CHAPTER XX.

A month passed away after my uncle’s death, during which I was in a sort of maze; I did not know what to do, and now, after many years are gone, I can hardly recollect anything that occurred during that period. I only know that I wandered over the house, from one room to another; I then went into the fields; rambled about the farm, and seeming by a sort of instinct to avoid everybody. I did not wish to speak to any one. I seemed lost, and it was not till the day came when the tavern was to be sold, with all its furniture, that I was fully recalled to consciousness.

I remember that day well. The sale was by auction, and the place which had been a home to me for years, was knocked off to the highest bidder. The purchaser was a stranger to me, and took immediate possession. I still remained in the house; and it was not till three or four days after he and his household had come, that the idea entered my head that I was to leave it. The man said to me one day--“Well, Mr. Merry--when do you intend to go?” I did not understand him at first, but in a moment it rushed into my mind, that this was a hint for me to depart.

I felt a sense of mingled insult and shame; for it seemed that it was almost turning me out of doors, and that by my stupidity, I had subjected myself to such an indignity. I made no reply--but took my hat and left the house. I wandered forth, hardly knowing which way I went. In a short time I found myself ascending the mountain, toward old Sarah’s cave. It now came suddenly to my recollection that the hermitess had invited me to come and see her, if at any time I was in trouble.

Although she was not, perhaps, the wisest of counsellors, yet, in my present disturbed state of mind, it suited me well enough to go to her. Indeed, I felt so miserable, so lonely from the loss of my uncle, so helpless from the loss of my property, that I thought of taking up my abode with the gray old dame of the rock, and living there the rest of my life. With these strange notions running in my head, I approached her den.

It was a chill December evening, and I found her in her cave. She bade me welcome, and I sat down. “I knew it would come to this,” said she: “I knew it long ago. Your uncle was kind-hearted, as the world say; but is it kind to spend what is not one’s own? Is it kind to waste the property of the orphan, and leave one’s sister’s child to beggary? Is it kind to eat, drink, and be merry, when another’s tears must pay the reckoning?”

“Nay, nay;” said I, “You must not speak in this way. My uncle is dead, and I will not hear his name mentioned, but in words of kindness and charity. Oh, do not blame him; it was his misfortune, not his fault, to lose my property, as well as his own. At all events, he loved me; he ever spake kindly to me; he was to me as a father; he could not have done more for a son than he did for me.”

I could say no more, for tears and sobs choked my utterance, and old Sarah then went on. “Well, well; let it be so, let it be so. But I must tell you, Master Merry, that I knew your mother well. We were both of the same country, both natives of England, and we came to America in the same ship. She was a good woman, and in the dark days of my life, she was kind to me. I will repay it to her child.” Saying this, she went to the end of the cave, and took a small wooden box from a crevice in the rock. This she opened, and handed a parcel to me, adding; “this will repair your loss.” I looked at her in some doubt. “Examine what I give you,” said she, “and you will understand me.”

I opened the parcel, which consisted of a roll, with a covering of silk. I found in it several thin pieces of paper, resembling bank notes, and reading them as well as I could by the dim light which came in at the entrance of the cave, I perceived that they were government bills, of a thousand dollars each. “I am glad for your sake,” said I, handing back the parcel to Sarah--“that you have so much money, but I cannot consent to take it from you.”

“And what do I want of it?” said she, quickly. “It has been in my possession for forty years, yet I have never seen the need of it. This rock has been my shelter--this rock is my bed. The forest yields me food, and charity gives me raiment. Oh no; that money can never be used by me. It would feed my pride and tempt me back into the paths of folly. I have sworn never more to use it, and if you do not take it, it will perish with me.”

I endeavored to persuade the hermitess to change her views and her mode of life. I urged her, as she had so much money, to leave her cave, and procure the comforts and luxuries which her age and infirmities required. But she was fixed in her purpose, and my reasoning was without effect. We talked till the night was nearly gone. At last I consented to take a part of the cash, but she insisted that I should take the whole; and believing that she would never use it, I received it, intending to reserve, at least, a portion of it for her use, in case of need. The kind-hearted old creature seemed much delighted, and my own heart was lightened of a heavy burthen. I felt, not only that I had again the means of independence, but that I had also a sure and steadfast friend.

It did not diminish my pleasure that this friend was a gray old dame, clothed in rags and regarded with contempt by the world; poor as she seemed, she had done for me what no rich person would ever have done. The rich will seldom give away their money, or if they do, it is sparingly and with reluctance. The song says--

“’Tis the poor man alone, When he hears the poor’s moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give.”

