Forth goth all the court, both most and leas,To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and blome;And namely hauthorn brought both page and grome:And then, rejoysen in their great delite,Eke ech at other throw the floures bright,The primerose, the violets, and the gold,With fresh garlants party blew and white.
Forth goth all the court, both most and leas,To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and blome;And namely hauthorn brought both page and grome:And then, rejoysen in their great delite,Eke ech at other throw the floures bright,The primerose, the violets, and the gold,With fresh garlants party blew and white.
Forth goth all the court, both most and leas,To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and blome;And namely hauthorn brought both page and grome:And then, rejoysen in their great delite,Eke ech at other throw the floures bright,The primerose, the violets, and the gold,With fresh garlants party blew and white.
Forth goth all the court, both most and leas,
To fetch the floures fresh, and braunch and blome;
And namely hauthorn brought both page and grome:
And then, rejoysen in their great delite,
Eke ech at other throw the floures bright,
The primerose, the violets, and the gold,
With fresh garlants party blew and white.
And it should be observed that this, the simplest mode of celebrating May-day, was as much in vogue in the days of Shakspeare as the more complex one, accompanied by the morris-dance and games of Robin Hood. The following description, by Bourne and Borlase, manifestly alludes to the costume of this age, and to the simpler mode of commemorating the first of May: "On the calends, or the first day of May," says the former, "the juvenile part of both sexes were wont to rise a little after midnight, and walk to some neighboring wood,accompanied with music and the blowing of horns, where they break down branches from the trees, and adorn them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. When this is done, they return with their booty homewards, about the rising of the sun, and make their doors and windows to triumph in the flowery spoil. The after part of the day is chiefly spent in dancing round a tall pole, which is called a May-pole; which, being placed in a convenient part of the village, stands there, as it were, consecrated to the goddess of flowers, without the least violence offered to it, in the whole circle of the year."
"An ancient custom," says the latter, "still retained by the Cornish, is that of decking their doors and porches on the first of May with green sycamore and hawthorn boughs, and of planting trees, or rather stumps of trees, before their houses. And, on May-eve, they from towns make excursions into the country, and, having cut down a tall elm, brought it into town, fitted a straight and taper pole to the end of it, and painted the same, erect it in the most public places; and on holidays and festivals adorn it with flower-garlands, or ensigns and streamers." So generally prevalent was this habit of early rising on May-day, that Shakspeare makes one of his inferior characters in King Henry the Eighth exclaim—
Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleepOn May-day morning; which will never be.
Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleepOn May-day morning; which will never be.
Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleepOn May-day morning; which will never be.
Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible
(Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons)
To scatter them, as 'tis to make them sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be.
But, about the commencement of the sixteenth century, or sooner, a very material addition was made to the celebration of the rites of May-day by the introduction of the characters of Robin Hood and some of his associates. This was done with a view towards the encouragement of archery, and the custom was continued even beyond the close of the reign of James the First. It is true that the May-games, in their rudest form—the mere dance of lads and lasses round a May-pole, or the simple morris with the Lady of the May—were occasionally seen during the days of Elizabeth; but the general exhibition was the more complicated ceremony which we are about to describe. The personages who now become the chief performers in the morris-dance were four of the most popular outlaws of Sherwood Forest. Warner, the contemporary of Shakspeare, speaking of the periods of some of our festivals, and remarking that "ere Penticost began our May," adds—
Tho' (then) Robin Hood, litell John, frier Tuck,And Marian, deftly play,And lord and ladie gang till kirke,With lads and lasses gay;Fra masse and een sang sa gud cheere,And glee on ery greene.
Tho' (then) Robin Hood, litell John, frier Tuck,And Marian, deftly play,And lord and ladie gang till kirke,With lads and lasses gay;Fra masse and een sang sa gud cheere,And glee on ery greene.
Tho' (then) Robin Hood, litell John, frier Tuck,And Marian, deftly play,And lord and ladie gang till kirke,With lads and lasses gay;Fra masse and een sang sa gud cheere,And glee on ery greene.
Tho' (then) Robin Hood, litell John, frier Tuck,
And Marian, deftly play,
And lord and ladie gang till kirke,
With lads and lasses gay;
Fra masse and een sang sa gud cheere,
And glee on ery greene.
These four characters, therefore—Robin Hood, Little John, Friar Tuck, and Maid Marian—although no constituent parts of the original English morris, became at length so blended with it, especially on the festival of May-day, that, until the practice of archery was nearly laid aside, they continued to be the most essential part of the pageantry.
Decorated Line
BY FITZ MORNER.
"Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,May traces of sorrow be seen."—Popular Melody.
"Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,May traces of sorrow be seen."—Popular Melody.
"Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,May traces of sorrow be seen."—Popular Melody.
"Be kind to thy mother, for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen."—Popular Melody.
"Well, Blessington, so you've come back to locate with us, have you? Got enough of travelling and all its vexations, I presume?"
"Enough? As you please about that, George; but I find no vexations so weighty as to overcome the pleasures to be enjoyed in travel, by any manner of means. Still, I have returned to settle down in my native land, and my good genius seems to have thrown Dallydale in my way; so here I remain, and have commenced practice, as you see—or, rather,intendto commence, when any business presents itself."
"Excuse impertinence, Harry," said the first speaker, with a roguish look, "but—you'll get a wife, I suppose? You know, that's an absolute necessity in these days; to say nothing about performing an act of kindness to the scores who are waiting but to be asked."
"Well, I am not so certain as to the truth of that last remark; nevertheless, Ihavesome intentions of that nature. By the way, George, can't you introduce me to some of the Dallydale ladies, that I may find a maiden to my liking? You know, I'm a perfect stranger in these parts."
"Good!" said George, springing from his chair, and thrusting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. "'Pon honor, I should be delighted to introduce you to some of my lady acquaintance. Ahem! 'Miss Jones, my friend, Mr. Blessington, of—of'—where shall it be, Harry? Paris, or London, or New York, orwhere? By my troth, Harry, you're the only mortal that I'd give a fig to exchange situations with; but you, with your fortune, your magnificent figure, your"——
"There! there, George; I declare, I was in hopes you had discarded those old ways of yours. It's exceedingly disagreeable, if you knew it, to be descanted upon in this manner to one's face. But come, when for those introductions?"
"This very night, Harry, if you please. I'll go with you, and call on some of my host of familiar acquaintances. By the way, there's one young lady, Miss Somers, a cousin of mine, who saw you at church last Sabbath, and who wishes to make your acquaintance. And—would you believe it?—she even told me so slyly. Yet there's no great wonder; for a man of your magnificent build"——
But Blessington closed his lips by placing his finger upon them, and together they left the office and disappeared up the street. These two young men were old schoolmates, and were quite familiar in their manner with each other. Blessington had been travelling in different lands for a couple of years previous, and, on his return to the United States, had fallen in with his friend, George Hart, some years his junior, and withal a pretty wild, though whole-hearted fellow. Both were wealthy, both of very prepossessing appearance and manners; but Blessington, if either, the more so.
