CHAPTER II.
[Continued from page 16.]
It is not our design to detail the proceedings of the regiment raised in Saybrook, and commanded by Colonel Joinly. It is sufficient to say that it marched toward New York, and crossing over the Sound to Long Island, for the purpose of executing some plan against a detachment of British troops stationed there, they were attacked by a superior force, and after some brave fighting, were driven back. A small portion of them, including the colonel, being separated from the rest, were surrounded and captured. The rest were dispersed and returned to their homes.
New York had now fallen into the hands of the British, and General Clinton, the British commander, had established his head-quarters there. The citizens, for the most part, remained at home, though many families had departed for other portions of the country. Those who remained were not disturbed in their ordinary business, though they were carefully watched by the British officers.
The city of New York at this period seemed almost like a British town. The soldiers of King George, dressed in their red coats, and bearing the British flag, were seen parading the streets every day and filling the city with the sounds of the fife and drum. Sir Henry Clinton had a fine house, where he might often be seen, surrounded by British officers gayly decked in gold lace, rich epaulettes, and cocked hats ornamented with plumes.
Though the business of these men was war, they seemed, while in New York, to be chiefly occupied with amusement. It is true, that, during the day, they rode forth on fine horses to review the troops, examine the fortifications, or inspect military stores. Sometimes they assembled together for counsel, when they might be seen carefully inspecting maps, reading despatches, and forming deep schemes to defeat General Washington and conquer our country.
But although a portion of their time was thus occupied, still these officers seemed to live as if amusement engrossed their attention. They were often seen gallanting gay ladies through the streets, and almost every evening was devoted to pleasure. Frequent levees were held at the general’s house, where music, dancing and revelry seemed to fill the hearts of all who were present. There were several American families in New York, who were friendly to the British and opposed to the cause of liberty; they were called tories. These paid their court to General Clinton, and did everything in their power to please, amuse, and gratify his officers.
Thus things went gayly on in the city, while war raged in all parts of the country. Towns and villages were attacked, the houses plundered and burned, the inhabitants slain or driven in poverty and desolation from their houses. Even where these scenes of violence had not occurred, and in places remote from battle and bloodshed, there was sorrow and gloom hanging over many a family and many a village. To form an idea of this, let us turn our attention a moment to Saybrook and the home of Colonel Joinly. He had now been absent about two years, being detained in captivity at New York. He had left behind him a wife and family of six children.
Before his departure, they had lived in the enjoyment of wealth and prosperity. Their house stood upon the bank of the Connecticut river, commanding a view of the noble bay, which spreads out at the point where that stream mingles with the ocean. The edifice was of the olden fashion, of two stories, with a steep roof and heavy cornices. It was of ample dimensions, with several out-houses and two large barns; the latter showing that a liberal farm was connected with the domain.
Several lofty elms stood around, and two in front, with their vast spreading branches, especially, indicated the full century which had elapsed since the house was reared. In the present instance, they might have been emblematic of the two heads of the house. It seldom happens that two nobler spirits are united than in the alliance of Captain Joinly and his wife.
He was distinguished alike for manly beauty, fine intellect, and true nobleness of soul. Eminent in his profession, he had acquired wealth, which had been used to embellish his home, bestow the advantages of education upon his family, and dispense charity around him. His wife was in every respect his equal.
I remember her well, for she lived to the age of threescore and ten, and when I was a boy, and sat upon her knee, she told me the tales which I am now telling. In her old age, her tall form was erect, her eye black and piercing, and as she walked upon her high-heeled shoes, she seemed the very image of dignity. She was still scrupulous as to her toilette; and though she had the long waist, the tall cap, the frizzed gray hair, the rich, stiff, black silk of the olden time, there was a graciousness of manner, a heavenly sanctity of countenance about her, which rendered her, as my memory has preserved her portrait, one of the most beautiful beings I have ever beheld. There is surely no extravagance in conceiving that the two noble elms that stood before the old mansion, were emblematic of the master and mistress who presided over it.
For a series of years, an unbroken tide of prosperity had seemed to attend the Joinly family. In the enjoyment of wealth and respectability, they also possessed the confidence and good will of all around. They might, perhaps, be considered a little aristocratic, and there was doubtless something of family pride in their hearts.
