creature so small as to be scarcely visible. New islands, he says, produced by its means, are continually rising out of the sea, and old ones are becoming united to others, or to the continent. In reading about something else, I met with a singular instance of this, in the account of Saugor Island, and Edmonstone’s Isle, in the Bay of Bengal, Edmonstone’s Isle appeared so lately as 1818; it is already two miles long, and half a mile broad, and the channel between the two islands is so shallow, that, in a few years, they will probably be joined together. Vegetation had commenced immediately on the most central and elevated part; saltwort, with one or two other plants, had given it a verdant tint, and by daily binding the shifting sand, were contributing to form the basis of a more durable soil.

Coral was formerly thought to be a vegetable, and even the celebrated Tournefort considered it to be a marine moss; but it is now known to be the production of a race of animals, of which it seems as much a part as the shell is of the snail. Most of the islands in the South Sea are coral rocks covered with earth. My uncle says that late voyagers have asserted that the bays and harbours of many of these islands have been observed to be gradually closing up, by the progress of these extraordinary creatures; and that it may therefore be supposed that these separate islands will in time be connected, and actually become a continent!

He told us, that M. de Peysonnel, of Marseilles, was the first who proved by experiment the animal nature of the coral; and shewed, that those bodies which former naturalists had mistaken for flowers, were, in fact, the insects that inhabited the coral. When the branches were taken out of the water, these supposed flowers, which proceeded from a number of white points in the bark, withdrew and disappeared; and when the branch was restored to the water, they were again perceptible. The white specks he proved to be holes in the outer surface, or bark, and corresponding with a series of cavities within; and secondly, he shewed that from these holes a milky fluid issued, which was an animal juice, and must, therefore, have proceeded from an insect. By immersing coral in strong vinegar, he could dissolve the calcareous bark to a certain depth, so as to shew the tubular structure of the interior uninjured.

Carbonate of lime, my uncle says, is the principal part of the substance of the whole tribe of corals and corallines; but where these minute insects, or rather polypi, obtain that material, or how they can decompose such an extraordinary quantity of it from sea-water, is one of those secrets of nature which philosophers have not yet discovered, although it is constantly in operation, and on an immense scale.

31st.—Frederick read to us, this evening, some of De Capell Brooke’s travels; and I ran away with the book afterwards, to copy for you this account of the cataract of Trallhätta, in Norway, which must be a singular scene.

“The whole water of the Gotha tumbles with fearful roarings down the rocky declivities, and in its descent forms four principal falls, the perpendicular height of which, taken together, is 110 feet. Yet the navigation is not obstructed; for locks with sluices, like those on navigable canals, have been cut in the solid rock, with incredible pains and labour; through them, vessels can be lowered to the level of the river below the falls, preserving their course with ease; and affording a strong instance of the power and ingenuity of man.”

In conversing about Norway, my uncle said, he thought the ingenuity displayed by the Norwegian peasantry was surprising. Living remote from towns, and scattered among their mountains, they become independent of assistance. The same man is frequently his own tailor, shoemaker, and carpenter, and sometimes even his own clock and watch maker. Most of them are very expert at carving, and the beautiful whiteness of their fir wood furnishes them with very pretty ornaments for their cottages. They work neatly in silver, brass, and other metals; and there are few things for the purchase of which they are obliged to have recourse to the distant towns.

Their methods of brewing and baking are very simple. The first consists in a simple infusion of barley, which, with the young shoots of juniper, produces a weak but pleasant beverage.—In making their flad bröd, or flat bread, they mix rye-flour with water, and when the dough is well kneaded, roll it out like a pancake, but not thicker than a wafer. As fast as they are made they are placed on a gridiron, and one minute bakes them. Prepared in this way, the rye loses its coarse taste, and the bread is agreeable.

You will not, probably, be inclined to imitate them, but I am sure you will admire the ingenuity of these people in the manner they employ the black ants to make vinegar. These creatures have gigantic habitations, which, in size and appearance, are not very unlike the gamme, or hut, of the coast Laplanders. The ant hills are five feet in height; and are composed of decayed wood, pine-leaves, and bark, mixed up with earth and strengthened by bits of branches, which must require the efforts of a vast number to move. Streets and alleys branch off in every direction from the main entrance, which is a foot wide; and outside, millions of the little negroes, as they are called, may be seen bustling along heavily laden. But now for the vinegar: a bottle half full of water is plunged to the neck in one of these hills; the ants speedily creep in, and are, of course, drowned; the contents are then boiled, and a strong acid is produced, which is used for vinegar by all the inhabitants of Norlanden.

January 1, Sunday.—My uncle read to us the “Song of Moses,” after the escape of the Israelites from Pharaoh and his host. He then said; as nearly as I can recollect, “This beautiful composition is not only a thanksgiving for their memorable deliverance, but it contains also precise prophecies of the downfal of the nations of Palestine, with the settlement of the Israelites in their room; and of the establishment of the temple on Mount Zion, with the ultimate destruction of all idolatry.

“It is the most ancient poem now extant, and shews the early connexion which subsisted between poetry and religion: it is also a fine example of that species of composition in which the Hebrews excelled; namely, that of expressing in hymns of triumph their gratitude to God for his glorious protection.

“‘The mountain of thine inheritance’ alludes to Mount Moriah, or Sion, where Moses knew that God would fix his sanctuary; and which is prophetically spoken of here as already completed.

“The whole army seem to have joined with one voice in this song; and Miriam and all the women re-echoed it with equal rapture; yet while almost in the very act of expressing their gratitude, this capricious people began to murmur because there was a scarcity of water in the wilderness through which it was necessary to pass; and, because when they did come to a spring, the water was bitter. What a beginning for the new life on which they were entering! Let us act more wisely, my dear children; and, grateful for the blessings of the past, let us endeavour to deserve their continuance through the new year on which we are entering.”

We endeavoured to trace the march of the Israelites, on the map. My uncle shewed us that the wilderness of Shur was a part of that great sandy desert which divides Egypt from Palestine; and which stretches from the Mediterranean to the head of the Red Sea on both sides. It is supposed by the late celebrated traveller Burckhardt, that the place called Marah, from the bitterness of its water, is the present Howara. Its distance from the Red Sea corresponds with the three days’ march of the Israelites; and there is a well there, of which he says, “the water is so bitter, that men cannot drink it; and even camels, if not very thirsty, refuse to taste it.” Irwin, another traveller, says that in travelling 315 miles in this desert, he met with only four springs of water.

My uncle says, that Moses does not mention every place where the Israelites encamped between the Red Sea and Mount Sinai, but those only where something remarkable occurred. Elim, with its refreshing wells and shady palm trees, must have been delightful in comparison with the desert they had passed. Dr. Shaw, who visited that country the beginning of last century, found nine of the twelve wells described in Exodus; the other three had been probably filled up by those drifts of sand which are so common in Arabia. But the palm trees alluded to by Moses had increased amazingly, for, instead of threescore and ten, there were then above two thousand. Under the shade of these trees he was shewn the Hammam Mousa, or the Bath of Moses, for which the inhabitants have an extraordinary veneration, as they pretend it was the exact spot where he and his family encamped. From this place the Doctor could plainly see Mount Sinai, or, as it is called in some parts of the Bible, Mount Horeb. This seems to have been the general name of the whole mountain, while Sinai was appropriated to the summit, which had three distinct elevations: on the western one, God appeared to Moses in the bush; the middle one, which is the highest, is that on which God gave the law to Moses, and is still called Gebel Mousa, or the Mount of Moses; and the third and most easterly is called St. Catherine’s Mount, from the monastery which has been erected there.