On the evening of the same day in which we introduce them to you, kind reader, they sallied out as they had agreed. We cannot detail their pleasant evening's ramble; suffice it to say that Blessington was convinced that Dallydale was possessed of as charming ladies, and as kind and hospitable souls, as many other places of greater note. The Miss Somers of whom Hart had spoken, Blessington found to be a lady possessed of dazzling beauty, and a power of conversation he had seldom seen excelled. Accomplished, elegant, and lovely, it may appear strange to you, reader, when we tell you that our hero was not at all prepossessed by her appearance. He saw, or thought he saw, a species of contemptuous pride, a sort of glorying in her own attractions, and a scorning of all "lesser lights," that, to a man of his generous disposition, was anything but pleasing.
At another place, however, he saw a lady who was introduced to him as Miss Ella Cole, who appeared possessed of all those good qualities of the heart for which he sought. And, indeed, what beauty there was in her expressive features owed its existence to the genuine artlessness, affection, and sincerity shadowed forth in each particular lineament. Hart was not slow to observe that Blessington appeared inclined more strongly to "tarry yet a little" at this place than at any other during the entire evening.
That night Blessington had a dream, in which a certain pair of mild blue eyes, light sunny ringlets, andpetitefigure bore no insignificant part. There was another, too, whose ruby lips seemed to curl contemptuously towards the meek one, and whose piercing black eyes seemed to flash upon her the fires of hatred.
Some days after, Blessington met Miss Somers at the mansion of Colonel Auberly, and she appeared delighted to see him. Blessington, in the nobleness of his heart, was equally pleased at meeting her; and thus was the finishing stroke put to the work that rent from Miss Somers her proud heart and placed it in Blessington's possession, he all unconscious of the precious treasure he had obtained, and with his own safe in the place that God ordained for it.
Oh, ye that speak of the folly of prating of woman's wiles, know ye that when she determines, with her whole soul, to win a man's heart, it is twenty to one that, in spite of all human obstacles, she will accomplish her purpose? This was the spirit now awakened in Miss Somers's proud bosom. She saw, with her apt intelligence, the state of Blessington's feelings with regard to her, and she resolved that, come what would, she would obtain from our hero that which alone could content her ambitious soul—his unbounded affections. Did she succeed? You shall see.
From that hour forth, a change was noticed in the entire deportment of Flora Somers, and many were the conjectures as to what might be the cause thereof; but all were equally distant from the truth. Her haughty bearing in society had yielded to one of apparent humility, kindness, and a desire to gratify those around her. Blessington noticed it, and, far from supposing the real truth, he concluded that such was her natural disposition, and that his first impressions were the result of some unaccountable state of his mind at the time of his introduction to her.
However this might be, it was observed that his visits at Dr. Somers's were of frequent occurrence, and soon every gossip of Dallydale had another match in her eye. Few doubted that Flora Somers would eventually be Mrs. Blessington. And if our hero had been interrogated upon the subject, his replies—if he gave any—would not have been greatly at variance with this belief.
Might a peep have been taken behind the parlorcurtains of Dr. Somers's mansion, on the occasion of some of these calls, one might have seen how
"Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."
Thus matters stood. You who have passed the ordeal of love, and are now roaming in the fair fields of Hymen, can imagine what were Blessington's intentions and Flora Somers's expectations; while you who, like myself, have only read of such things, must content yourselves with the testimony of the initiated. Thus matters stood.
One evening, Blessington had sallied out for the evening rather earlier than was his wont, and was on his way to Dr. Somers's, intending to at once make known his intentions to "the most adorable of her sex," and be consigned to "everlasting misery or the supremacy of bliss," as she should decide.
Ha reached the door, and had laid his hand on the bell-knob, when he heard a voice sharply enunciating words which struck a chill to his heart's core, but whose pronouncer's voice sounded terribly like that of Miss Somers. He paused and listened.
"Well, mind your own business!" was the sound that greeted his ear from within, in a voice which there was now no mistaking.
"Flora!" reproachfully murmured the gentle voice of Mrs. Somers. And then followed the doctor with—
"My daughter, are you never to desist from your unfeeling disregard of a mother's love? Are you never to repay, even by respect and kindness, that anxiety and devotion with which she watched over your earlier years? It wounds me deeply that a daughter of mine should persist in thus treating one who loves her as no other being on earth ever can. Go to your room, Flora, and remain until you will ask your mother's forgiveness."
The hall-door was then closed with a bang, and Blessington heard the light foot of his heart's beloved ascending the stairway. He tarried no longer, but turned away and retraced his steps to his office. Locking the door behind him, he threw himself into a chair, and, from the bitter emotions of his soul, exclaimed—
"My God, what have I heard! Can it be that my own dear Flora is possessed of a heart like this? Though it tear the cords of my soul in shreds, I never will take to my bosom one who can thus treat her mother. Spirit of my sainted mother, idol of all my early dreams, never will I forsake the vow I plighted o'er thy corpse!"
Bowing his head upon his hands, Blessington became lost in the memories of the past. Hallowed associations arose to his view, and passed in solemn retrospect over his mind. He thought of his boyhood's days, of the old stone mansion that stood in the leafy grove, of the happy hours he had spent in those ancient halls, and he murmured a prayer to heaven, thanking his Maker for thus revealing to him the yawning abyss of misery into which he had been about to plunge.
After this came a calmness and capacity for deliberation that ere long recalled to his mind the recollection of Ella Cole—she that months since had appeared so attractive to him. As it was yet early, he sallied out, and a few minutes' walk found him at the door of the humble brick dwelling at the foot of the main street in the village, where Mr. Cole had long lived and pursued his honest calling. As he was about to ring, his hand was again arrested by the sound of a female voice; not in a loud tone, but softly, lowly, like the murmuring of distant music. It was Ella Cole reading from the "Lady's Book" a tale to her mother, who was listening with earnest attention.
"Ella, my dear girl," called a manly voice from an adjoining room, "will you please to bring me the last number of the 'Living Age?' It lies on the parlor table."
"Yes, father," said Ella, springing up. "Excuse me a moment, mother."
"Be quick, dear," was the mother's reply.
Light footsteps were heard tripping over the floor, and soon again was heard the voice of the sweet girl reading to her mother. Blessington could not resist comparing this scene with that of an hour previous. Being reluctant to intrude upon so happy a scene, he again retired and sought his office, but with far different feelings from those of a short time before.
He called next evening, and was more than ever convinced of the good qualities of Ella Cole's heart. She remained Ella Cole not long thereafter. She now rejoices in the name of Blessington, and proves a source of unceasing happiness to her worthy husband. Many wondered at this marriage—none more so than the two ladies most intimately concerned.
You have perused the simple truth, reader, related to the writer by him we have called George Hart. Blessington is not the only one in the human family who regards a mother in the light nearest approaching that of an angel of any other mortal, nor the only one that knows that in the degree which a girl is a gooddaughter, in the same degree will she be a goodwife.
THE GRAND LAMA.
THE GRAND LAMA.
WEare growing wiser in our generation. Two propositions we have fully demonstrated, viz., that some things can be done as well as others, and that some people know as much as others. The latter proposition is confirmed by the developments of each succeeding day. For a considerable period, we were contentedly wrapt up in the belief which the old Grecians took unto themselves. We were assured that all the enlightenment which had been vouchsafed to this sublunary sphere dwelt with us, and that all beyond our narrow circle was shrouded in the gloom of ignorance and barbarism. We were the chosen people. Travellers have worked remarkable changes in that flattering faith.