But these things were common in that day; the English custom of dividing society into different ranks was prevalent in the country. Where there was wealth, talent, and good character, a certain degree of superiority was assumed. It did not then, as in our day, give offence, for such was the practice of the people; and especially in the case of the Joinlys, was the rank assumed on the one hand, and accorded on the other, without provoking unpleasant feelings. In the dignity they maintained, there was nothing of strutting, of haughtiness, or pride; and such was their reputation for kindness, hospitality and charity to all, that envy was disarmed and scandal silenced.
Such was the state of things when the hospital on Duck Island was destroyed. This was a serious disaster; for the amount of property that was lost was considerable. It was, however, followed by other calamities. Colonel Joinly expended a large sum of money in preparing his own outfit and that of the regiment, all of which was speedily dissipated. Beside this, the unfortunate result of his expedition, though in no respect occasioned by want of skill or courage, had impaired the reputation of the colonel, and served in no small degree to mortify the feelings of the family.
But more than all, his prolonged captivity, and the circumstances which attended it, served to harass both himself and those who were nearest and dearest to his heart. He was detained at the western extremity of Long Island, contiguous to New York, where a large number of American prisoners were kept. Some of these were in barracks, and others in the hulks of large vessels, which were moored near the shore of the present town of Brooklyn.
Crowded closely together in these dismal apartments, with unwholesome and scanty food, surrounded with a putrid atmosphere, and deprived of every comfort, the poor wretches suffered everything that humanity could endure. Many of them fell victims to these miseries, as well as to diseases engendered by destitution, famine, and an infectious atmosphere.――Colonel Joinly, from his rank, was spared these miseries; but he was a physician, and seeing the sufferings of these poor wretches, his generous heart was touched with pity, and, from the first, he devoted himself to their alleviation as far as was in his power. He expended the little money he possessed in the purchase of medicines, and when this was exhausted, he sent home to his family, begging them to forward him all the money in their power to be employed in this pressing charity.
Though already impoverished, and struggling under many difficulties, his wife despatched all the money she could collect, and added several articles of jewelry. All this was soon expended, and still there was a demand for more. The colonel, at length, exchanged his gold watch and his gold sleeve buckles for medicines; and finally he proceeded to some of the merchants in New York, and ran in debt to a considerable amount for the same object.
From the earliest dawn, till late at night, he was devoted to the poor, suffering soldiers. Sometimes an hundred of them were prostrate with disease, and he was the only physician. Naturally of a kind and sympathizing nature, he felt the sorrows of these poor creatures as if they were his own. He not only administered to them as a physician, but he alleviated their sorrows in every way that his ingenuity could suggest.
The soldiers looked upon him as their only friend, and they regarded him with an affection almost bordering upon idolatry. In a multitude of cases, he was called by the dying soldiers to communicate their last words to their friends, and a large part of his time was taken up in writing letters of this nature. Nothing could exceed the patience, the gentleness, the sympathy, with which he would sit by the bedside of the dying, soothing their agonies of body and softening their mental sorrows.
While thus, for two long years, Colonel Joinly was occupied in his career of charity, his family at home had been subjected to many privations. Everything that could be done by a woman was achieved by the energy, skill, and devotion of his wife. But they had been completely impoverished by the draining of their resources, and nothing was left to the support of a large and expensive family but the farm. From this, the absolute necessaries of life were indeed procured, but nothing more.
The situation of Mrs. Joinly was, in many respects, distressing. Her husband was in captivity, and in circumstances which led her to feel that his life must soon be sacrificed to exposure, care and anxiety. She knew the depth of his feelings, and foresaw that unless he were soon released from his present condition, he would speedily wear out his life from mere sympathy with the distress around him. She had several sons, now approaching manhood, who needed the guidance of a father; and she had daughters, who were deprived of advantages which they once possessed, and which a father’s presence alone could restore.
With all her care, she felt too that stern poverty was creeping upon them. The old family carriage had been laid aside, the sleek horses were gone, and the plough-horse alone remained in their stead. The ample flock of sheep had dwindled down to some half dozen ewes. Nothing remained of the noble dairy, but two lean cows. The fences of the farm were going to decay, and everything around seemed to wear an aspect of ruin and dilapidation.