2d.—The poor wandering gipsy died in a very few days; and my aunt immediately put her son under the care of the Franklins and the old blind man. Charley is an intelligent little fellow, but will require great care and attention; he speaks a sort of incomprehensible gibberish, and understands but little of what is said to him. The housekeeper asserts that nothing can civilize those gipsies, however early they are taken in hand; but my aunt will try what mildness and steadiness can effect: she has desired him to be treated very gently, and his faults rather overlooked, till he can be made to understand the value of a good character. My uncle has written about him to some of his mother’s relations; but unless they are capable of taking care of him he will not abandon the child. Mary and Caroline have bought some clothes for him, and as just now I have no pocket money, not having managed my last quarter well, I begged to be allowed to contribute time and work.

What an extraordinary thing it is, that these odd people, the Gipsies, should have been wandering in the same unsettled manner about the world for three centuries; and always the same dishonest impostors. My aunt shewed us a passage in Clarke’s Travels, about the gipsies of Wallachia—where he says, though they are as well inclined to steal as the rest of their tribe, they are certainly of a more civilised nature. They are divided there into different classes: some are domestics, and are employed in the principal houses; others work as gold finers and washers; some travel about as itinerant smiths; some as strolling musicians, and others are dealers in cattle. They are skilful in finding gold, and smelt it into small ingots; using for that purpose little low furnaces, which they blow by a portable bellows made of a buckskin. The construction of the bellows is very simple; an iron tube being tied into the neck of the skin which is sewn up, and two wooden handles are fastened to the legs, by which it is worked.

I was very curious to know what could be the origin of these people—and why they have been always wandering about. My uncle told me, that ever since the beginning of the fifteenth century, when they were first noticed in Europe, the general idea has been, that they were Egyptians. It is said, that when Egypt was conquered by the Turks, several of the natives refusing to submit, revolted under one Zinganeus, and afterwards dispersed in small parties all over the world.—From their supposed skill in magic, they were well received; and being joined by idlers in every country, they became so troublesome, that measures were taken to expel them from England, France, and Spain. It is a remarkable coincidence, my uncle says, that in Turkey, the gipsies are called Tcheeganes; in Italy, Zingari; and in Germany, Zigeuner; all which seem to be derived from the name of their first leader in Egypt: but, on the other hand, they are sometimes found wandering about in that country, apparently a distinct race from the natives, and without the least affinity to them in features, customs, or language.

Attempts have been made to prove that they have come from India; and it is said, that near the mouth of the Indus there is a people called Zinganès. A learned German also has traced several points of resemblance between the common language of the gipsies, and the dialect of a district in Hindostan; for instance, all words ending in j are feminine in both languages, and both add the article to the end of the word.

These extraordinary creatures, my uncle added, may be found in every country, from the western extremity of Europe to the easternmost parts of Siberia; and in all, preserve their wild strolling habits, their filthy modes of eating, their pretended power of fortune telling, their expertness in petty thefts, and their love of intoxication.—In each country too, they elect a chief, whom they dignify by some high-sounding title, such as king, count, or lord, though never very obedient to his will; and as one set off against their numerous vices, they are generally extremely fond of their children.

3rd.—Mrs. P. has been here now for several days, which have been happy days to all, for she is so pleasing and gentle, and so mild, that all like her.

She told me yesterday one thing, which, though it may look like vanity to repeat, yet I know will gratify you so much, my own dear mamma, that I cannot conceal it. She says, that she thinks me improved in many respects in the few months that have passed since I left her. “Very much in your manner and carriage; and above all,” she added, “you seem to have lost the appearance of indolence that you had. I am rejoiced to see that you have acquired that power of exertion, which is so useful both to young and old—and that you have the will, as well as the power, to conquer little habits that are disagreeable to your friends. I know,” said she, “you will excuse me for saying this; for I feel a real interest in your welfare, and I have myself suffered so much from a foolish indifference to the opinion of others about what I considered trifles, that I am always pleased when I see young people endeavour to avoid the rock on which I split.”

I could not help shewing some surprise at this, for I thought it very unlike her character; and though I did not venture to express any curiosity, I suppose she saw a little in my countenance, for after some more conversation she said, that she would give me a little sketch of her life, because she thought I might derive some advantage from it.

We had not time to begin then—but I hope we shall to-morrow. In the mean time I must not forget to tell you, lest you should think I had lost all honourable principle, that I immediately informed Mrs. P. of the kind of journal which I send to you—and asked her permission to relate to you what she tells me; “but,” said I, “if you disapprove, I will not mention it.” She replied, “you are perfectly welcome to tell her every thing—for I very much disapprove of any confidence being made to a young person that is to be concealed from her mother.”

5th.—There was a lively little discussion last night, on the want of originality in poetical ideas; and on the manner in which the same thought is repeated by one author after another; each altering it, as my uncle said, in the same way that an object is seen through glasses of different colours. Or, said my aunt, with its original strength weakened by each repetition, like the successive reflections of the same object from a number of mirrors. And, though I did not venture it below stairs, you shall have my simile: like the Fata Morgana, where the objects reflected from the surface of the sea are again reflected from the clouds, but less distinct and generally inverted.

The conversation began by my uncle and aunt, and Mrs. P., and by degrees my cousins joined. A great distinction was made between gross plagiarism, and the borrowing a part only of an idea which the author weaves up with something new, and then places in a new light.

My aunt brought, as an example, these lines in the Lady of the Lake.

The sun, awakening, through the smoky air
Of the dark city, casts a sullen glance,
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,
Of sinful man the sad inheritance;
Summoning revellers from the lagging dance,
Scaring the prowling robber in his den;
Gilding on battled tower the warder’s lance;
And warning student pale to leave his pen,
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

She said, these lines seemed to have been produced, perhaps unconsciously, by a speech of Shakspeare’s Richard II.

—— Know’st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders, and in outrage bloody, here;
But when from under this terrestrial ball,
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole;
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.

In this case they all agreed that an author might insensibly dwell on an idea, alter, dress, and add to it, till he was no longer aware whence the original thought had come—as in a large company, a single word which happens to come to our ears from a group in another part of the room produces sometimes an interesting conversation, though none of the party engaged in it know well how it began.

Mrs. P. said that similar turns of thought and expression may be traced back through the whole chain of poets; and that if Homer appears to be an original genius, it is because we cannot now compare him with his predecessors. Few of our old writers were less exposed to the charge of borrowing than Spenser, and yet she could not help imagining that the Persian tale of Fadlallah was the origin of those pretty stanzas in the Faërie Queene, where the dove who watches over Belphœbe and her despairing swain, contrives that they shall once more be reconciled.