Much has been written concerning Tartary, Thibet, and China. But, upon reflection, we shall ascertain that our real knowledge of those countries, which form so large a portion of the globe, is exceedingly limited. We confidently receive and spread abroad the grossest errors in regard to the nature of these regions, the character of the inhabitants, and the peculiarities of their institutions. These errors may now receive due correction, for which we have to thank two adventurous French missionaries, of the Catholic Church, MM. Gabet and Huc. About the year 1844, the Pope established an Apostolical Vicariat of Mongolia; and, it being deemed expedient to ascertain the nature and extent of the diocese thus created, MM. Gabet and Huc, two Lazarists who were then attached to the petty mission of Si-Wang, were deputed to obtain the necessary intelligence. Through incredible difficulties they made their way to Lha-Ssa, the capital of Thibet and chief seat of Lamanism. Soon afterwards, Ke-Shen, the famous Chinese minister, had them arrested for political reasons, and deported to China, whence they were allowed to proceed to France. These missionaries enjoyed the best opportunities for observing the character of the inhabitants and the nature of the institutions in the countries they visited, and their statements may be relied upon as truth.
Tartary and Thibet are dependencies of theChinese empire. The former is a vast region, divided into Mongolia, Mantchouria, and Elé. Mongolia comprises the territory lying between 35° and 50° north latitude, and 82° and 123° east longitude. Its length from east to west is about 1,700 miles, and its breadth about 1,000 miles. The surface of the country may be described as an elevated plateau, inclosed to the north-west by the Altai chain, and on the south by the Thibetian ranges. In the centre is the great sandy desert of Gobi, or Shamo, which is for the most part destitute of water and vegetation. Rivers are numerous north of the desert, and south of it are to be found several beautiful lakes. The climate is excessively cold, owing to the great elevation, dry atmosphere, and want of shelter from the winds, and the soil is almost entirely barren. As might be expected from the nature of the country, the Mongols are nomadic, wandering within certain limits with their herds and flocks. They pass the greater part of their waking hours on horseback, or on their camels, where they sometimes sleep. They are hardy and active, and have always been famed for their warlike disposition. Under the great Timour, they subdued the largest portion of Asia. But their power is now confined to their own barren territory. Their religion is called Lamanism, and the Lamas are at once their rulers, priests, and teachers. The tribes of that portion of Mongolia called Koukou-Noor have princely chiefs, who are tributary to the Emperor of China.
Mantchouria comprises the most eastern portion of the elevated plateau of Central Asia, and lies between 42° and 58° north latitude, and 120° and 140° east longitude. It has the Yablonnoi mountains on the north, the Chinese seas on the east and south, and the Sialkoi mountains on the west. The greater part of the country is covered with forests, in which bears, tigers, wolves, deer, and numerous fur-bearing animals abound. This region is well watered. Besides several lakes of considerable size, it has the great River Amour, or Saghalien, which is about 2,200 miles in length. Mantchouria is inhabited by a number of roving tribes; but the principal are those called Mantchoos. They differ but slightly from the other inhabitants of Tartary, and may be spoken of in connection with them.
Elé is an extensive region east of the Celestial Mountains, stretching from 36° to 49° north latitude, and from 71° to 96° east longitude. Soorgaria occupies about one-third of the province. This territory is the penal colony of the Chinese empire. Large bodies of convicts are sent here to work, and guarded by Chinese troops. The country is wild, and but a small portion of it is under cultivation.
Thibet is the most southern of the three great table-lands of Central Asia. It is surrounded by lofty mountains, most of which are extremely difficult of ascent. It has Gobi and Khoten on the north, Kokonor on the north-east, Szechuen and Yunan, provinces of China proper, on the east, and provinces of India upon the south and west. The average length of this great plateau is about fourteen hundred miles, and the average breadth about three hundred miles. The highest plains are at least ten thousand feet above the sea. Thibet is divided by mountain ranges into three distinct parts. The western one consists of the valley of the Indus. The central one comprises an extensive desert land. The eastern consists of a number of ridges and peaks. The number of peaks above the line of perpetual snow is greater than in any other part of the world. The Indus, Yang-tse-kiang, and the Brahmaputra, three of the largest rivers in the world, have their primary sources in Thibet. The lakes are large, and some of the isolated ones are perfectly salt. The climate is pure and excessively dry. The soil is better adapted for grazing than for cultivation; but the plain in which Lha-Ssa, the capital, is situated, is remarkably fertile. The Thibetians belong to the Mongolian race, and their general character resembles that of the Tartars of Central and Northern Asia.
We have said that the grossest errors are entertained in regard to the customs and institutions of the Tartars and Thibetians. These we are now enabled to correct by the revelations of MM. Gabet and Huc, and we begin with their religion, for by that their customs and institutions are shaped, in a great degree.
It is generally believed that Lamanism, or reformed Buddhism, which is the religion of about one hundred and seventy millions of people inhabiting Tartary, Thibet, and China proper, is a species of degrading idolatry, on a level with the dark heathenism of the Hindoo—brutal, sensual, and deserving of the contempt of enlightened Christian minds. An account of the origin and nature of this religion will show how far we have been from the truth.
According to the Lamanesque chronicles, a shepherd named Lombo-Moke, of the country called Amdo, in Tartary, married a woman named Ching-tsa-Tsio, who shared with him the cares of a pastoral life. In the year of the Fire Hen (1357) Ching-tsa-Tsio had a child, whose birth was attended with many miraculous features,according to the traditions of the people among whom his mission was to be performed. The child was a marvellous being. At his birth he had a white beard, and his countenance expressed an extraordinary majesty. As soon as he saw the light, he was capable of expressing himself with clearness and precision in the language of Amdo. At the age of three, Tsong-Kaba resolved to embrace a religious life. Ching-tsa-Tsio herself shaved his head, and threw his fine hair outside of the tent. From this hair sprung a tree, the wood of which dispensed an exquisite perfume around, and each leaf of which bore upon its surface a character in the sacred language of Thibet. Tsong-Kaba withdrew into most absolute retirement, and passed his days in fasting and prayer upon the summits of the highest mountains. He respected the life of even the humblest insect, and rigorously interdicted himself the consumption of any flesh whatever. While he was thus engaged in purifying his heart, a Lama, from one of the most remote regions of the west, visited Amdo, and amazed the people by his learning and the sanctity of his life. His appearance was remarked as singular. He had a great nose, and his eye gleamed with something like seraphic fire. Tsong-Kaba sought him for an instructor, and he, struck with the wonderful qualities of the young man, took him for a disciple. After having initiated his pupil in all the doctrines recognized by the most renowned saints of the west, the stranger fell asleep one day on the summit of a mountain, and never opened his eyes on earth again.
Deprived of his tutor, Tsong-Kaba determined to proceed westward, and drink the precepts of sacred science where that tutor had quaffed them. He reached the sacred town of Central Thibet; and there aLla, or spirit, all radiant with light, checked his progress, and thus addressed him: "Oh, Tsong-Kaba, all these vast regions belong to the great empire which has been granted to thee. It is here thou art ordained to promulgate the rites of religion and its prayers. It is here will be accomplished the last evolution of thy immortal life." Tsong-Kaba then entered Lha-Ssa, the Land of Spirits, and began his career as a teacher and reformer.