Hitherto, Mrs. Joinly had supported her adversities with firmness, or if she had moments of weakness, they were hidden from the view of all around, and the tears which were shed, fell in secrecy and silence. But at last, she wrote a letter to her husband, setting forth her anxieties, and begging him earnestly to adopt some means by which he would be able to return.
When this letter reached Colonel Joinly, his heart was wrung with anguish. It seemed impossible that he should leave the prisoners to their fate, and yet, the call of his family appeared imperative. With a view of discharging his duty to all, he proceeded to General Clinton, and in moving terms set before him the distresses of the prisoners, and the necessity of provision, of medicines, medical attendants and other comforts. This earnestness and eloquence extorted a promise of compliance with these reasonable requests; but the event proved that it was promise alone.
Colonel Joinly also wrote to General Washington, entreating him to provide for his immediate exchange. He set before him his great sacrifices, his broken constitution, his ruined fortunes, his distressed family. The reply received from the commander-in-chief was full of kindly sympathy, but it still expressed a belief that Colonel Joinly’s presence with the distressed prisoners was indispensable, and that his leaving them would be but a dereliction of duty.
In a state almost bordering on despair, his nerves already shaken by impaired health, the colonel proceeded to General Clinton, and besought him to grant him leave of absence for a month, upon parole. The request seemed to startle the general at first, but great virtues make their way through all hearts. Colonel Joinly’s devotion to the prisoners had become the theme of praise even with the enemy, and had reached the ears of the British commander. He therefore, after a little hesitation, granted the request of Colonel Joinly, taking only his word of honor as the pledge for his return.
The war-worn soldier now made preparations to depart for his home, but, owing to some caprice in the British commander, or other circumstances, which we cannot explain, at the moment Colonel Joinly was about to depart, his leave of absence was revoked, and sick at heart, he was obliged to submit to the disappointment which this event occasioned.
(To be continued.)
[For Merry’s Museum.]
The Blue-Bird.
About the beginning, or early in the month of March, in Connecticut and Massachusetts, comes the delightful blue-bird. “Everybody loves the blue-bird,” says the Rev. Dr. Peabody, in his Report on the Birds of Massachusetts. And Mr. Wilson remarks of him, “As one of the first messengers of spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very doors, he bears his own recommendation always along with him, and meets with a hearty welcome from everybody.”
The blue-bird has been so beautifully described by other writers, and so well known, that I shall do little else than quote from others, and principally from Wilson, who is perhaps unrivalled in his description of birds.
He has written a poetical account of him, which is so interesting and beautiful, and which so few persons, especially children, have an opportunity of reading in his beautiful work on American Ornithology, that I am tempted to transcribe the whole of it for the readers of Merry’s Museum, young and old.
“When Winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown furrow’d fields re-appearing, The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering; When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, O, then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring! And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
“Then loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring; Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather; The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, And spicewood and sassafras budding together; O, then, to your gardens ye housewives repair, Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure; The Blue-bird will chant from his box, such an air, That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!
“He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, The red-flowering peach and the apple’s sweet blossoms; He snaps up destroyers wherever they be; And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter; His song and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks is――in summer a shelter.
“The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, Now searching the furrows,――now mounting to cheer him; The gard’ner delights in his sweet simple strain, And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; The slow lingering school-boys forget they’ll be chid, While gazing intent as he warbles before them, In mantle of sky-blue and bosom so red, That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
“When all the gay scenes of the summer are o’er, And autumn slow enters so silent and sallow; And millions of warblers that charmed us before, Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow; The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home, Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow, Till, forced by the horrors of winter to roam, He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.
“While spring’s lovely season, serene, dewy, warm, The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven, Or love’s native music have influence to charm, Or sympathy’s glow to our feelings are given, Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be; His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure, For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, He comes, to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!”