Mary said she thought it had more resemblance to the story of Camaralzaman, in the Arabian Nights, who was enticed from hill to hill in pursuit of the bird who had carried off the princess’s talisman. “That cruel bird,” said she, “leads Camaralzaman away only to separate him from his beloved princess; but the same idea in Spenser’s hands becomes a hundred times more beautiful. The dove is represented as the constant and tender companion of the youth who had long languished in grief for the loss of his Belphœbe; his ‘dole’ is soothed by the caresses and sympathy of the bird; and at last, in order to gaze at a ruby heart, which she had given him in happier times, he fastens it round its neck. Away flies the kind-hearted dove, who gains the notice of Belphœbe, and gently winning her forward in pursuit of the well-known ruby, succeeds in restoring the long-parted lovers to each other.”

Mrs. P. acknowledged that Mary’s opinion was more just than her own; and my aunt, looking at me, said, “I think I see in Bertha’s countenance that she has not read the Faërie Queene: suppose, Caroline, you were to refresh our recollections, and read those pretty stanzas for your cousin.”

Caroline did so; and as I know you have not Spenser among your books, and as his old-fashioned style will amuse Marianne, I will transcribe the two last stanzas, where Belphœbe, attracted by her jewel, follows the benevolent bird.

She, her beholding with attentive eye,
At length did marke about her purple brest
That precious iuell, which she formerly
Had knowne right well, with colourd ribbands drest:
Therewith she rose in hast, and her addrest
With ready hand it to have reft away;
But the swift bird obayd not her behest,
But swarv’d aside, and there againe did stay;
She followed her, and thought againe it to assay.

And ever when she nigh approcht, the dove
Would flit a little forward, and then stay
Till she drew neare, and then againe remove;
So tempting still her to pursue the prey,
And still from her escaping soft away;
Till that at length into that forrest wide
She drew her far, and led with slow delay;
In th’ end she her unto that place did guide
Whereat that woful man in languor did abide.

7th.—My curiosity about frost has been gratified. Each of the last three nights the thermometer has been below the freezing point—last night it was 28°. The ground is hard, and grass, trees, and shrubs, are quite white. Nothing can be more beautiful—each blade of grass sparkling with gems, every branch and spray covered with delicate crystals, and the leaves of the fir-trees hanging like little miniature icicles.

I asked my uncle where the frost comes from. “It is in fact,” said he, “frozen dew; when the ground is cooled down to 32°, the dew deposited on it is congealed, and becomes hoar frost. This often happens when the temperature of the atmosphere is much higher; and I have seen a copious hoar frost in a clear calm night, though the air was not colder than 40°.”

When I begged my uncle to explain that, he told me that, from the satisfactory observations of Dr. Wells, it appears that the heat which the earth receives from the sun in the day is returned or radiated back again from the earth during the night, and is dispersed in the sky; the surface of the earth thus becomes cold from its sudden loss of heat, and congeals the dew. The cold produced by this radiation of heat from the earth, is always less if any substance be interposed between it and the sky; not only a solid body, but even a fog, or clouds, have this effect, because they intercept the heat, and perhaps again send back a portion of it to the earth; and this, he added, is the reason why a bright clear night is generally colder than a cloudy night.

I asked my uncle if that was also the reason that such slight substances, as straw or mats, are found to protect tender plants from cold?

“Yes,” said he; “I used to wonder how such thin, open things as Russia mats could prevent plants from becoming of the same temperature as the atmosphere; but when I learned that all bodies at night give out their heat by radiating it, unless some covering be interposed, which acts, not by keeping out the cold, but by preventing their heat from flying off, then I perceived the reason of what before had appeared to me to be almost useless.”

He described several experiments he had tried to satisfy himself on this subject. He found that even a cambric handkerchief was sufficient; and that when raised a few inches in the air, the warmth of the grass beneath was 3° greater than that of a neighbouring piece of grass which was sheltered by a similar handkerchief actually in contact with it. All his experiments confirmed those of Dr. Wells, and shewed that by placing substances for the shelter of plants, not directly touching them, the effect was increased. Snow acts in the same manner as a preservative of plants when the ground is not already frozen.

Some other experiments my uncle then described, and he endeavoured to make me understand Dr. Wells’s general opinions on the formation of dew. He also mentioned the curious method they have in India of forming artificial ice in earthen-ware pans, where the temperature of the air is even 12 or 14 degrees above the freezing point. He concluded by saying, “I do not tell you all these particulars, Bertha, merely to stuff your memory with philosophical shreds and patches, but to excite your mind to observation and inquiry, which is a hundred times more useful.”

8th, Sunday.—The Ephod being mentioned in a part of the Scripture I was reading this morning, I asked my uncle to describe it, for I had but a confused idea of the dress of the high priest. He says the name is derived from a Hebrew word, signifying to tie. It was made of linen, and brought from behind the back, over each shoulder; and then crossing the breast, it was passed round the waist so as to form a girdle; the two ends hanging down before. The Breast-plate of Judgement, which was so called because the high priest wore it only when he went to consult the Divine Majesty, was made of the same materials as the ephod; and being two spans in length by one in breadth, it formed a square when doubled. The span, he says, was half a cubit, or about ten inches.

I then begged of my uncle to explain the nature of the Urim and Thummim. He told me that the words signify light and perfection; but as Moses does not appear to have received directions for making them, it is impossible now to form any distinct idea of the materials of which those sacred ornaments were composed, or of the manner in which they were employed, in order to obtain answers from the mercy-seat in the Tabernacle. The opinions of the learned have therefore been very various on those points: the Jews think they consisted of precious stones, which were so arranged that the partial brilliancy of certain characters engraved on them pointed out the required reply. Others suppose that they were merely parts of the grand dress, which qualified the high priest to present himself in the holy place on great occasions. But the question is of little importance to us; like many other mysteries attending the Divine ordinances, we vainly endeavour to penetrate their meaning: we may, however, feel assured, Bertha, that if these things were necessary to be understood by us, they would have been fully explained. Many ceremonies in the ritual given to the Israelites, were adapted to them as a people who had lived amongst the heathens, and who had imbibed those prejudices and depravities of heathen worship, which were so totally removed from every thing spiritual. To us they may be objects of rational curiosity; but a knowledge of their use or precise fabric could add no essential testimony to the well-established truths of Scripture History.

“There is, however, one mode of viewing the subject, from which we may derive a useful hint: the high priest could not address the Almighty when divested of this emblem of light and perfection; in like manner our addresses to God will be of no use, unless we also are adorned, not indeed with the emblem of light, but with the true light of the Gospel; with that clear and bright faith which makes us feel the power and goodness of Him to whom we pray.”

9th.—The beautiful hoar-frost at first gave to every twig and blade of grass the modest, quiet appearance of a wreath of pearls; but last night there was a slight shower of rain, and now every thing is glittering like diamonds. We observed, also, another peculiarly pretty circumstance: the wet being immediately frozen, every thing was enveloped with thin transparent ice, through which the leaves, and berries, and branches, were distinctly seen. Mary immediately repeated these lines:

Every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn seem’d wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.

Already the birds are become tame, and many venture courageously to take crumbs off the window-stones. Poor little birds, this bright clear air, and sunshine, make every body else look gay, while they sit shivering or sadly chirping on the trees; even the hens and ducks look swelled and melancholy.