The ancient worship of Buddha was strongly rooted in the minds of the people. But Tsong-Kaba made partisans rapidly. They were called Yellow Cap Lamas, to distinguish them from the Red Cap Lamas who supported the old system. In a short time, the reformers became predominant, and the homage of the multitude was turned from the living Buddha, or Chakdja, the head of the old hierarchy, to Tsong-Kaba. At an interview between the two chiefs, a discussion was held, which resulted in the complete triumph of the reformer. Thenceforward the reforms proposed met with no obstacle; they were adopted throughout Thibet and Tartary. In 1419, the soul of Tsong-Kaba, who had become Buddha, quitted the earth, returned to the Celestial Realm, and was admitted to the heaven of rapture. His body is reported to preserve all its freshness to the present day; and, by a perennial miracle, it lies a little above the earth, without being supported by anything visible. Besides reforming the liturgy, Tsong-Kaba issued a new edition of the "Body of Doctrine," and left, among his other works, an important one entitled the "Lam-Rim-Tsien-Bo, or the Progressive Path to Perfection."
MM. Gabet and Huc were impressed with the striking similarity between the Lamanesque worship and Catholicism. The cross, the mitre, the dalmatica, the cape, which the Grand Lamas wear on their journeys, or when they are performing some ceremony out of the temple; the service with double choirs, the psalmody, the exorcisms, the censer, suspended from five chains; the benedictions given by the Lamas by extending the right hand over the head of the faithful; the chaplet, ecclesiastical celibacy, spiritual retirement, the worship of the saints, the fasts, the processions, the litanies, the holy water, all these are analogous in the two modes of worship. Monasteries were founded by Tsong-Kaba, and they now contain a very large number of Lamas. The principal one is situated about three leagues from Lha-Ssa. It contains eight thousand Lamas, who devote the greater portion of their lives to study. The monastery of Hounboum is situated at the Lamanesque Mecca—the foot of the mountain where Tsong-Kaba was born. Near it is shown the tree of the Ten Thousand Images, which is said to have sprung from the hair of Tsong-Kaba. MM. Gabet and Huc both saw this wonderful tree, and they testify that Thibetian characters are distinctly traceable upon its leaves. It is covered by a dome of silver, erected by the Emperor Khang-Hi.
The French missionaries naturally conjectured that the Lama from the remote west, who taught Tsong-Kaba, was a Christian priest. Upon a further intercourse with the Thibetians, they learned that the only two essential points in which the Lamas of Thibet differed from the Catholic priests of Rome, were concerning the origin of the world and the transmigration of souls. Two alternatives presented themselvesto the minds of the missionaries: To believe that the Thibetians had enjoyed the blessing of a divine revelation, or that they had been visited ages before by Christian missionaries. They concluded the latter was the most rational and probable. The celebrated Swedenborg declared that an Ancient Word, a revelation prior to the Mosaic, and including the lost Book of Jasher, was still preserved in Tartary; and the members of his church now assert that the discoveries of MM. Gabet and Huc go very far towards establishing the truth of this declaration.
The Lamanesque Church has a regular organization like that of the Church of Rome. Each Tartar kingdom has a Grand Lama, who is selected from the members of the royal family. There is also a Grand Lama for all Thibet. This personage resides in the Lamasery, like a living idol, receiving every day the adorations of the devout, upon whom, in return, he bestows his blessing. Everything which relates to prayers and liturgical ceremonies is placed under his immediate superintendence. The Mongol Grand Lama is charged with the administration, good order, and executive of the Lamasery; he governs while his colleague is content to reign. Each Lamasery of the first class has a Living Buddha for its head. He is believed to be immortal. When his death is reported, there is no mourning in the Lamasery; for it is believed that he will soon reappear as a child. The augur, or Tchurtchur, indicates the place where the child will declare himself, and this always occurs. A certain precocious child announces that he is the Living Buddha, and the people immediately display the most enthusiastic joy. The child is rigidly examined as to the residence, habits, and property of the deceased Buddha. If his answers are satisfactory, and they generally are, he is conducted in triumph to his Lamasery, the people prostrating themselves along his path.
The Grand Lamas who govern have a number of subalterns, who direct the details of administration. After this staff, the inhabitants of the Lamasery are divided into Lama-masters and Lama-disciples, or Chabis. Each Lama has under his direction one or more Chabis, who live in his small house and execute all the details of the household. These Chabis are also considered as pupils, and when they fail to commit their studies to memory they are severely punished.
All instruction, both in Thibet and Tartary, is ecclesiastical. It is said that the majority of the people constantly act with a view to a future life. They are, in fact, much more consistently religious, according to their notions, than the so-called Christian nations of Europe. As to the character of those notions, we may learn from the Thibetian work entitled "The Forty-Two Points of Instruction delivered by Buddha," that they are purely moral. According to this book, "there are in living creatures ten species of acts which are called good, and also ten species of acts which are called evil. There are three which appertain to the body, murder, theft, and impurity; four, which appertain to speech, are words sowing discord, insulting maledictions, impudent lies, and hypocritical expressions; three appertaining to the will, are envy, anger, and malignant thoughts." The wicked man who persecutes a good man is compared to a madman who spits against heaven, the spittle falling back in his face. The man who seeks riches is compared to a child who cuts itself while trying to eat honey with a knife. Voluptuousness is denounced as a sin, and the dominion of the mind over the passions of the heart is rigidly enforced. The belief in a spiritual God, who rewards good actions and punishes evil ones, is common to all Tartars and Thibetians. They believe that he is the beginning and end of all things, and that he has assumed the human shape and appeared among men to stimulate them to do good. They divide living beings into six classes, angels, demons, men, quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles, corresponding to the six syllables of the prayer they constantly repeat: "Om mani pad me houm." (Oh, the gem in the lotus, Amen.) The meaning of this singular prayer is said to be an aspiration after divine perfection. The reward of the just and perfect is believed to be an absorption into the blissful soul of the Deity.
The monasteries of these people differ in some respects from the Catholic establishments of Europe. It cannot be said that the Lamas live in community. You may find among them all the graduated shades of poverty and wealth that you see in mundane cities. Every third month, the authorities make a distribution of meal to all the Lamas of the Lamaseries without distinction. The voluntary offerings of the pilgrims to Hounboum come in aid of this donation. Some of these offerings are in money; but generally they consist of a tea-drinking entertainment, to which all the Lamas are invited. These entertainments are very expensive.
A large number of the Lamas gain a livelihood by the ordinary occupations of life; but a certain class devote themselves entirely to study and contemplation. Among the industrial Lamas, a number occupy themselves in printingand transcribing the Lamanesque books. The Thibetian writing proceeds horizontally from left to right. Stereotype printing on wood is alone practised, no use being made of movable type. The Thibetian books resemble a large pack of cards, the leaves being movable and printed on both sides. The manuscript editions of the Lamanesque books are enriched with illustrative designs, and the characters are elegantly traced. The Lamas use sized paper and a bamboo pen. Their inkstand is filled with cotton saturated with ink.