The Blue-bird, as most persons, young and old, probably know, builds its nest in a hole in some old tree, generally an apple tree, unless a box is provided for him, in which the female lays five or six very pale blue eggs. Its song is a pleasant warble, which everybody loves to hear. Says Wilson, “In his motions and general character, he has great resemblance to the Robin Redbreast of Britain, (meaning Great Britain,) and had he the brown-olive of that bird, instead of his own blue, could scarcely be distinguished from him. Like him, he is known to almost every child; and shows as much confidence in man by associating with him in summer, as the other by his familiarity in winter. His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country, and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready fitted and rent free. For this, he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys.”
If the young readers of Merry’s Museum will make a small box, with a hole in it large enough for the bird to go in and out, and nail it up in the neighborhood of the house, in the spring or fore part of summer, they will be almost certain to have either a blue-bird’s or a wren’s nest made in it, and can examine the eggs and young at their pleasure.
Last year I put up a box, for martins, on the side of my house, but no martins coming, a pair of blue-birds took possession of it, and raised a brood of young ones. This season, a box which I nailed up near the house, has a wren’s nest built in it, in which the female has now (July 3d) laid two eggs. The blue-birds have not yet occupied the martin box, but I think they may, as it was late last year when they made their nest in it. VIREO.
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KIRCHER.――The celebrated astronomer, Athanasius Kircher, having an acquaintance who denied the existence of a Supreme Being, took the following method to convince him of his error, upon his own principles. Expecting a visit from him, he procured a very handsome globe, or representation of the starry heavens, which was placed in the corner of the room, where it could not escape his friend’s observation; who, when he came, asked from whence it came, and to whom it belonged. “Not to me,” said Kircher, “nor was it ever made by any person, but came here by mere chance.” “That,” replied his skeptical friend, “is absolutely impossible: you surely jest.” Kircher, however, persisting in his assertion, took occasion to reason with his friend on his own atheistical principles. “You will not believe,” said he, “that this small body originated in mere chance; and yet you would contend that those heavenly bodies of which it is but a faint and diminutive resemblance, came into existence without order or design.” Pursuing this train of reasoning, his friend was at first confounded, next convinced, and ultimately joined in a cordial acknowledgement of the absurdity of denying the existence of a God.
Green.
Of all colors, green is most agreeable to the eye. Red is bright and dazzling, and pleases us for a moment; but how painful would it be if the whole landscape around us were of a bright red color! How soon would our eyes begin to ache! How dreadful would be the spectacle in the heat of summer, and during the long days of June, July, and August! How soon would a large part of mankind, under these circumstances, be reduced to a state of absolute blindness!
If the earth were covered with yellow, or pink, or purple, or even blue, the effect upon the eye would be either painful and destructive to the sight, or at least very disagreeable. But as the earth is covered with green a large part of the year, and as this color is agreeable to the eye, none of these evil consequences are experienced.
How beautifully are the wisdom and goodness of God displayed in so adjusting the eye of man that it should take delight in that color which prevails in nature. If God had not been a wise being, he would not have adapted things to each other in this admirable manner. If he had not been a benevolent being, he would not have made the whole earth like a picture, so that the eye of man might rejoice in it. He would not have clothed the mountain, the forest, the hill-side, the meadow and the valley, in that particular color which is the only one of all others that suits the human eye.
What is it to be Polite?
Politeness is a delicate regard to the feelings of others. It does not consist in civil bows, or graceful wavings of the hand, or a courtly bearing of the body, or in flattering speeches; it lies rather in avoiding rude and offensive speeches, in avoiding offensive habits, and in adopting a general course of conduct calculated to gratify and please those around us.
We sometimes see people who pretend to be very polite; who bow and say flattering things, and affect an air of polish and refinement; and who are yet haughty, and seem to say, by their airs, “We are better than you are!” Now, whatever these people may pretend to be, they are not polite――they are, rather, coarse-minded, vulgar, disagreeable, people; they are at once ill-bred, hypocritical and wicked. They pretend to be what they are not; they are filled with self-conceit, and are really desirous of wounding the feelings of others, by making them feel humbled in their presence. Nothing can be more offensive than such manners.
A truly polite person endeavors to put all at ease around him. If he is learned, in the presence of the unlettered he does not set off his knowledge; if he is better dressed than those around him, he does not direct attention to this fact, but leads to other topics of consideration; if he is handsome, he acts as if he did not know it; if he is of a higher station in life than others who may be present, he still treats all with due attention and kindness.