We walked to-day to Franklin’s farm, and found him taking advantage of the hardened ground, to put out manure; he had two carts employed, and all the people seemed trying to keep themselves warm by hard work.

The field which had been left to remain fallow, will be much improved by this frost, he says. It was a coarse, wet soil, full of lumps of heavy clay; and he shewed us how much these lumps were already broken. My uncle said that the soil being thus divided, and pulverised, would be greatly meliorated; so, as we walked home, I asked him why the lumps of wet clay were broken by frost, which I thought would only have hardened them the more, like the road on which we were walking.

“The reason why the clods of wet earth are burst by the frost, is, that the water which they contain becomes ice; and, in doing so, it swells, and therefore requires greater space than while it was water. In the process of freezing, water crystallizes, and every crystal drives away the adjacent particles which interfere with its exact formation. This does not happen to hard roads, such as we are now walking upon, because they are closely bound, and do not admit the previous entrance of the moisture; but if the road was soft and spongy, you would then probably see, in its rough and uneven face, the effect of the frozen water. When we return home, if you look at the piece of gravel walk which was lately made, and is not, therefore, yet bound, you will observe what a curious appearance the frost gives it; the larger stones, which by their weight prevented the water from spreading under them, will appear sunk; while the sandy, spongy part which imbibed the rain, is swelled by the frost, and raises the surface of the walk. All crystals have a regular form, and in assuming it, they are obliged to recede a little from each other; each crystal, it is true, has but little power, but as their number is almost infinite, their combined power is so great, that what is called in military language a shell, that is, a hollow ball of strong cast iron, if filled with water and the aperture well secured, will burst when the water freezes. When such is the expansive power excited by water as it passes into the state of ice, we cannot be surprised that jugs and bottles of water are frequently broken in a frosty night—and that water pipes constantly burst when the frost penetrates to them.”

10th.—The frost was so great last night, that it caused sad mischief. The thermometer sunk to 24°. Mary had two nice hyacinths in bottles; unfortunately, she placed them yesterday in a window where there was a bright sunshine; Frederick having promised to put them back safely in the latter part of the day. He forgot them; but, as soon as he woke this morning, he went to repair his error—when, to his great dismay, he found the glasses burst, and the water lumps of ice.

He went to Mary, but he was so sorry for his negligence, that she could not reproach him. The only thing to be done, she said, is now to consider how to relieve the bulbs from the ice that surrounds them. Frederick proposed placing them near the fire, that the heat might thaw the ice; but Mary told him that she was afraid the sudden change from cold to heat would make the bulbs decay—and that the best plan, she thought, was to put them into cold water. Mary had called me to look at the glasses on the first discovery of the misfortune; and we carried them and the bulbs inclosed in ice, to my uncle, who had just come down to the library, to consult him on what was best to be done. He approved of Mary’s proposal, and said, “That is a practical instance of the advantage of acquiring different kinds of knowledge.” Mary had concluded, that the sudden change of temperature would produce immediate decay in the roots—on the same principle that heat applied to people who have been frost bitten, causes mortification in the frozen part. My uncle afterwards told me, that the same thing happens to the frozen buds of tender plants, which are exposed to the rays of a hot sun before the frost has been dispersed; while those which are gradually thawed receive no injury.

I reminded him of his having spoken of crystals of ice, and asked how that term could be applied to any thing but mineral bodies.

“The term crystal,” he replied, “came from the Greek word for ice—it was afterwards applied to rock crystal, which the ancients imagined to be water converted into stone; but it now signifies the regular figure in which the particles of any substance arrange themselves in passing from the liquid to the solid state.—Each of those substances has a figure for its crystal peculiar to itself, and from which it never varies. Common salt, for instance, dissolved in water, and slowly evaporated, always forms regular cubic crystals of about an eighth of an inch in diameter, and quite transparent; sugar candy is nothing but sugar crystallized into six-sided prisms; and alum forms itself into beautiful crystals of eight sides. All this you may easily ascertain for yourself by experiment; and when I have an opportunity of taking you to a smelting house, you will see that in the cooling of melted metals, each metal assumes a crystalline shape belonging to itself.”

I asked how, and when, all the crystals and precious stones and salts in the world could ever have been in a fluid state.

“One thing at a time,” said my uncle: “that question would lead us quite away from ice. I was going to tell you, that water, in the same manner as salt or metals, when it ceases to be fluid, which happens at the temperature of 32° of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, assumes a constant regular form. Now, Bertha,” he said, “examine this lump of ice, which was in the broken glass, both with and without your magnifying glass—and tell me how it appears.”

I told him, that to my naked eye it seemed as if there were lines crossing and recrossing one another in an uneven manner; but that, with the glass, it appeared like a collection of little spears with pointed ends, laid very closely together and mostly darting from the places where the ice had touched either the bulb or the side of the glass vessel.

“Yes,” said my uncle, “that is what I wished you to observe;—when ice begins to form on the surface of water, several of those spear-shaped spicula shoot from the edge of whatever contains the water, or from any solid body which happens to be in the water,—a bit of wood or even a straw.”

I interrupted my uncle to beg he would explain the word spicula—I know he is never displeased at being interrupted by a question of that sort.

He told me that spiculum is a Latin word, and means a dart or an arrow, or sometimes the sting of a bee,—spicula is the plural, and is commonly used in English to express any small pointed bodies.

“To return to the ice,” said he: “that first set of spicula serve as bases for a new set, and these again for others; each single spiculum diverges or spreads from its own base at an angle of nearly 60°, and therefore they all cross each other in an infinite variety of directions, and this process continues till one even sheet of ice is formed.” I asked my uncle, if the reason why the ice occupies more space than the water was, that those spicula or crystals, from their shape, and from shooting in various directions, cannot lie so closely together as the minute particles of water.—

“Yes,” said he, “you are perfectly right—a proof of this is, that it requires great power to compress water in the smallest degree; while the hardest ice, if pounded, may be easily forced into a smaller space.”

We all again examined the formation of the ice in the broken glasses, and I saw the pretty little spicula quite distinctly—we then went to breakfast, leaving the bulbs to thaw quietly in their cold bath.

11th.—After the hyacinth roots were thawed yesterday, they were placed in a warm room; and we had a great deal of conversation about the different effects of heat and cold, according to the different bodies that are exposed to them. I learned that extreme heat is necessary to liquefy steel, platina, or porcelain; some metals require far less, and Mrs. P. says she once bought in a toy shop, some spoons made of bismuth, tin and lead, which melted in a cup of hot tea. The warmth of the skin is sufficient to thaw frozen water. On the other hand, the degree of cold requisite to render mercury solid is very great, while that which forms ice is moderate.

Among vegetables, there are many which resist the strongest frost, and the native trees here have their stems very seldom injured. Most of the herbaceous plants lose their stalks, though their roots remain alive; and some revive at the return of spring even after their roots have been frozen.

