II

[image not availableDaniel Boone.

Daniel Boone.

All the kinds of wild beasts that were natural to America—the stately elk, the timid deer, the antlered stag, the wild-cat, the bear, the panther, and the wolf—couched among the canes, or roamed over the rich grasses, which even beneath the thickest shade sprung luxuriantly out of the generous soil. The buffaloes cropped fearlessly the herbage, or browsed on the leaves of the reed, and were more frequent than cattle in the settlements of Carolina. Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove, and round the salt licks their numbers were amazing.

The summer in which, for the first time, a party of white men enjoyed the brilliancy of nature near and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed away in the occupations of exploring parties and the chase. But, one by one, Boone’s companions dropped off, till he was left alone with John Stewart. They jointly found unceasing delight in the wonders of the forest, till, one evening near the Kentucky River, they were taken prisoners by a band of Indians, wanderers like themselves. They escaped, and were joined by Boone’s brother; so that when Stewart was soon after killed by savages, Boone still had his brother to share with him the dangers and the attractions of the wilderness, the building and occupying of the first cottage in Kentucky.

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to thesettlements for horses and supplies of ammunition, leaving the renowned hunter “by himself, without bread, or salt, or even a horse or dog.” The idea of a beloved wife anxious for his safety, tinged his thoughts with sadness; but otherwise the cheerful, meditative man, careless of wealth, knowing the use of the rifle, not the plow, of a strong robust frame, in the vigorous health of early manhood, ignorant of books, but versed in the forest and in forest life, ever fond of tracking the deer on foot, away from men, yet in his disposition humane, generous, and gentle, was happy in the uninterrupted succession of sylvan pleasures. He held unconscious intercourse with beauty old as creation.

One calm summer’s evening, as he climbed a commanding ridge, and looked upon the remote, venerable mountains and the nearer ample plains, and caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which bounded the land of his affections with majestic grandeur, his heart exulted in the region he had discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so much as shook a leaf. He kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of a buck. He was no more alone than a bee among flowers, but communed familiarly with the whole universe of life. Nature was his intimate, and she responded to his intelligence.

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and the blade of grass, had life; the cooling air laden with the wild perfume came to him as a friend; the dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace; the trees stood up gloriously round about him as so many myriads of companions. All forms wore the character of desire or peril. But how could he be afraid? Triumphing over danger, he knew no fear. The perpetual howling of the wolves by night round his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his diversion; and by day he had joy in surveying the various species of animals that surrounded him. He loved the solitude better than the towered city or the hum of business.

Near the end of 1770, his faithful brother came back to meet him at the old camp. Shortly after they proceeded together to the Cumberland River, giving names to the different waters; and he then returned to his wife and children, fixed in his purpose, at the risk of life and fortune, to bring them as soon as possible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a second Paradise.

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of enterprising companions, proceeded to mark out a path up Powell’s valley, and through the mountains and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of themonth they were waylaid by Indians, who killed two men and wounded another very severely. Two days later the savages killed and scalped two more. “Now,” wrote Daniel Boone, “is the time to keep the country while we are in it. If we give way now, it will ever be the case,” and he pressed forward to the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of April, at the distance of about sixty yards from its west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he began a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro.

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia was groping irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men assembled as representatives of the four “towns” that then formed the seed of the state. Among these children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pioneer of the party. His colleague, Richard Calloway, was one of the founders of Kentucky, and one of its early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John Floyd, a surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern Virginia; an able writer, respected for his culture and dignity of manner; of innate good breeding; ready to defend the weak; heedless of his own life if he could recover women and children who had been made captive by the savages; destined to do good service, and survive the dangers of western life till American independence should be fought for and won.

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came JamesHarrod, the same who, in 1774, had led a party of forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the summer of that year had built the first log-cabin in Kentucky; a tall, erect, and resolute backwoodsman; unlettered but not ignorant; intrepid yet gentle; never weary of kind offices to those around him; a skillful hunter, for whom the rifle had a companionship, and the wilderness a charm.

These and their associates, the fathers of Kentucky, seventeen in all, met on the 23d of May, beneath the great elm tree of Boonesboro, outside of the fort, on the thick sward of the fragrant white clover. The convention having been organized, prayers were read by a minister of the Church of England. A speech was then delivered to the convention in behalf of the proprietary purchases of the land from the Cherokees. To it a committee, of which Calloway was the head, made reply. “Deeply impressed,” they said, “with a sense of the importance of the trust our constituents have reposed in us, we will attempt the task with vigor, not doubting but unanimity will insure us success. That we have a right, as a political body, without giving umbrage to Great Britain, or any of the colonies, to frame rules for the government of our little society, cannot be doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind.”

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In theirlegislation, it was their chief care to copy after the happy pattern of the English laws. Their colony they called Transylvania. For defense against the savages, they organized a militia; they discountenanced profane swearing and Sabbath breaking; they took thought for preventing the waste of game, and improving the breed of horses; and by solemn agreement they established as the basis of their constitution the annual choice of delegates; taxes to be raised by the convention alone; perfect religious freedom and general toleration.

Thus a little band of hunters put themselves at the head of the countless hosts of civilization in establishing the great principle of intellectual freedom. Long as the shadows of the western mountain shall move round with the sun, long as the rivers that gush from those mountains shall flow toward the sea, long as seedtime and harvest shall return, that rule shall remain the law of the West.