The source of politeness is the heart. If the heart is good――if it is full of gentleness, kindness, tenderness and grace, the face, the hands, the form, will all unite to express it. The manners of a person set forth his heart; they tell tales out of school, and let everybody look into the bosom. If a person is always saying malicious, ill-natured things, we know that the heart is ill-natured and malicious. If the countenance, has a severe, harsh, and unkind expression, we do not doubt that it is an index to the heart. As the pointers of a clock show how the machinery moves within――telling of every revolution, down even to the ticking of seconds――so the manners tell the beatings of the bosom, and show to the eye of the skilful observer, all that is going on there.
Some persons fancy that politeness implies insincerity; they imagine that it requires a certain degree of pretence, flattery and gloss. This is a mistake. Politeness, like every other virtue, may be carried to excess, and thus become vicious or false. Politeness never calls upon us to sacrifice sincerity; it never requires us to say or do or pretend what is not true. It commands us to keep our manners void of offence; and the best way to do this, is to keep a heart void of offence. If we feel pleasantly, kindly, benevolently, we shall be very apt to appear pleasantly, kindly, benevolently. If by any means we have adopted a bad habit――if we have become satirical――if we have fallen into the practice of telling tales of others, or exaggerating the faults of others, or taking pleasure in telling scandalous tales of others, the moment we become apprized of it, we should break off such bad habits.
I sometimes fancy that young people――even some of my blue-eyed and black-eyed friends――hardly think that they are bound to be polite: but, let me tell you, my dear children, that now is the very time to begin to establish the habit of paying attention to the feelings of others. Let me beg of you, therefore, always――at the table, in the street, in the parlor, at church, with the young and the old――be polite; by which I mean, _be regardful of the feelings of others_.
Early Rising.
The habit of early rising is recommended by many considerations. In the first place, it contributes to health and long life――it invigorates the body and the mind, and it gives cheerfulness to the spirits. The fresh morning air is the best of medicines.
Early rising also contributes to pleasure. There is no part of the whole twenty-four hours so pleasing, so striking, so wonderful, as that in which the whole world wakes up from sleep, in which night gives place to day, in which the glorious fountain of life rises up as from a sea of darkness, and fulfils the bidding of the Almighty. God says, “Let there be light!” and there is light.
The habit of early rising contributes to thrift and success in the pursuits of life. The mechanic, the farmer, the merchant, or the manufacturer, who rises early in the morning, is almost certain to be successful in his business. This habit is also of the utmost importance to the student, as we shall readily see by glancing at the lives of certain great men.
John Quincy Adams has been for many years in the habit of rising at four o’clock in the morning; and it is doubtless owing to this practice, in a considerable degree, that he has attained his present eminence. He has been president of the United States; he has been the diplomatic representative of our government at various foreign courts; he has been for many years a member of congress; and all these stations he has filled with distinguished ability.
He is a profound statesman, a fine writer, an eloquent speaker. He is one of the most learned men that lives; and now, at the age of almost fourscore, he is the admiration of his countrymen, and the wonder of the age. Wherever he goes, the people crowd in flocks to see him; whenever he addresses the multitude, there is a deep and reverend silence, broken only by acclamations of applause. What a wonderful reputation has this man acquired, and in a great degree through that simple habit of early rising which is within the reach of all!
Let us look to other cases, and see what great things have been accomplished by early rising. Paley, who, in the early part of his college career, led an indolent life, was awakened one morning at five o’clock by one of his companions, who reproached him with the waste of his time and of his strong faculties of mind. Struck with the justice of the reproach, Paley, from that time forward, rose at five every morning. It is easy to see how such a course contributed to the celebrity of this great author of the Moral Philosophy and the Evidences of Christianity.
The celebrated Dr. Doddridge says, that it is to his habit of early rising, that the world is indebted for nearly all of his works. Sir Thomas More always rose at four o’clock, and wrote one of his most famous works by thus stealing time from his sleep.