In each Lamasery there is a Faculty of Prayers, and the Grand Lama and the students of this department are often appealed to by the government to preserve their locality from calamity. On these occasions, the Lamas ascend to the summits of high mountains, and spend two whole days in praying, exorcising, and in erecting the Pyramid of Peace—a small pyramid of earth whitened with lime, a flag, inscribed with Thibetian characters, floating above.
THE PYRAMID OF PEACE.
THE PYRAMID OF PEACE.
Each Lamasery has also a Faculty of Medicine. The physicians assign to the human frame four hundred and forty-four maladies. In the medical books the symptoms are described and the remedies stated. Bleeding and cupping are sometimes resorted to. The books contain much quackery, but also a large number of valuable recipes, the benefits of which are confirmed by long experience and observation.
Four great festivals are observed by the Tartars and Thibetians during the year. The most famous of all is the Feast of Flowers, which takes place on the fifteenth day of the first moon. It is celebrated with the greatest magnificence at Hounboum, where, at the appointed time, a vast number of pilgrims congregate. Three months are occupied in preparation, a Council of Fine Arts being appointed to superintend. The most remarkable achievements are the butter-works—all the Asiatic nations being represented with their peculiar physiognomies and costumes in fresh butter. MM. Gabet and Huc state that this butter-work and the arrangement of the flowers excelled anything they ever beheld as the result of art. At night the exhibition was splendidly illuminated. In front of the principal temple there was a theatre with its performers and decorations, all of butter. Thedramatis personæwere a foot high, and represented a community of Lamas on their way to solemnize prayer. The Lamas were movable puppets. The day after the Feast of Flowers not a trace remains of these splendid works. All are demolished, and the butter thrown to the cows.
The Thibetians have made extensive progress in those arts which are generally considered the flowers of civilization. Their architecture, though somewhat fantastical, often appears grand. Some of their temples are very imposing. Most ofthe houses at the capital at Lha-Ssa are several stories high, terminating in a terrace, slightly sloped to carry off the water. They are white-washed all over, except the bordering round the doors and windows, which is painted red or yellow. The people of Lha-Ssa are in the habit of painting their houses once a year, so that they always seem as if just built. In one of the suburbs, the houses are built of the horns of oxen and sheep, and they present a most fantastical appearance. Lha-Ssa is laid out with broad streets, and surrounded with a beautiful wall of gardens. Besides the taste and architectural skill displayed in the erection of the temples and dwelling-houses of the capital, we find a number of grand mausoleums in various parts of Thibet, which evince a high degree of development in art. The Thibetians are not in the habit of burying their dead. In general, the bodies are left upon the summits of the mountains, or thrown to the dogs, being esteemed but as worthless clods; but mausoleums have been erected in honor of famous Grand Lamas.
THEATRE AT THE FEAST OF FLOWERS.
THEATRE AT THE FEAST OF FLOWERS.
The manufactures of the Thibetians are various and valuable. Although the severest labor is performed by the women, the men employ themselves quite profitably, especially in spinning and weaving wool. The stuffs they manufacture, which are called poulon, are of a very close and solid fabric, and surprisingly various in quality, from the coarsest cloths to the finest possible merino. By a rule of reformed Buddhism, every Lama must be attired in red poulon. The consumption of the article in Thibet is very large, and considerable quantities are exported. The pastile-sticks, so celebrated in China, are manufactured at Lha-Ssa, of various aromatic trees, mixed with musk and gold dust. When these sticks are lighted they consume slowly, and diffuse around an exquisite perfume. The Thibetians have no porcelain, but they manufacture all kinds of pottery in great perfection. The only tea-service used throughout Thibet is a wooden cup, which is either carried in the bosom or suspended from the girdle. Some of the most costly cups have the property of neutralizing poisons.
The agricultural productions of the Thibetians are very poor. They cultivate a little wheat and still less rice. The chief production is tsing-kon, or black barley, of which is made the tsamba, that basis of the aliment of the entire Thibetian population. All the labor of cultivating the ground is performed by the women. The implements used are of the most primitive description, and the work is wretchedly done.
Thibet is exceedingly rich in metals. Gold and silver are collected there so readily, that the common shepherds have become acquainted with the art of purifying these precious metals. Specie is of a low value, and, consequently, goodsmaintain a high price. The monetary system of the Thibetians consists entirely of silver coins, which are somewhat larger than French francs. On one side they bear an inscription, and upon the other, they have a crown of light, small flowers. To facilitate commerce, these coins are cut into pieces, the number of flowers remaining on each piece determining its value—a very simple, yet adequate arrangement. In the larger commercial transactions, ingots of silver are employed. The Pebouns, or Indians settled at Lha-Ssa, are the only workers in metals at the capital. In their quarters, you may find ironsmiths, braziers, plumbers, tin-men, founders, goldsmiths, jewellers, machinists, and even chemists. There all sorts of vases are manufactured for the use of the Lamaseries, and some of them are exquisitely ornamented. While these Indians are the chief manufacturers of Thibet, the Katchi, or Musselmen, are the leading merchants. Their religion and their trade are respected by the government.
The greater portion of the wealth of Thibet is the property of the Lamaseries. The people experience all the misery consequent upon the existence of an overpaid church establishment. Yet they are so devoted to their religion that they are never weary of making rich offerings to the Lamas. There are swarms of beggars throughout the country; but it is only just to observe that the Thibetians are kind and compassionate, and that those who are blessed with a goodly store give freely.
The condition of woman is always a fair test of progress in civilization. Polygamy prevails, with the sanction of the Lamanesque religion, in Thibet and Tartary. But the first wife is always the mistress of the household, and the most respected in the family. MM. Gabet and Huc thought polygamy a real blessing to the people of those countries. Celibacy being imposed on the Lamas, and the class of those who shave the head and live in Lamaseries being so numerous, it is easy to conceive what disorders would arise from the multiplication of young women without support, and abandoned to themselves, if girls could not be placed in families in the quality of second wives. Divorce is frequent, and it takes place without any intervention of civil or ecclesiastical authorities. In Tartary, the women lead an independent life, coming and going at pleasure.
The Thibetian women submit, in their toilet, to a custom or law scarcely credible. Before going out of doors they always rub their faces over with a sort of black, glutinous varnish, the object being to render themselves as ugly and hideous as possible. This practice is said to be about two hundred years old, and tradition says that it originated with an austere Lama king, who desired to check licentiousness of manners. At present, the women who bedaub their faces the most hideously are esteemed the most pious. The women lead an active and laborious life. Besides fulfilling the various duties of the household, they concentrate in their own hands all the petty trade of the country, whether as hawkers, as stall-keepers in the streets or in the shops. Little or no restraint is imposed upon them. Their general character for morality is good—in fact, if compared with that of other Asiatic women, quite exemplary. They are strictly attentive to their devotions, and will even go beyond the men in deeds of penance and mortification of the body.
We hope we have given a sufficient idea of the recent revelations concerning Thibetian and Tartarian life to awaken an interest in further developments. The discoveries of the French missionaries have but opened the way for others of the highest importance to mankind. From what we have related, it will be inferred that the work of Christianizing Asia will not be so difficult as has hitherto been supposed; that reformed Buddhism is a good preparation of one hundred and seventy millions of people for the reception of those truths which Christians believe to be necessary to the salvation of man; and that we have not false idols to throw down, but to a belief essentially pure, spiritual, and godly, to add that definite knowledge of a new dispensation, the universal prevalence of which must banish strife from the face of the earth, and render it a realm of uninterrupted bliss.