Ants and flies, and many other insects, fall asleep in a very slight degree of cold.—Dormice, also, and other animals of the same class, appear as if life was suspended for several months during cold weather, so much so that their heart ceases to beat. The snail and the toad undergo the same stupefying effect, and serpents can be frozen so as to become brittle; if they are broken in that state, they die, but if left in their holes, into which the warmth of spring penetrates slowly, they recover.—It is in the season when their food begins to fail, and the fruits which fattened them disappear, that these creatures conceal themselves in order to submit to this wise law of nature. Those that are deprived of food by the snow covering the ground, sleep till it melts. The white bear lives on the sea shore in summer, and on islands of ice in autumn, and he does not fall asleep till the ice, being thickened and raised too high above the water, is no longer the resort of his chief prey, the seal. His means of obtaining food continuing longer, a much severer cold is requisite to deaden in him the call of seeking it, than in the black bear who devours vegetables; or than in the brown bear who lives on animals who retire earlier than he does.—That hunger should thus give way to sleep, when the cold which benumbs them would starve them by famine, appears ordered by that benevolent Providence, who regulates every part of the universe.

My uncle says that something like this is the case in man; when the cold is very violent he becomes insensible; if one of his limbs should freeze he does not perceive it, but on the contrary fancies himself growing warmer, and feels such a propensity to sleep, that he is angry at being roused. There are continual instances of this in the northern parts of Europe; and the poor frozen person, if indulged by his companions in closing his eyes for a few minutes, seldom opens them again. He does not, however, die immediately, my uncle says: it is even thought by some, that as long as the same temperature continued, he would sleep like the dormouse, deprived of all vital action.

My aunt said, she wondered whether human creatures could be revived, after having been many days frozen, provided similar means were used for their recovery that are employed to restore a frozen limb. Warmth, she said, is applied with the utmost caution, the frozen parts are rubbed with snow and then immersed in water very little warmer than melted ice. The attempt would be worth making, instead of abandoning frozen people to their fate, she thought; but that as to having the power of sleeping like a dormouse or a bear, to whom Providence gives that habit, because they have no means of procuring food, she could not believe that possible. “Man has so many resources, that it was evidently unnecessary to endow him with the capability for sleeping away hunger; but I really believe,” she added, “that there are people of such inveterate indolence, that they would sleep for several months to relieve themselves from all care, if they had the power of voluntary torpidity.”

My uncle replied that doubts have been expressed whether it was in any case a voluntary power; it is asserted that animals never yield to torpidity till driven to it by necessity; and that many of those lethargic animals, while existing during winter on their accumulated fat, which is gradually absorbed into the system, retain the use of their faculties. The cricket is one proof, that animals do not submit to it from choice. This insect passes the hottest part of summer in crevices of walls and heaps of rubbish; about the end of August it quits its summer dwelling, and endeavours to establish itself by the fireside, where the comforts of a warm hearth secure it from torpidity. He then mentioned a colony of crickets which had taken up their abode in a kitchen, where the fire was discontinued from November to June, except one day every six weeks. On these days they were tempted from their hiding place, and continued to skip about and chirp till the following morning, when they again disappeared in consequence of the returning cold. This fact, which he was told by an ingenious friend, shews that in crickets at least torpidity depends on circumstances; and perhaps other sleeping animals, he says, have the same accommodating faculties.

Mrs. P. amused us with some very extraordinary accounts of toads that have been found in the stems of old trees, so that the wood must have grown round them; and even in cavities of stones without the smallest crack or aperture for any communication with the air. My uncle told her that an experiment had not long ago been tried at Paris on that curious subject: a living toad was inclosed in plaster, and at the end of six months it was alive and strong; but some one having suggested that plaster of Paris when dry is more or less porous, the same experiment has been repeated with the addition of a coat of varnish to prevent the admission of air.

Before we separated, my uncle promised to procure for me if possible a torpid dormouse.

12th.—You must allow, mamma, that my journal never detains you very long on any one subject: from polar bears and frozen limbs we must now skip to tobacco plantations and the West Indies, where you know, Mrs. P. resided some time.

My uncle was inquiring from her this evening about the different modes of culture and the proper soil for tobacco. Few plants, she says, are so much affected by situation; it acquires such different qualities from the soil, that tobacco plants which have been raised in one district, if transplanted into another, though not a quarter of a mile distant, will entirely change their flavour. For instance: the Macabau snuff is made from the leaves of a tobacco plant which takes its name from the parish of Macabau in St. Kitt’s, and there only the real snuff of that name can be prepared. Both plants and seed have been tried in all parts of that island, and in several of the other islands too, but the peculiar scent has not in any instance been retained.

The tobacco of St. Thomas has also a particular smell, which the produce of no other island resembles. It is a curious circumstance that none of it is manufactured there; it is all sent to Copenhagen, and is returned from thence to St. Thomas, and made into snuff. In Barbadoes they make the highly scented rose-snuff, which is sometimes imitated in London by adding attar of rose to fine rapee; but in the island it is made by grating into the snuff a fruit called the rose-apple, which is cultivated for that purpose. It is, however, neither a rose nor an apple, though, when ripe, it somewhat resembles a crab-apple; but it has a stone within, and has at all times a delightful fragrance like the rose. The fruit, when ripe, is gathered, and carefully dried in the shade.

But what interested me much more than all her snuff and tobacco, was the account she gave of some dear little green humming-birds, that used constantly to build amongst the flowers of a convolvolus that grew against the house near her window. She took the greatest pleasure in listening to their little feeble notes, and in watching their rapid motions and all their habits. They were of a smaller species than any of our little Brazilian beauties; and she says the eggs were actually just the size of coriander seeds!

14th.—As I was curious to see the effect of frost on a very wet soil, Frederick and I went this morning to a spot in the low fields, where we knew it was always swampy. We observed that, as we walked there, the ground crackled, and sunk a little beneath our feet; so Frederick went for a spade, and we gently raised up one of the large lumps between two of the cracks. We found very near the surface a thin crust of ice, and under that a forest of minute columns of ice, standing close together like a fairy palace, with rows in it of clustered pillars; for each column was in reality composed of several lesser ones, not thicker than large pins. You cannot think, mamma, how pretty they were.

When we raised one of these cluster columns with its capital of earth, it separated quite easily from the ground beneath it; but still a thin film of earth remained sticking to the bottom of the column. Frederick brought home a lump of these icy pillars on the spade, and my uncle laid aside his letters, to shew, he said, how much pleasure he felt when he saw us in pursuit of knowledge. As soon as he looked at our pillars, he said, “In that sort of spongy soil where you found them, these icy crystals are formed so immediately under the surface, that only a thin crust of earth remains over their tops; and the film of clay, which sticks to the bottom of the column, shews you that the frost has not penetrated below it, but that the earth beneath continues soft. I see you are looking at those marks across the pillars: break the column at one of the marks.”

I did break one, and found exactly such a film of earth between the two parts of the column, as that which was on the bottom of it. I asked how could earth get into the middle of the crystal?

“Each division,” said my uncle, “shews a separate crystal—each crystal was formed in one night,—and the number of joints or interruptions in the column shew how many nights we have had frost.”

I reckoned four divisions in each column; the uppermost was the longest, the next shorter, and so on; and I pointed out that circumstance to my uncle.

“That,” said he, “is easily accounted for; whatever quantity of moisture there was in the ground at first, there must have been less and less every succeeding night, and the length of the columns therefore diminished each night in the same proportion.”