My own experience has verified the truth of these touching words. The rich consist usually of those who have a supreme love of wealth, and who sacrifice everything else to obtain it, or keep it. A person who eagerly pursues riches all his life time; who gives nothing away; who turns a deaf ear to the calls of charity; who never opens his purse to a friend; who never feels the appeals of society to his liberality--or if he does these things, does them narrowly and selfishly--and in his charities regards himself alone; such a one is almost sure to be rich in purse, though he is more certain to be poor in soul. Such a person may live and die rich in this world, but he goes a pauper into the other--

“Not one heaven current penny in his purse.”

But poor Sarah parted with the good things of this life, and no doubt, she laid up riches in that world where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

I left her the next morning, with many thanks, and a heart overflowing with gratitude. I descended the mountain, and entered the high-road. It was about three miles to the village, and feeling fatigued from my imperfect repose upon Sarah’s bed of rock, I asked a fat gentleman, who was riding along luxuriously in a coach, drawn by two sleek horses, to let me ride. He did not deign to open his lips, but shook his head, and the coach rolled on. I had not gone far before a poor man, with an old wagon and a thin, raw-boned horse overtook me. The whole establishment bespoke poverty; yet, when I asked the man to grant me a ride, he cheerfully complied with my request, as if it gave him real satisfaction to do an act of kindness. “Here it is again,” thought I; “if you want a favor, ask it of the poor. The rich man, in his easy coach, and with his fat horses that have hardly enough to do to keep them from apoplexy, possesses a heart as hard as flint; while the humble wagoner, with a beast that drags one leg painfully after another, is ready to slave himself and his horse, out of mere good nature. Thus it is that riches turn the soul to stone; thus it is that poverty keeps the heart soft, and, like a generous, well cultivated soil, ever prepared to yield good fruits.”

I soon reached the village, and immediately went to see Raymond, to tell him of my interview with the hermitess. Having related what had happened, I took out the money, and placed it in his hands. Guess my surprise and disappointment, when he told me that the ten bills of a thousand dollars each, were “_Continental notes_,” and not worth a farthing! They had been issued by the government during the war of the revolution, but had depreciated, so that a thousand dollars of this paper, were sold for a single dollar in silver! The government had, indeed, made some provision for the payment of such notes as were brought forward before a certain time, but these had been withheld beyond the period, and were now utterly without value.

I had, of course, no suspicion that Sarah was aware of this fact. The money was once good; and having lived apart from the world, she had not known the change that had come over the currency. Having no want of money, it was all the same to her, whatever might be its worth; and it was only till she desired to do an act of kindness to the child of an early friend, that what was once a fortune to her, came into her mind.

I therefore felt no diminution of my gratitude to the poor old woman, when I learnt that her gift was all in vain, and that it still left me a beggar. Concealing the fact from her, I took counsel of Raymond as to what I must do. I was perfectly helpless; it was my misfortune that I had been brought up to think myself rich, beyond the need of effort, and in fact, above work. This silly idea had been rather encouraged by my uncle, who, being an Englishman, had a little aristocratic pride in me as a member of the family, and one born to be a gentleman, or, in other words, to lead an idle and useless life. His feelings, and purposes were kind, but short-sighted. He had not foreseen the destruction of my property; and, besides, he had not learned that, whether rich or poor, every person, for his own comfort and respectability, should be educated in habits of industry and in some useful trade or profession.

After a good deal of reflection, Raymond advised me to go to New York, and get a situation as a clerk in a store. This suited my taste better than any other scheme that could be suggested, and I made immediate preparations to depart. I went to take leave of Bill Keeler, who was now a thriving shoemaker, with a charming wife, and two bright-eyed laughing children. I bade them good-bye, with many tears, and carrying with me their kindest wishes. How little did I then think of the blight that would come over that cheerful group and that happy home! It is true I had some fears for Bill, for I knew that he loved the bar-room; but it did not enter my imagination that there was a thing abroad in society so nearly akin to the Evil Spirit, as to be able to convert his good nature into brutality, and change an earthly paradise into a scene of indescribable misery.

Having taken leave of all my friends--and now it seemed that I had many--I set out on my journey to New York on foot, provided with two or three letters of introduction, furnished by Raymond and his brother, the minister, and with about five dollars in my pocket; the whole amount of my earthly portion!

[Illustration]

Gaza.