Decorated Line
MANKINDare always happier for having been happy; so that if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence, by the memory of it. A childhood passed with a due mixture of rational indulgence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the whole of life a feeling of calm pleasure, and in extreme old age is the very last remembrance which time can erase from the mind of man. How enjoyment, however inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment! A man is the happier for life from having made once an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of innocent pleasure.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
(Continued from page 334.)
ABOYof more robust constitution and fuller of blood than Henry Gaston, with that activity which a fine flow of animal spirits and a high degree of health give, would have cared little for the exposure to which he was subjected at Sharp's, even if clad no more comfortably. But Henry had little of that healthy warmth natural to the young. He was constitutionally delicate, and this caused him to feel more keenly the chilling intensity of the cold to which he was frequently exposed without sufficient clothing. His whole dress, intended to protect him from the cold of a remarkably severe and trying winter, was a thin shirt, the remains of one worn for nearly a year; the jacket and trowsers, thin and threadbare, that Mrs. Sharp had made for him out of some worn-out garment which her husband had thrown aside, and which were now rent in many places; a pair of dilapidated yarn stockings, with feet like a honey-comb. His shoes, the pair given him by his mother, had been half-soled once, but were again so far gone that his stockings protruded in several places, and yet neither his master nor mistress seemed to take any notice of their condition, and he was afraid to ask for a new pair. When it rained or snowed, or, worse, when it rained with or after the snow, as it had done several times within a week, his shoes were but a poor protection for his feet. The snow and water went through them as through a sieve.
Before the first of February, the poor boy was almost crippled with the chilblains. Through the day, he hobbled about as best he could, often in great pain; and at night the tender skin of his feet, irritated by the warmth of the bed, would keep him awake for hours with a most intolerable burning and itching.
"Why don't you walk straight? What do you go shuffling along in that kind of style for?" said Sharp to him one day, toward the last of January.
"My feet are so sore," replied Henry, with a look of suffering, blended with patient endurance.
"What's the matter with them, ha?" asked his master, glancing down at the miserable apologies for shoes and stockings that but partially protected the child's feet from the snow whenever he stepped beyond the threshold.
"They're frosted, sir," said Henry.
"Frosted, ha? Pull off your shoes and stockings, and let me see."
Henry drew off an old shoe, tied on with various appliances of twine and leather-strings; and then removed a stocking that, through many gaping holes, revealed the red and shining skin beneath. That little foot was a sight to pain the heart of any one but a cruel tyrant. The heel, in many places, was of a dark purple, and seemed as if mortification were already begun. And in some places it was cracked open, and exhibited running sores.
"Take off your other shoe and stocking," said Sharp, in an authoritative tone.
Henry obeyed, trembling all the while. This foot exhibited nearly the same marks of the progress of the painful disease.
"What have you done for it?" asked Sharp, looking Henry in the face with a scowl.
"Nothing but put a little candle-grease on it at night before I went to bed," replied the child.
"Come out here with me. I'll doctor you," said his master, turning away and disappearing through the back door. Henry followed as quickly as he could walk on his bare feet, that seemed ready to give way under him at every step. When he got as far as the kitchen, he found Sharp waiting for him in the door.
"Here, jump out into that snow-bank!" said he, pointing to a pile of snow that had been shovelled up only that morning, after a fall through the night, and lay loose and high.
The poor boy looked down at his crippled, and, indeed, bleeding feet, and, as may well be supposed, hesitated to comply with the peremptory order.
"Do you hear, sir?" exclaimed his master seizing him by the collar, and pushing him out into the yard. Then catching him by one arm,he set him in the centre of the snow-bank, his naked feet and legs going down into it some twelve or eighteen inches.
"Now stand there until I tell you to come out!"
The child did not scream, for he had already learned to bear pain, without uttering even the natural language of suffering; although the agony he endured for the next minute was terrible. At the end of that time, a motion of the head of his master gave him to understand that the ordeal was over.
"Now take that bucket of cold water, and let him put his feet into it," said he to a little girl they had just taken to raise, and who stood near the kitchen window, her heart almost ready to burst at the cruelty inflicted upon the only one in the house with whom she had a single feeling in common.
The girl quickly obeyed, and sat down on the floor beside the bucket of water. She handled tenderly the blood red feet of the little boy, ever and anon looking up into his face, and noting, with tender solicitude, the deep lines of suffering upon his forehead.
"There, that will do," said Sharp, who stood looking on, "and now run up stairs and get a better pair of stockings for Henry."
"What do you want with a better pair of stockings?" said Mrs. Sharp, a few moments after, bustling down into the kitchen.
"Why, I want them for Henry," replied her husband.
"Want them for Henry!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Where's the ones he had on?"
"There are some old rags in the shop that he had on; but they won't do now, with such feet as he's got."
"What's the matter with his feet, I'd like to know," inquired Mrs. Sharp.
"Why, they're frosted."
"Let him put them in snow, then. That'll cure 'em. It's nothing but a little snow-burn, I suppose."
"It's something a little worse than that," replied Sharp, "and he must have a comfortable pair of stockings. And here, Anna, do you run around to Stogies, and tell him to send me three or four pairs of coarse shoes, about Henry's size."
Anna, the little girl, disappeared with alacrity, and Mr. Sharp, turning to his wife, said—
"Henry must have a good, warm pair of stockings, or we shall have him sick on our hands."
"Well, I'll find him a pair," replied Mrs. Sharp, going off up stairs. In the mean time, Henry still sat with his feet in the cold water. But the pain occasioned by the snow was nearly all gone. Mrs. Sharp came down with the stockings, and Anna came in with the shoes at the same moment. On lifting the child's feet from the water, the redness and inflammation had a good deal subsided. Mrs. Sharp rubbed them with a little sweet oil, and then gave him the stockings to put on. He next tried the shoes, and one pair of them fitted him very well. But his feet were too sore and tender for such hard shoes, and when they were on, and tied up around the ankles, he found that after getting up they hurt him most dreadfully in his attempt to walk. But he hobbled, as best he could, into the shop.
"Throw them dirty things into the street!" were the only words addressed to him by Sharp, who pointed at his wet apologies for shoes and stockings, still lying upon the floor.
Henry did as directed, but every step he took was as if he were treading upon coals of fire. His feet, now enveloped in a closely fitting pair of woollen stockings, and galled by the hard and unyielding leather of the new shoes, itched and burned with maddening fervor.
"Here, carry this hat home," said his master, as he came in from the street, not seeming to notice the expression of suffering that was on his face, nor the evident pain with which he walked.
Henry took the hat, and started out. He was but a few paces from the shop, before he found that the shoes rubbed both heels, and pressed upon them at the same time so hard as to produce a sensation at each step as if the skin were torn off. Sometimes he would stop, and wait a moment or two, until the intolerable pain subsided, and then he would walk on again with all the fortitude and power of endurance he could command. In this extreme suffering, the uppermost thought in his mind, when on the street, kept his eyes wandering about, and scanning every female form that came in sight, in the ever-living hope of seeing his mother. But the sigh of disappointment told, too frequently, that he looked in vain. He had not proceeded far, when the pains in his feet became so acute that he paused, and leaned against a tree-box, unable, for a time, to move forward a single step. While resting thus, Doctor R——, who had been called to visit a patient in Lexington, came past in his carriage and noticed him. There was something about the child, although so changed that he did not recognize him, that aroused the doctor's sympathies, and he ordered his man to drive up to the pavement and stop.