In a short walk that we afterwards took with my uncle, he observed, as we passed the garden of a small cottage on the border of the forest, that it was late to see carrots still in the ground; and Frederick remarked that the earth looked cracked and swelled round them. My uncle asked leave of the cottager to go into the garden, and there we found that several carrots were actually pushed upwards by the icy columns, the tops of which adhered to the crown of the plant, from which the leaves spring. As the additional joints of the columns had formed, they had acted with so much force, as, in some cases, to break the small fibres by which the root is held in the ground; and in others even the end of the tap root of the carrot was snapped asunder.

I took an opportunity of asking my uncle if there are any spicula in an icicle, which looks so transparent and smooth.

He explained to me, that an icicle assumes its smooth conical form from the gradual congealing of the water as it flows down the surface of the icicle. When broken across, he shewed me that it was somewhat radiated in the structure, as if the spicula arranged themselves round the axis; and he added that if I examined a flake of snow, I might see the same appearance.

I next asked him (indeed he is very patient) if it is the shooting of these spicula that causes the beautiful appearance of leaves and flowers on the windows; he said, yes. But why then are the shapes of the leaves so very various?

“On a calm night,” he replied, “only a close, even net-work is formed; but the least current of air whirls the moisture into an amusing variety of forms. That icy foliage is generally withinside the window, because our breath contains much moist vapour; and as no room that has doors, windows, and chimnies, can be without partial drafts of air, so the spicula are urged together in one place, and irregularly checked in another.”

15th, Sunday.—Frederick asked my uncle this morning, why the work of the tabernacle was so minutely described in the Bible.

“It is supposed,” he replied, “that Moses has been thus exact in relating how the tabernacle was made, in order to shew that all was done according to God’s directions, detailed in the preceding chapters; and it is therefore that Moses so frequently repeats the expression ‘as the Lord commanded.’

“In reading the account of the Jewish tabernacle, as well as of the various ceremonies of the law, we should always consider for what ends God was pleased to ordain those things. St. Paul informs us that the Jewish law was an imperfect dispensation from the first, and added, that though it was adapted to the weakness of the Jews, its several institutions were intended to typify the more perfect dispensation of the Gospel. Thus, the Jewish high priest was a manifest type of our Saviour; and the ark in the Holy of Holies, with its mercy-seat, from whence God communicated his will, was an emblem of Him from whose mouth we afterwards received the perfect law.

“The religious services ordained, were sacrifices of different kinds, and various purifications. All these apparently burdensome rites were, however, aptly significant of many things tending to preserve an inward, true religion; such as the constant acknowledgment that all the blessings we enjoy are the direct gifts of God; 2dly, the feelings of reverence due to his temple, and to all the things appropriated to his service; 3dly, the necessity of curbing our passions, and of atoning for past errors; and further, the impossibility of rooting out our evil habits without vigorous exertions. These and other moral objects, of the same nature, were well understood by the Israelites to be specifically represented in the ceremonial law.

“There were, also, certain solemn festivals ordained as commemorations of signal national mercies and deliverances. Nothing could have been better calculated to keep alive the spirit of gratitude to the bountiful Author of those mercies; and that nothing could be more consistent with the feelings of the human mind, has been exemplified by the practice of every age and nation, in the anniversary observances of religious, national and domestic events.”

16th.—The frost still continues; and instead of being miserably cold, as I expected, I almost enjoy it. There is not much wind, and the air feels dry and clear. We take long quick walks in the bright part of the day while the sun shines. The rooms are very comfortable, and I find, as my aunt told me, that I am less chilly when I stay at a moderate distance, than when I sit quite close to the fire. In the latter part of the day, if we begin to grow cold after the glow of warmth produced by walking is gone, we take some good house exercise, and that always brings it back.

Frederick asked my uncle to-day, whether it is by the loosening of the earth round the roots of plants as we saw, last Saturday, had happened to the carrots, that frost kills them?

“Perhaps,” said he, “that may have some injurious effect upon tender plants; but it is by bursting the sap vessels that frost does the most mischief.”

“I suppose the sap freezes, and that its expansion bursts the vessels?” I said.

“Just so,” replied my uncle; “this frequently occurs, even in moderate frosts, to tender plants, especially if they are succulent. But in very severe winters even forest trees have suffered. In the great frost of 1739 and 1740, the largest branches were split from end to end, and numbers of the most hardy trees died in consequence.”

All this made me very anxious about my garden and my nice plants; I had already put stable litter on them; and I asked my uncle, if that should be frozen through, what he would recommend me to do.

He advised me to bend some long withies of sallow over them, so as to leave a small space above the surface of the litter, and over the sallows to spread either a mat or fir boughs; and he reminded me that he had explained some days ago the use of this process.

“Besides which,” said Mary, “I believe the stillness of the air under the covering helps to delay the freezing of the moisture in the ground. I recollect that the winter before last, which was very severe, Mamma had fir branches hung on the wall to cover her tender climbing plants, and long stiff straw or fern was lightly strewed round their roots, and they all lived through the winter, and looked healthy and beautiful in summer.”

My uncle told me for my satisfaction, that a long frost, if not very intense, is less injurious to tender plants, than a milder season in which soft weather and frost alternate: in open weather there is a tendency in the sap to rise; and if it is checked by succeeding cold, the sap vessels are injured, and the plant becomes sickly or decays.

“Is that,” said Frederick, “the reason why spring frosts are more hurtful than those of winter?”

“That is the principal reason; but you must also consider that the ground during the previous summer had absorbed a great quantity of heat, which helps to mitigate the winter’s cold: this has been all expended before spring, and therefore the whole force of the cold is then felt.”

Frederick said he remembered hearing Mr. Grant mention last autumn that all the potatoes had been injured by frost in Alney valley near Gloucester, while those on the side of the hill had quite escaped; and as he thought valleys must be warmer than hills, he begged of my uncle to explain the cause.

“Valleys,” he was answered, “are more sheltered from the wind; and the air in them is undoubtedly hotter in the day time than that on exposed high grounds. But in autumn, when the nights become cold, and slight frosts occur on the sides of the hills, the air that is cooled there being heavier than warm air, sinks down into the lower grounds, displaces the warm air, which rises, and accumulates in the bottom of the valley.

“There is another reason why, on clear nights at least, the cold is more severe in low confined places that are sheltered from the wind. The radiation of heat into the sky, which I lately explained to you, reduces their temperature below that of the air, except what is in immediate contact with them; and there being no wind, there can be no circulation of the warmer air to replace the heat they have lost.”

17th.—Hamlet was mentioned yesterday after dinner; a great deal was said about it, and many different opinions were expressed. At last, to my great vexation, my uncle observed that I took no part in the conversation.

“Come, my little Bertha, we must have your opinion, pro or con; are you one of those who overlook the merits to mark the faults? Tell me what you think.”

This direct question of my uncle’s was really terrible; every creature was silent—and I was obliged to acknowledge that I had only read Hamlet once, not having felt as much interest in it, as in many other tragedies of Shakspeare. There was something which appeared to me a little confused in the whole plot—the ghost, too, disappointed me:—and Hamlet seemed unnecessarily unkind to poor Ophelia—and in short I did not very much like the play, perhaps because I did not understand it.