This city is often mentioned in the Bible, and is particularly noted for the feats which Samson performed there, in carrying off its gates, and in pulling down the temple of Dagon, upon which occasion he lost his life. (See Judges chap. xvi.) It is situated about forty-five miles southwest of Jerusalem, and not far from the Mediterranean Sea. The high road from Syria, and other eastern countries, to Egypt, passes through it: it has therefore been often taken in the wars that have been waged in these regions.

When Alexander, the Macedonian conqueror, made his famous expedition against Cyrus, he besieged Gaza, which was in his route. It made an obstinate resistance of five months; but it was at last taken by storm, its brave defenders were slaughtered at their posts; their wives and children were sold as slaves; and the city was repeopled with inhabitants, drawn from the surrounding country.

The crusaders found it in ruins, but they erected a castle here, and entrusted it to the Knights Templars. From that time, it began to revive: it soon passed into the hands of the Saracens, and then to the Turks, who still hold it. Dr. Robinson, a very learned American minister, has lately visited the place. He says there are now fifteen or sixteen thousand people there, which makes it a larger city than Jerusalem. He says the city is built upon a small hill, and bears few marks of its former greatness. Its walls have entirely disappeared, and most of the houses are miserable mud huts.

Knights Templars, and other Orders of Knighthood.

In a former number of the Museum (p. 145) we have given an account of the order of Knights Templars, with an engraving representing their appearance. In this number we give another picture, delineating more accurately their dress and armor.

We have stated that the order of Knights Templars originated about the period of the crusaders: but other orders of knights existed long before. So early as the year 506, history tells us that knights were made in England, with great ceremony. A stage was erected in some cathedral, or spacious place near it, to which the gentleman was conducted to receive the honor of knighthood. Being seated on a chair decorated with green silk, it was demanded of him, if he were of good constitution, and able to undergo the fatigue required of a soldier; also, whether he was a man of good morals, and what credible witnesses he could produce to affirm the same.

Then the bishop, or chief prelate of the church, administered the following oath: “Sir, you that desire to receive the honor of knighthood, swear, before God and this holy book, that you will not fight against his majesty, that now bestoweth the honor of knighthood upon you; you shall also swear to maintain and defend all ladies, gentlemen, widows, and orphans; and you shall shun no adventure of your person in any way where you shall happen to be.”

The oath being taken, two lords led him to the king, who drew his sword, and laid it upon his head, saying, “God and Saint George (or whatever other saint the king pleased to name) make thee a good knight.” After this, seven ladies, dressed in white, came and girt a sword to his side, and four knights put on his spurs. These ceremonies being over, the queen took him by the right hand, and a duchess by the left, and led him to a rich seat, placed on an ascent, where they seated him, the king sitting on his right hand, and the queen on his left. Then the lords and ladies sat down upon other seats, three descents under the king; and, being all thus seated, were entertained with a delicate collation; and so the ceremony ended.

The famous order of the Garter, which is still conferred as a badge of honor, by the kings of England, upon such as they desire to favor, was instituted in 1344. The Knights of the Bath, another famous order, also still continues: this originated in France, and took its name from the ceremony of bathing, which was practised by the knights previous to their inauguration.

The Knights of the Thistle is a Scottish order; that of the Knights of St. Patrick was instituted by George III., in 1783. There are a great multitude of other orders, and among these, that of the Bear, the Elephant, and the Death’s Head. In former times, as I have told you, knights went about in quest of adventures, or they were devoted to warlike enterprises. But in modern times, being a knight is nothing more than to have a sash, or ribbon, or star, with a few diamonds or precious stones attached to it, conferred by a king or queen, with some ceremonies of no great meaning.

A Page for Little Readers.

HOW WELL BEN REMEMBERED WHAT HIS MOTHER TOLD TIM.

There are some little boys, and little girls too--some with black eyes and some with blue--who remember a great deal better what their parents tell their brothers and sisters, than what is told to themselves. Once upon a time there were two boys, one named Benjamin, and the other Timothy--but called Ben and Tim--whose story will afford a good instance of what I refer to.

These were nice little boys, and about as good as children in general; and they loved their mother very much; but still, they did a good many little mischievous things, that gave her trouble. She had a neat little garden, and in it were some pretty flowers--especially some red roses, which were very beautiful.

Now these two boys picked some of these roses, and, as their mother wished to keep them, she told them both not to pick any more. Well, for a day or two they obeyed; but at last little Ben, who was the eldest, saw a beautiful little rose, and it looked so pretty, he yielded to temptation, and plucked it. Tim saw him, and he plucked one too.