The celebrated naturalist, Linnæus, rose generally at four o’clock, and at six he gave lectures to his scholars, which lasted till ten. Dr. Franklin was an early riser. Dr. Bowditch, the distinguished mathematician, of whom every American youth should know something, rose with the sun in summer, and at four o’clock in winter; and he used to remark, that to these morning hours he was indebted for all his mathematics. Zimmerman always wrote several hours in the early morning. Priestly was an early riser; and it is to hours gained in this way that we are indebted for many of the volumes of Sir Walter Scott.
Buffon, the celebrated writer on natural history, used to bribe his servant to wake him every morning at a certain hour, and he says, that to the perseverance of this man, the world is indebted for his well-known work on natural history. We may add to this list of great men, who have recommended early rising by their examples, the names of Sir Matthew Hale, Dr. Parkhurst, Bishop Burnet, Bishop Horne, Bishop Jewell, and many others.
Pope Julius II.
This extraordinary man was originally a fisherman, but his uncle, Sextus IV., being pope, and seeing that he possessed great talents, caused him to enter the church, where he soon obtained distinction. His ambition was vast, and reaching from point to point, he at last became pope, in 1503.
Although he professed to be the successor of St. Peter, who preached the gospel of peace, Julius did not hesitate to raise armies and make war; and, what is remarkable, he led his armies in person, and in battle displayed all the fierce courage and bold daring of the soldier. At the siege of Mirandola, in 1511, he exposed himself, at the head of his men, at any point of danger: when a breach in the walls was effected, he entered by a scaling ladder, sword in hand, being among the very foremost of the headlong assailants!
The great mind of Julius was occupied with many vast projects. In the first place, he desired to restore the see of Rome to its former power, and he made wars, fought battles, and intrigued with kings and princes, to effect this object. He did a good deal, as he thought, to strengthen the power of the popes, and establish, not only the spiritual, but temporal dominion of the church; but while he was pleasing himself with the idea of success in one direction, we shall see that he was laying the train, in another, by which his schemes were to be finally exploded, and the church itself shaken to its foundations.
[Illustration: _Pope Julius II._]
Julius was a lover of pleasure, and many tales are told of his vices and immoralities. He was also a lover of the fine arts――painting, sculpture, and architecture. Of these he became a patron, and many great artists, particularly Raphael and Michael Angelo, flourished in his time and under his auspices.
Julius did a great deal to improve and embellish the Vatican, which is the Pope’s palace, at Rome. This building is still one of the wonders of the world, and it would require a large book to describe its hundreds of rooms, and its treasures of art, in painting and sculpture.
Among other great projects, Julius determined to build a cathedral church, one of such majesty and splendor as was suitable to the city of Rome, the seat of the popes, the centre and head of that religion which had not only pervaded the civilized world, but claimed to be the perpetuation and completion of God’s dealings with man on earth. The stupendous and admirable church of St. Peter, still standing at Rome,――the wonder of the world and the triumph of art,――was the result of this grand conception.
Julius was a man of great energy――and he set immediately about his darling project. The greatest artists were employed, and the edifice was begun on the 18th April, 1506. It was hurried forward with such expedition, that the walls, after they were carried to a great elevation, cracked, and it required the wonderful genius of Michael Angelo to devise the means of remedying the difficulty, and of furnishing the stupendous plans for the final completion of the building.
St. Peter’s was not finished till more than a century after both Julius and Michael Angelo had gone down to their graves――so vain are both ambition and genius, in satisfying their own desires. And as to Julius, this very work, designed, no doubt, to hand down his name with glory to after times, resulted in a very different manner. His various schemes led him into many expenses, and in his need for money he granted the sale of _indulgences_ for sins――causing it to be set forth that the money thus obtained, was to build the church of St. Peter. Julius seems to have thought it very desirable to erect this noble church; he, perhaps, regarded it as a very laudable and holy enterprise, though doubtless, some share of selfish ambition was mingled with other feelings. And, further, Julius seems to have thought, for such a great and good object, that he might deal in indulgences,――which were pieces of paper, sold for large sums of money, in which the pope declared that the sins committed by persons buying them, were remitted and forgiven of God!
This traffic being carried on to a great extent, roused the famous Martin Luther in opposition to the church of Rome, and the result was the Reformation, by which the power of the church of Rome was greatly abridged, and the popes themselves humbled. Thus the ambition of Julius resulted in disgrace to himself, and humiliation to the institution which he so eagerly sought to glorify.