"Well, my little man, what's the matter?" said he, leaning out of his carriage window.
Henry looked up into his face, but did not reply. He knew Doctor R—— instantly. How strong a hope sprang up in his heart—the hope of hearing from or being taken back to his mother! The kind-hearted physician needed no words to tell him that the little boy was suffering acutely. The flushed face, the starting eye, and the corrugation of the brow, were language which he understood as plainly as spoken words.
"What ails you, my little boy?" he said, in a voice of tender concern.
The feelings of Henry softened under the warmth of true sympathy expressed in the countenance and tone of Doctor R——, and still looking him steadily in the face, essayed, but in vain, to answer the question.
"Are you sick, my boy?" asked the doctor, with real and increasing concern for the poor child.
"My feet hurt me so that I can hardly walk," replied Henry, whose tongue at last obeyed his efforts to speak.
"And what ails your feet?" asked Doctor R——.
"They've been frosted, sir."
"Frosted, indeed! poor child! Well, what have you done for them?"
"Nothing—only I greased them sometimes at night; and to-day my master made me stand in the snow."
"The cruel wretch!" muttered Doctor R—— between his teeth. "But can't you walk up as far as the drug store at the corner, and let me see your feet?" continued the doctor.
"Yes, sir," replied the child, though he felt that to take another step was almost impossible.
"You'll come right up, will you?" urged the doctor.
"Yes, sir," returned Henry, in a low voice.
"Then I'll wait for you. But come along as quickly as you can;" and so saying, the doctor drove off. But he could not help glancing back, after he had gone on about the distance of half a square, for his heart misgave him for not having taken the little fellow into his carriage. He soon caught a glimpse of him on the sidewalk, slowly and laboriously endeavoring to work his way along, but evidently with extreme suffering. He at once gave directions to the driver to turn back; and taking Henry into the carriage, hurried on to the office. The child, when lifted in, sank back upon the seat, pale and exhausted. Doctor R—— asked him no question; and when the carriage stopped, directed the driver to carry him in. He then, with his own hands, carefully removed his shoes and stockings.
"My poor, poor child!" said he, in pity and astonishment, on beholding the condition of Henry's feet. The harsh remedy prescribed by Sharp, if the subsequent treatment had been tender and judicious, might have been salutary; but, after it, to confine the boy's feet in hard, tight new shoes, and to send him out upon the street, was to induce a high state of inflammation, and, in the advanced state of the chilblains, to endanger mortification. Several of the large ulcerous cracks, which were bleeding freely, the doctor dressed, and then, cutting a number a short strips of adhesive plaster, he applied them to the skin over the heel and foot, in various directions, so as almost completely to cover every portion of the surface.
"How does that feel?" he asked, looking into Henry's face with an air of relief and satisfaction, after he had finished the first foot.
"It feels a good deal better," replied the child, his voice and the expression of his countenance both indicating that he no longer suffered so excruciatingly as he had but a short time previously.
The other foot was soon dressed in the same way. Doctor R—— then went back into the house and got a loose pair of stockings and a light pair of shoes, belonging to one of the apothecary's children, from their mother. These fitted Henry comfortably, and when he stood down upon his feet he did not experience any pain.
"That feels a good deal better, don't it?" said the doctor, smiling.
"Yes, indeed it does," and Henry looked his gratitude; and yet, blended with that look, was an expression that seemed to the doctor an appeal for protection.
"You're afraid to go back now, ain't you, since you've stayed so long?" he asked, in a tone meant to encourage the child's confidence.
"Indeed I am. Mr. Sharp will be almost sure to beat me."
"What a very devil incarnate the man must be!" muttered Doctor R—— to himself, taking three or four strides across the floor. "I shall have to take the little fellow home, and brow-beat his master, I suppose," he continued. Then addressing Henry, he said, aloud—
"Well, I'll take you home to him in my carriage, and settle all that for you, my little man; so don't be frightened."
Acting upon this resolution, Doctor R—— soon drove up before the hatter's shop, and,lifting out Henry himself, led him into the presence of his astonished master.
"What's the matter now?" asked the latter, roughly, and with a forbidding aspect of countenance.
"The matter is simply this, sir," responded Doctor R——, firmly. "I found this little boy of yours on the street absolutely unable to get along a step farther; and on taking him into the drug store above, and examining his feet, I found them in a most shocking condition! Why, sir, in twelve hours mortification would have commenced, when nothing could have saved his life but the amputation of both limbs." The sober earnestness of Doctor R—— caused Sharp to feel some alarm, and he said—
"I had no idea, doctor, that he was as bad as that."
"Well, he is, I can assure you, and it is a fortunate thing that I happened to come across him. Why, I haven't seen so bad a case of chilblains these ten years."
"What ought I to do for him, doctor?" asked Sharp, in real concern.
"I have done all that is necessary at present," replied the doctor. "But he must be suffered to have rest; and, as you value his limbs, don't let him be exposed to the wet or cold until his feet are healed, and the tenderness and soreness are both gone."
"I shall attend to your direction, most certainly," said Sharp, his manner greatly changed from what it was when the doctor came in. "But, really, doctor," he continued, "I had no idea that there was any danger in getting the feet a little frosted."
"The chilblains are not only extremely painful," replied Doctor R——, "but there is great danger, where the feet are exposed to wet and cold, as Henry's must have been to get in the condition they are, of mortification supervening. That little boy will require great care, or he will stand a chance of being crippled for life. Good-morning!"
Poor Henry! How eagerly had he hung upon the doctor's words! how almost agonizing had been his desire for even the slightest intimation that he was remembered by the physician, to whose mistaken kind offices he was indebted for the place he held in the family of Sharp! But all was in vain. A dozen times he was on the eve of asking for his mother; but, as often, weak timidity held him back. In the presence of his master, fear kept him dumb. It seemed to him as if life would go out when he saw Doctor R—— turn away from the shop and enter his carriage. A deep darkness fell upon his spirit.
As Doctor R—— rode off in his carriage, he could not help congratulating himself on the good deed he had performed. Still he did not feel altogether satisfied about the boy. He had been so much concerned for his distressed situation, that he had failed to make any inquiries of him in regard to his friends; and for this he blamed himself, because it was clear that, if the child had friends, they ought to know his condition. He blamed himself for this thoughtlessness, and a consciousness of having performed but half of his duty to the poor boy caused a shade of concern to steal over him, which he could not shake off.
And Henry, as he stood frightened in the shop, felt, as the carriage-wheels rattled away, the hope that had awakened, faint and trembling in his heart, sinking into the gloom of despair. One who could have told him of his mother; one who, if he had only taken the courage to have mentioned his name, could have taken tidings of his condition to her, or perhaps would have carried him home, had been beside him for half an hour, and he had not spoken out. And now he was gone. He felt so sick and weak that he could hardly stand.