My uncle praised me for having courage to express honestly what I thought; and he said he would read the play to us, that I might enter into the spirit of it while the conversation was fresh in my recollection. He had taken but little part in the conversation, his object being rather to draw out all our opinions, than to influence them by his own; but as he was going to begin, he said, “It appears to me that Hamlet is not quite suited to very young people: it scarcely comes within the range of their views of the human mind. One of the earliest critics on Shakspeare remarked that Hamlet ‘can only please the wiser sort;’ and I will therefore endeavour, by a few hints, to direct your attention to the main object of the play, and to one or two objects most worth noticing. Unless young people learn how to see and think for themselves, liking or disliking becomes the mere effects of caprice or fashion.

“In this play, Bertha, the object of chief interest is not the plot nor even the events—it is character. The reader easily anticipates the story, and feels no great suspense as to the fate of the king or queen; and though our love of justice naturally makes us rejoice in the punishment of vice, almost all our feelings are absorbed by the character of Hamlet—the impulses of his noble mind, and the indignation he feels at unexpected wickedness.

“The passions of the various persons in this drama are displayed with equal truth and strength. Hamlet’s grief and horror at the death of his father, and at his mother’s baseness, are beautifully and naturally expressed. He feels as a virtuous and honourable man, but he feels also as a son; and in those contending feelings lie the great interest of the piece. Even in the utmost vehemence of his indignation, his manner of treating his mother is remarkable; and, as some writer has observed, it is that which chiefly distinguishes his character from that of Orestes, and shews indeed, in the difference between those two heroes, the opposite principles of the Christian, and the heathen, authors.

“As to his madness, you may perceive that it was feigned in order to prevent all suspicion, on the part of the king, of the enterprise he was engaged in; and to confirm that idea he affects a severity of conduct towards Ophelia in direct opposition to his former sentiments. In the distracted state of his mind, he could not possibly explain to her the cause of his suspended affection. His ruling passion was to think, not to act; and all his principles of action were unhinged by the harassing scene around him. Though he contrived the scene in the play to prove the truth of the ghost’s suggestions, yet he appears to rest satisfied with the confirmation of his suspicions, and declines to act upon them. But, though his character does not shew strength of will, it is every where marked by quick sensibility, and refinement of thought.

“The other characters have also great merit. Ophelia is beautifully painted; her love, her madness, and her death, are described with the truest touches of tenderness and pathos. Polonius is an excellent representation of a large class of men, who talk wisely and act foolishly. The advice he gives his son is sensible, while that to the king and queen respecting Hamlet’s madness is ridiculous; but, the one is the sincere advice of a father, the other that of a meddling and officious courtier; and throughout this part Shakspeare keeps up the nice distinctions between the understanding, the habits, and the motives of mankind.

“The plot of this play may be, as Bertha says, confused, and the catastrophe, as Johnson tells us, not very happily produced by the awkward exchange of weapons; but if you study it as a display of character, you will discover fresh beauties every time you read it; you will perceive that it is of a higher order of dramatic painting than many of Shakspeare’s more popular works, and that it abounds in the most eloquent and striking reflections on human life.”

18th.—The Lumleys arrived yesterday; my aunt having invited them to meet Mrs. P. I feel very glad, indeed, to see them again, and I am not this time out of humour at interruption from visiters.

We amused ourselves part of yesterday evening with story play, which I had never heard of before. You are to whisper a word, which must be a substantive, to the person who begins the play, and who is to tell a short story or anecdote, into which that word is to be frequently introduced. It requires some ingenuity to relate the story in so natural a manner, that the word shall not be too evident, and yet that it may be sufficiently marked. When the story is finished, each of the party endeavours to guess the word, and the person who discovers it tells the next story. I will give you a sample.

It was decided that my aunt should begin; Frederick whispered the word; and she began so naturally about a visit from Mr. Arthur Maude, who has just returned from Italy, that, at first, I thought she was not going to join in the play.

“Mr. Maude tells me,” continued my aunt, “that he has been greatly interested by the Vaudois, and well repaid, by seeing those amiable people, for the fatigue of making that part of his tour on foot.

“In a beautiful valley between Pignerola and La Tour, he observed a small open arch, under a group of oak trees, that stood on a round green knoll. He afterwards learned, that this arch had been erected about the time that the poor Vaudois had been obliged to quit their native hills, under the brave and pious Arnaud. It was ornamented with figures of saints, and had such an uncommon appearance among those wild valleys, that he sat down to make a sketch, not only of the arch, but of the picturesque scene which surrounded it. Twice he began, and twice he was interrupted by sounds of distress, which seemed to come from within the arch. On approaching it, he found a young creature about fifteen, seated under the shade of the arch, and plying her distaff diligently while the tears fell from her eyes. In reply to his inquiries as to the cause of her grief, she timidly told him, that her poor old father had been so ill that he could earn nothing for many weeks; and having already been reduced to sell every thing but his house, he was totally unable to pay one of the heavy taxes which was now demanded from him. She had, therefore, been spinning—spinning—for ever with her distaff, but all in vain; her yarn was not ready, they must pay the tax without delay, and to do so she must part with the only treasure she possessed: that was the cause of her sorrow; and she had retired to that little arch to avoid the sun, and to conceal her tears from her father.

“‘For that one thing, I can get money enough,’ said she, ‘but how can I part with it! It was once the Bible of Henri Arnaud; my grandmother gave it to me, saying, “Never, never part with this precious book, Janetta.” But, what can I do?’—and her tears burst out afresh. ‘I must sell Henri Arnaud’s bible, or my father will have no house to shelter him!’

“Mr. Maude asked her to guide him to her father’s cottage. She took him by a winding path which led from the arch, to a very poor little chalet, overhung by chesnut trees. The old man was seated on a bench at his door; and Mr. Maude, placing himself at his side, and entering into conversation, observed how much his pale countenance brightened at the interest with which a stranger listened to his anecdotes of Henri Arnaud. Mr. Maude indulged himself by giving a small sum, which was sufficient to pay the tax. And having thus enabled the little Janetta to keep her valued Bible, he returned, I am sure, with a happy mind, to finish his sketch of the picturesque Arch.”

Mary readily guessed that word, and my aunt therefore whispered one to her. After considering for a moment, she proceeded—“The Alpine Marmot, you know, is one of those animals that pass a portion of the year in a torpid state. It delights in cold mountainous regions, where it burrows in the ground, and prepares its wintry residence with great art, lining it with the finest grass. To collect this grass, the whole family, it is said, act in concert; some are employed as sentinels, to give notice of approaching danger; others cut it; and when a sufficient quantity is gathered, one of them acts the part of a waggon, to carry it home. This marmot lays himself on his back, stretches his legs upward, and suffers himself to be loaded just like a waggon of hay. One set then take hold of him by the tail, and drag him along on his back; while another set act as guides, to prevent accidents, or to remove any roughness in the path, which might overturn their little living waggon.”

My uncle having rightly guessed the waggon, he was next called before the house; Mary first giving him his text word.

“I would readily gratify with a tale all the friends collected here to be amused; but alas! not having been gifted with invention, by the fairy presiding at my birth, I can offer you nothing but an historical fact: I can vouch, however, for its fidelity, as I had it from the lips of the person to whom it occurred.