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A GENTLEMAN, one dark night, riding home through a wood, had the misfortune to strike his head against the branch of a tree, and fell from his horse, stunned by the blow. The animal immediately returning to the house which they had left, about a mile distant, found the door closed and the family retired to bed.
He then pawed at the door, till one of them, hearing the noise, arose and opened it, and to his surprise found the horse of his friend. No sooner was the door opened than the horse turned round, and the man, suspecting there was something wrong, followed the animal, who led him directly to the spot where his master lay on the ground in a state of insensibility.
Eccentric Characters
[Illustration: RICHARD DICKINSON.]
This man, though deformed by nature, as he is represented in the picture, lived a happy life, amassed wealth, became a great favorite with fashionable people, and at last acquired the title of Governor.
Dicky, as he was familiarly called, lived at Scarborough, a town in Yorkshire, England, famous for mineral waters and sea bathing. It has long been a fashionable resort in England, and in paying attention to those who frequented the place, Dicky collected considerable money. With this, he built several public houses, and as he was now rich, and withal very facetious, he became quite a noted character. The ladies patronized him; poets sung his praises, the famous Hysing painted his portrait, and Vertue, no less celebrated, engraved it. A large etching was executed, from which the above sketch is taken, and to the likeness the following lines were subjoined:
“Behold the governor of Scarborough Spaw, The strangest phiz and form you ever saw, Yet, when you view the beauties of his mind, In him a second Æsop you may find. Samos unenvied boasts her Æsop gone, And France may glory in her late Scarron, While England has a living Dickinson.”
Dickinson received the title of governor somewhat in mockery, but he took it in good part. He flourished rather more than a century ago.
[Illustration: JAMES WHITNEY.]
This notorious person, who was executed in 1694, for robbery, was bred a butcher, and it is said that his first attempt at crime consisted in an effort to steal a calf. He and a companion had endeavored, in the course of a certain morning, to purchase the calf; but as the owner demanded an exorbitant price, they determined to steal it the next night.
It happened to be very dark, but, after some parley, Whitney agreed to enter the stable and seize the animal, while his companion watched without. He entered accordingly, and began feeling about for his prey. He soon felt something rough, and taking it for the calf, began tickling it, in order to make it rise. Suddenly, the animal seemed to get upon its hind legs, and anon grasping Whitney with its fore paws, gave him a most severe hug. In this posture, he was forced to stand, lost in astonishment, unable to move, and afraid to cry out, lest he should alarm the inn-keeper or some of the family; the thief without, wondering all the time at his delay.
The latter, at length, putting his head in at the door, said, “What is it that keeps you? Are we to be all night stealing a calf?” “A calf!” exclaimed Whitney; “why, I believe it is the Imp himself, for he has got his paws about me, and keeps me so close that I can’t stir a step.” “Pooh!” cried the other; “what nonsense; but imp or no imp, I should like to see him,――so make haste, and fetch him out at once.”
Whitney was too much alarmed to be pleased with this jesting tone, and immediately rejoined, impatiently, “Oh, do be quiet, and come to my assistance, for I don’t half like him.” The other accordingly entered, and after a little examination, they discovered, to their amazement, that they were deceived.
It seems that a muzzled bear, belonging to an itinerant showman, having been accidentally placed in the stable during the day, the calf had been removed to make room for him. By their joint efforts, Whitney got relieved from the bear’s grasp, when both made off with all speed, half resolved never again to try their hand at thieving, since the trade had had so luckless a beginning.
Unfortunately, Whitney did not mind the warning conveyed by this ill success. He soon after became an inn-keeper in Hertfordshire, and connected himself with a set of people, called _Gentlemen of the road_. These were robbers, who waylaid travellers, and robbed them of their money, jewels, watches, &c.
These desperate men were in those days so numerous along the great roads in England, that no persons who had money, thought of travelling, unless they were sufficiently armed. Many of these robbers became distinguished for their daring feats, and some of them were almost as famous as Robin Hood. Whitney, at last, became a leader among these men, and a great many wonderful tales were told of his dexterity, boldness, and success. It seems that he pretended to be a generous robber, and the following story is told of him.