From his sad, waking dreams he was roughly startled by the loud, sharp voice of his mistress, who, attracted by the strong expressions of Doctor R——, now entered the shop, exclaiming—
"What's all this? What's that little wretch been doing now, ha?"
"I wish I'd never seen him!" muttered Sharp, but in a tone that left no doubt on the mind of his wife that something more than usually annoying had occurred.
"What's the matter? What's he been doing? Not stealing, I hope; though I shouldn't wonder."
"He's sick, and you've got to take care of him," was the dogged answer of Sharp.
"Sick! He looks sick, don't he?" The tones of the virago were full of contempt.
Any eye but hers would have seen sickness, sorrow, suffering, and want in the pale, frightened face of the poor boy, as he stood trembling beside the counter, and actually clinging to it for support.
"Who was that in here, just now?" she added.
"Doctor R——, of Boston," replied the hatter, who knew the doctor by sight very well.
"What did he want?"
"He picked Henry up in the street and took him over to the drug store at the corner. Then he brought him home in his carriage. He says that he must be taken care of, or he will become a cripple; that it's the worst case of chilblainshe ever saw; and that his feet are in danger of mortification."
"I don't believe a word of it. Here! you go off up stairs," speaking sharply, and with a threatening look, to the child. "I'd like to know what business he has to come here, meddling in affairs that don't concern him."
Henry, thus spoken to, let go of the counter, by which he was sustaining himself, and attempted to move towards the door. As he did so, his face grew deadly pale. He staggered across the shop, fell against the wall, and then sank down upon the floor. Mrs. Sharp sprang towards him, not with any humane intention, we are sorry to say; but, ere she had grasped the boy's arm, and given him the purposed jerk, the sight of his ashen, lifeless face prevented the outrage. Exhausted nature could bear nothing more, and protected herself in a temporary suspension of her power. Henry had fainted, and it was well that it was so. The fact was a stronger argument in his favor than any external exhibition of suffering that could have been given.
The hatter and his wife were both alarmed at an event so unexpected by either of them. Henry was quickly removed to a chamber, and every effort made to restore him. It was not a very long time before the machinery of life was again in motion; its action, however, was feeble, as even his oppressors could see. Self-interest, and fear of consequences, if not humanity, prompted more consideration for the boy, and secured for him a few days' respite. After that, the oppressed and his oppressors assumed their old relations.
"IDON'Tthink I've seen anything of Lizzy Glenn for a week," remarked Berlaps to his man Michael one day during the latter part of December. "Has she anything out?"
"Yes. She has four of our finest shirts."
"How long since she took them away?"
"It's over a week—nearly ten days."
"Indeed! Then she ought to be looked after. It certainly hasn't taken her all this time to make four shirts."
"Well, I don't know. She gets along, somehow, poorly enough," replied Michael. "She's often been a whole week making four of them."
While this conversation was going on, the subject of it entered. She came in with a slow, feeble step, and leaned against the counter as she laid down the bundle of work she had brought with her. Her half-withdrawn veil showed her face to be very pale, and her eyes much sunken. A deep, jarring cough convulsed her frame for a moment or two, causing her to place her hand almost involuntarily upon her breast, as if she suffered pain there.
"It's a good while since you took these shirts out, Lizzy," said Berlaps, in a tone meant to reprove her for the slowness with which she worked.
"Yes, it is," she replied, in a low, sad tone. "I can't get along very fast. I have a constant pain in my side. And there are other reasons."
The last sentence was spoken only half aloud, but sufficiently distinct for Berlaps to hear it.
"I don't expect my workwomen," he said, a little sharply, "to have any reasons for not finishing my work in good season, and bringing it in promptly. Ten days to four shirts is unpardonable. You can't earn your salt at that."
The young woman made no reply to this, but stood with her eyes drooping to the floor, and her hands leaning hard upon the counter to support herself.
Berlaps then commenced examining the shirts. The result of this examination seemed to soften him a little. No wonder; they were made fully equal to those for which regular shirt-makers receive from seventy-five cents to a dollar a piece.
"Don't you think you can make five such as these in a week—or even six?" he asked, in a somewhat changed tone.
"I'm afraid not," was the reply. "There's a good day's work on each one of them, and I cannot possibly sit longer than a few hours at a time. And, besides, there are two or three hours of every day that I must attend to other duties."
"Well, if you can't, I suppose you can't," said the tailor, in a disappointed, half-offended tone, and turned away from the counter and walked back to his desk, from which he called out to his salesman, after he had stood there for about a minute—
"Pay her for them, Michael, and if you have any more ready give her another lot."
Since the sharp rebuke given by Mr. Perkins, Michael had treated Lizzy with less vulgar assurance. Sometimes he would endeavor to sport a light word with her, but she never replied, nor seemed to notice his freedom in the least. This uniform, dignified reserve, so different from the demeanor of most of the girls who worked for them, coupled with the manner of Perkins's interference for her, inspired in his mind a feelingof respect for the stranger, which became her protection from his impertinences. On this occasion, he merely asked her how many she would have, and on receiving her answer, handed her the number of shirts she desired.
As she turned to go out, Mrs. Gaston, who had just entered, stood near, with her eyes fixed upon her. She started as she looked into her face. Indeed, both looked surprised, excited, then confused, and let their eyes fall to the floor. They seemed for a moment to have identified each other, and then to have become instantly conscious that they were nothing but strangers—that such an identification was impossible. An audible sigh escaped Lizzy Glenn, as she passed slowly out and left the store. As she reached the pavement, she turned and looked back at Mrs. Gaston. Their eyes again met for an instant.
"Who is that young woman?" asked Mrs. Gaston.
"Her name is Lizzy Glenn," replied Michael.
"Do you know anything about her?"
"Nothing—only that she's a proud, stiff kind of a creature; though what she has to be proud of, is more than I can tell."
"How long has she been working for you?"
"A couple of months or so, if I recollect rightly."
"Where does she live?" was Mrs. Gaston's next question.
Michael gave her the direction, and then their intercourse had entire reference to business.
After the subject of this brief conversation between Mrs. Gaston and Michael left the store of Mr. Berlaps, she walked slowly in the direction of her temporary home, which was, as has before been mentioned, in an obscure street at the north end. It consisted of a small room, in an old brick house, which had been made by running a rough partition through the centre of the front room in the second story, and then intersecting this partition on one side by another partition, so as to make three small rooms out of one large one. These partitions did not reach more than two-thirds of the distance to the ceiling, thus leaving a free circulation of air in the upper and unobstructed portion of the room. As the house stood upon a corner, and contained windows both in front and on the end, each room had a window. The whole were heated by one large stove. For the little room that Lizzy Glenn occupied, including fire, she paid seventy-five cents a week. But, as the house was old, the windows open, and the room that had been cut up into smaller ones a large one; and, moreover, as the person who let them and supplied fuel for the stove took good care to see that an undue quantity of this fuel was not burned, she rarely found the temperature of her apartment high enough to be comfortable. Those who occupied the other two rooms, in each of which, like her own, was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a table, with a small looking-glass, were seamstresses, who were compelled, as she was, to earn a scanty subsistence by working for the slop-shops. But they could work many more hours than she could, and consequently earned more money than she was able to do. Her food—the small portion she consumed—she provided herself, and prepared it at the stove, which was common property.