“When Sir Charles W. was ambassador at the court of St. Petersburg, he found that the intrigues of a party in the Russian cabinet were all directed against our interests; and, with his usual promptness, he wrote despatches to communicate the circumstance to his own government. These despatches were treacherously obtained by the Russians; but as they were found to be in a secret cipher, they were incomprehensible. By the most culpable want of fidelity, however, in some of Sir Charles’s household, it was discovered that the key to this cipher was pasted on a screen, which he kept carefully locked up in a closet, within his own bed-room; yet in spite of this precaution, some artful person contrived to get in there, and was thus enabled to decipher his dispatches.

“The following night, he was awakened by his friend General Rostopchin, who, with the courage and fidelity of real friendship, risked every thing to warn him of his danger.

“‘Fly my, friend,’ he exclaimed, ‘your despatches have been read—the council is now sitting, and it is resolved that you shall be seized and sent to Siberia. Every moment’s delay increases your danger. I have prepared every thing for your escape; the British fleet is off Cronstadt, and now only can you get on board.’

“The friendship of this generous Russian had even triumphed over the fidelity which he owed his own sovereign. But Sir Charles, though full of gratitude, refused to take his advice.

“‘I am here,’ said he, ‘as the representative of the British King; and never can I so forget his Majesty’s dignity, as to fly from danger. They may send me to Siberia, at their peril; but I never will voluntarily quit my post. I will immediately appear at the council, and assume my place as the ambassador of England.’

“With the utmost expedition he arose, and prepared to appear at the Russian council; but with a presence of mind, like Lord Nelson’s, when he waited to seal his letter with wax, that it might not appear written with precipitation, Sir Charles dressed himself with the utmost precision, in full court dress, to shew that he felt perfectly at ease. When he entered the council chamber, all his enemies seemed to shrink—no one ventured to intercept him as he advanced to the Empress. She received him graciously, and, extending her hand to him, looked contemptuously at those around her, saying, ‘I wish I might possess such a minister as this British ambassador; on him, indeed, his master can justly rely for courage and fidelity.’”

Wentworth guessed the particular word in this interesting anecdote; and a new one having been whispered to him, he begged leave to tell us a traveller’s story:—

“Mr. Scouler, in his voyage up the Columbian river, came to a curious rocky hill, called Mount Coffin by Captain Vancouver. These rocks appeared to be the burial place for the natives of an extensive district; who from dread, as well as respect, the Indians are in the habit of depositing at a considerable distance from their dwellings. The bodies were placed on the rocks in canoes, which served as coffins, and which were covered by boards and secured by great stones. Into these canoes, or more properly speaking coffins, their disinterested relations, unlike hungry heirs in more civilized countries, had crammed all the valuable property of the deceased. Mr. Scouler mentions as a remarkable circumstance, that a large serpent, which you know is the emblem of immortality, issued from one of the coffins as if to warn off all intruders from that sacred spot. Perhaps,” continued Wentworth, “the Indians have some confused idea of the river Styx, and think their deceased friends will be the more readily ferried over to paradise from being placed in a canoe instead of a coffin.”

Mr. Lumley was very much pleased with the manner in which Wentworth had performed his part, and having of course guessed the coffin, he was next brought forward.

“My mother,” he said, “had a dream soon after I was born, which she afterwards told me, and which still remains fresh in my memory. She imagined that an angel appeared and told her that her new born son might possess all the qualities of both heart and understanding for which she had so ardently prayed; ‘but,’ added he, ‘you have omitted in your petitions to ask for one power of the mind, without which all acquirements lose their value, and even the best feelings of the heart will be rendered useless. Now is the time to repair your error—ask quickly for that essential blessing for your boy, and you shall have it.’

“My mother’s heart beat high; her thoughts became so much confused that it was some time before she could command them sufficiently to decide upon what this nameless treasure could be. She fancied she heard the quivering of the angel’s wings, as he rose into the air to depart; and, in an agony of despair lest she should lose for ever this precious gift, she struggled to utter the wish which now was uppermost, but in her effort to speak, she awoke.

“Now tell me, my friends, what was the wish that trembled on her lips, and you will have my word.”

I guessed it, and told some dull story which is not worth repeating; the rest of the company told theirs; but as I have not time for all, I will go on at once to Caroline, who, with a pretty little blush, thus began:—

“Three young children were coming down the Mississippi with their father in a sort of a boat which they call there a pirogue. They landed on a desert island in that wide river, in a bitter snowy evening in the month of December; their father left them on the island, promising to return after he had procured some brandy at a house on the opposite bank. He pushed off in his little boat to cross the river, but the wind was high, and the water rough.—The children watched him with tears in their eyes, struggling in his pirogue against the stream, till about half way across, when they saw the boat sink—and never more saw their father. Poor children! they were left alone, exposed to the storm, without fire, shelter, or even food, except a little corn.

“As the night came on, the snow fell faster, and the eldest, who was a girl of only six years old, but very sensible and steady for her age, made her little sister and her infant brother creep together close to her, and she drew their bare feet under her clothes. She had collected a few withered leaves and branches to cover them, and in this manner they passed the long winter’s night. Next morning she tried to support her poor weeping companions by giving them corn to chew, and sometimes she made them run about with her to keep themselves warm.

“In this melancholy state you may imagine what was her joy, when, in the course of the day, she discovered a vessel—no—a boat approaching the island. It happily contained some good-natured Indians, who took compassion on the children, shared their food with them, and safely conveyed them to New Madrid in their own boat.”

The mistake that poor Caroline made in saying vessel for boat, and then correcting herself with a little confusion, betrayed her; so that the moment she ended her story, every one exclaimed “Boat,” “Boat.”

19th.—In the morning we had a shower of hail, and since seven o’clock it has been snowing constantly the whole day. I am delighted with its pure, beautiful, feathery appearance; besides, it has brought back to my mind little shadows of things that happened before we left England. The ground all white, and the large blazing fire, remind me of the time when we were at Montague Hall, when my grandfather used to employ me to gather the crumbs at breakfast, to put out of the windows for the poor little starving birds. I believe it was that circumstance that gave me such a love of birds; for I am sure I can recollect the happiness I used to feel when feeding them along with good grandpapa, and watching all their little motions.

My uncle was amused with my exclamations of delight at the snow, and he was good enough to shew me that each flake has a star-like appearance, consisting of five or six rays that diverge from the centre; and that from each of these rays little spicula shoot out, which by crossing each other form a beautiful net-work. He says that when clouds are formed at such a height in the air as that the temperature there is below 32°, the particles of moisture become congealed or frozen. If the particles are small, or if they are slowly frozen, they become snow, which gradually descends to the earth; but it often happens that the atmosphere near the earth is so warm as to re-dissolve the snow while falling, so that it comes down in the shape of rain. “This,” he added, “cannot take place with hail, because it is so much more solid, and falls so rapidly, that the warmth of the lower atmosphere has not time to melt it, before it reaches the ground. In summer, therefore, snow may be formed at a great elevation, as people who have ascended in balloons have more than once witnessed, but it again becomes rain in its descent; whereas, hail, for the reason I have given you, has been known to come down in the hottest months of the year.”

I reminded him that he had not told me why the moisture should sometimes freeze into flakes of snow, and sometimes into the pretty little round balls of hail.