He once robbed a gentleman on Newmarket heath of a large quantity of silver, tied up in a bag. When Whitney had got the money, the gentleman remonstrated with him, saying, “that he should be put to the greatest inconvenience, if he were obliged to proceed on his journey without money.” Upon this, Whitney opened the mouth of the bag, and told him to take what would pay his expenses. The gentleman took out as much as his two hands would hold, to which Whitney made no objection, only remarking, with a smile, “I thought you would have had more conscience, sir.”
Whitney pursued his career of crime, but justice followed in his track. He was finally betrayed by one of his companions in iniquity, and being tried in London, received sentence of death. In the presence of a vast crowd, he acknowledged his guilt, and, at the early age of thirty-four years, was launched into eternity.
[Illustration: HENRY WOLBY.]
This individual inherited a large estate, was bred at the university, and spent several years abroad in travelling. On his return, he married a lady of great beauty, and became in the course of time a man of great respectability, honored by the rich, blessed by the poor and respected by all.
When he was about forty years old, he had a dispute with his brother. He met him one day in the fields, and the latter snapped a pistol at him, which happily flashed in the pan. Thinking this was only done to frighten him, Wolby disarmed the ruffian, put the pistol in his pocket, and thoughtfully returned home.
On examining the weapon, he found that it was loaded with bullets. This had such an extraordinary effect upon his mind that he instantly determined to retire from the world, in which resolution he persisted to the end of his life.
He took a house in Grub street, London, and selected three rooms for himself, one for eating, one for lodging, and the third for study. He had no attendant but an old maid; and while his diet was set on the table by her, he retired into his lodging room, and into his study while his bed was making. Out of these chambers, from the time of his entry into them, he never issued, till he was carried thence, forty-four years after, on men’s shoulders; neither in all that time did his son-in-law, daughter, or grand-child, brother, sister, or kinsman, young or old, rich or poor, of what degree or condition, soever, look upon his face, save the ancient maid, whose name was Elizabeth. She only made his fire, prepared his bed, provided his diet, and dressed his chambers. She saw him but seldom――never but in cases of extraordinary necessity――and died not above six days before him.
“In all the time of his retirement, he never tasted fish or flesh. His chief food was oatmeal gruel, but now and then in summer he had a sallad of choice cool herbs; and for dainties, when he would feast himself upon a high day, he would eat the yelk of a hen’s egg, but no part of the white. What bread he did eat, he cut out of the middle of the loaf, but the crust he never tasted. His constant drink was four shilling beer, and no other, for he never tasted wine or strong water. Now and then, when his stomach served, he did eat some kind of sackers, and now and then drank red cow’s milk, which his maid, Elizabeth, fetched him out of the fields warm from the cow. Nevertheless, he kept a bountiful table for his servants, and sufficient entertainment for any stranger or tenant who had occasion of business at his house. Every book that was printed, was bought for him, and conveyed to him; but such as related to controversy, he always laid aside and never read.
“In Christmas holidays, at Easter, and other festivals, he had great cheer provided, with all dishes in season, served into his own chamber, with store of wine, which his maid brought in. Then, after thanks to God for his good benefits, he would pin a clean napkin before him, and putting on a pair of clean Holland sleeves, which reached his elbows, cutting up dish after dish, in order; he would send one to one poor neighbor, the next to another, whether it were brawn, beef, capon, goose, &c., till he had left the table quite empty, when giving thanks again, he laid by his linen, and caused the cloth to be taken away; and this he would do, at dinner and supper, upon these days, without tasting of anything whatsoever.
“When any clamored impudently at the gate, they were not therefore immediately relieved; but when, from his private chamber, he spied any sick, weak, or lame, he would presently send after them, to comfort, cherish and strengthen them; and not a trifle, but as much as would relieve them for many days after. He would moreover inquire which of his neighbors were industrious, and had great charge of children: and withal, if their labor and industry could not supply their families, to such persons he would send, and relieve them according to their necessities. He died, October 29, 1636, aged eighty-four. At his death, his hair and beard were so overgrown, that he appeared rather like a hermit of the wilderness, than the inhabitant of one of the first cities in the world.”
The Life of Columbus.