They said nothing about it, for a time; but the next day little Ben, who was very fond of telling tales, came out with the story, so far as Tim was concerned. “Mother,” said he, “didn’t you tell Tim not to pick any more roses?”

“Yes, I did,” said the mother.

“Well, he did pick one yesterday.”

“I didn’t!” said Tim.

“I say you did!” said little Ben.

“I say I didn’t!” said Tim.

“Oh, mother, he did, for I seed him pick it: it was a beautiful red rose; and when he’d picked it, he smelt of it; and then he pulled it all to pieces!”

Here Tim began to cry. “Well,” said he, “you picked one too!”

“Oh-o-o-o-o!” said Ben.

“I say you did pick a rose; you picked one first, and if you hadn’t picked one I shouldn’t have picked one, and so there!”

Here Ben began to snivel. “I see how it is,” said the mother. “It is too often so, my dear Ben: it is too often so. You remember very well what I tell Tim, but you forget what I tell you. Now I forbade you both to pick the roses; and it seems you were the first to disobey; and in this you were more to blame than Tim, for you led the way to disobedience, and thus, by a bad example, made Tim disobey also.

“But, what is worse than all, your love of telling tales induced you to tell of Tim, when you were more to blame yourself. Fie, for shame, Ben! This is all wrong, very wrong. You ought to remember better what I tell you, than what I tell Tim, for you are the oldest; you ought to be more ready to receive blame, than to bring it upon your little brother.”

Poor Ben was in tears, and his little heart was very sad, and he could not be comforted till his mother forgave him, and took him to her bosom, and said she hoped he would never do so again. This he promised, and then he brightened up, and the two children went to their play.

Now I suppose that Ben was really sorry for his fault, and no doubt his promise not to do so again was very sincere; but when once a child has got a bad habit, it is very hard to get rid of it. It was, therefore, a long time before he could remember what was said to him, better than what was said to Tim. He however mastered this difficulty, and at last, when his mother laid her commands upon him, he was sure to take them to heart, and obey them.

Now I recommend it to all blue-eyed, and black-eyed, and gray-eyed children, to think of this little story, and see that they are sure to remember better what their parents tell them, than what they tell any one else. Let them learn the story of Ben and Tim by heart, and heed the lesson it conveys.

A Word to Correspondents.

We are obliged to defer replying to our numerous Correspondents till the next number, where the reader will find answers to the puzzles, and something more to task his Yankee faculty of _guessing_.

BOB O’LINKUM’S SONG TO THE MOWER.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

[Illustration: music]

Tinkle, Tinkle, Mister Ninkum, I am merry, Bob O’ Linkum! Prithee, tell me what’s the matter, That you’re making such a clatter-- Can’t you leave us, honest folks, To sing our songs and crack our jokes?

It is cruel, Mr. Ninkum, Thus to bother Bob O’Linkum-- I had thought the meadow mine, With its blossoms all so fine, And I made my little nest ’Neath the clover, all so blest.

But you come, oh naughty Ninkum, All unheeding Bob O’Linkum-- And you swing your saucy blade Where my little nest is made-- And you cut the blooming clover, Which did wrap my young ones over.

Get you gone, oh ugly Ninkum-- Leave the field to Bob O’Linkum; Let him on his light wing hover O’er the summer scented clover-- Let him sing his merry song, And he’ll thank you all day long.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

VOLUME IV.--No. 2.

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The Sense of Touch.

The sensations of smelling, tasting, hearing, and seeing, are conveyed by distinct organs, severally devoted to these objects, and all confined to the head. But the sense of _touch_, or _feeling_, extends over almost every part of the body. Though we may call every sensation _feeling_, yet what is properly denominated the sensation of _touch_, consists of the feeling or sensation excited by bodies brought in contact with the skin, and especially the tips of the fingers.

It is by the sense of touch, that men and other animals are able to perceive certain external qualities of objects. It is by this sense that we acquire ideas of hardness, softness, roughness, smoothness, heat and cold, weight and pressure, form and distance.

The accuracy of this sense is much improved by habit. In some cases, when persons have become deaf or blind, the sense of touch has grown so acute as partially to supply the loss of the sense of seeing or hearing. Blind persons have sometimes been able to determine the qualities of objects, with wonderful accuracy, by touch, and even to distinguish the colors of cloths, by being able to discriminate between the substances used in giving these their hues.

Merry’s Adventures.