The state of Kentucky honors the memory of the plain, simple hearted man, who is best known as its pioneer. He was kindly in his nature, and never wronged a human being, not even an Indian, nor, indeed, animal life of any kind. “I with others have fought Indians,” he would say; “but I do not know that I ever killed one. If I did, it was in battle, and I never knew it.” In woodcraft he wasacknowledged to be the first among men. This led him to love solitude, and to hover on the frontier, with no abiding place, accompanied by the wife of his youth, who was the companion of his long life and travel. When, at last, death put them both to rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves far up the Missouri; and now they lie buried on the hill above the cliffs of the Kentucky River, overlooking the lovely valley of the capital of that commonwealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life; the turf of the blue grass lies lightly above them; and they are laid with their faces turned upward and westward, and their feet toward the setting sun.

Such is the account which George Bancroft, the first of American historians, gives of Daniel Boone, the pioneer of Kentucky, and of the founding of the commonwealth of which Boone was the earliest and most distinguished promoter. Few other works have contributed so much to the dignity and distinction of our literature as has Bancroft’s “History of the United States,” from which this extract has been taken.

[image not availableGeorge Bancroft.

George Bancroft.

It is common to speak of Robert Fulton as the inventor of the steamboat. Other persons before him, however, had experimented with machinery for propelling vessels by steam. They had met with but little success or encouragement, and it was left for Fulton to demonstrate the practical value of steam as a means of propulsion and to show the superiority of steamboats to vessels depending solely upon the wind for motive power. Robert Fulton was born in Pennsylvania in 1765. He began his experiments with steam in 1793, and his first successful steamboat, the “Clermont,” was launched on the Hudson in 1807. The trip from New York to Albany occupied thirty-two hours, the rate of speed being about five miles an hour. Mr. Fulton himself has left us the following account of the trial of his boat:—

[image not availableRobert Fulton.

Robert Fulton.

When I was building my first steamboat, the project was viewed by the public at New York either with indifference or contempt, as a visionaryscheme. My friends indeed were civil, but they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full force of the lamentation of the poet—

“Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land?All shun, none aid you, and few understand.”

As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building yard while my boat was in progress, I often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense, the dry jest, the wise calculations of losses and expenditure; the dull but endless repetition of “the Fulton folly!” Never did an encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish cross my path.

At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted my friends to go on board and witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partakers of my mortification and not of my triumph.

The moment approached in which the word wasto be given for the vessel to move. My friends were in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed with fear among them. I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short distance, and then stopped and became immovable.

To the silence of the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of discontent and agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, “I told you so—it is a foolish scheme. I wish we were well out of it.” I elevated myself on a platform, and addressed the assembly. I stated that I knew not what was the matter; but if they would indulge me for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon the voyage for that time.

[image not availableThe “Clermont.”

The “Clermont.”

This short respite was conceded without objection. I went below and examined the machinery, and discovered that the cause was a slight defect in a part of the work. This was soon remedied; the boat was put again in motion; she continued to move on. All were still incredulous; none seemed willing to trust the evidence of their own senses.

We left the fair city of New York; we passed through the romantic and ever-varying scenery ofthe Highlands; we descried the clustering houses of Albany; we reached its shores; yet even then imagination superseded the force of fact. It was doubted if it could be done again.

[image not availableWilliam Cullen Bryant.

William Cullen Bryant.

Come, let us plant the apple tree!Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;Wide let its hollow bed be made;There gently lay the roots, and thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o’er them tenderly,As round the sleeping infant’s feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Buds, which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breastShall haunt and sing and hide her nest.We plant upon the sunny leaA shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May wind’s restless wings,When from the orchard row he poursIts fragrance through our open doors.A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloomWe plant with the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop when gentle airs come byThat fan the blue September sky,While children, wild with noisy glee,Shall scent their fragrance as they passAnd search for them the tufted grassAt the foot of the apple tree.And when above this apple treeThe winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls whose young eyes o’erflow with mirthShall peel its fruit by cottage hearth;And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the orange and the grape,As fair as they in tint and shape,The fruit of the apple tree.The fruitage of this apple treeWinds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the viewAnd ask in what fair groves they grew;And they who roam beyond the seaShall think of childhood’s careless dayAnd long hours passed in summer playIn the shade of the apple tree.But time shall waste this apple tree.Oh! when its aged branches throwTheir shadows on the world below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the task of mercy beAmid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple tree?“Who planted this old apple tree?”The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:“A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymesOn planting the apple tree.”—William Cullen Bryant.

What plant we in this apple tree?Buds, which the breath of summer daysShall lengthen into leafy sprays;Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breastShall haunt and sing and hide her nest.We plant upon the sunny leaA shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May wind’s restless wings,When from the orchard row he poursIts fragrance through our open doors.A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloomWe plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop when gentle airs come byThat fan the blue September sky,While children, wild with noisy glee,Shall scent their fragrance as they passAnd search for them the tufted grassAt the foot of the apple tree.

And when above this apple treeThe winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls whose young eyes o’erflow with mirthShall peel its fruit by cottage hearth;And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the orange and the grape,As fair as they in tint and shape,The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple treeWinds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the viewAnd ask in what fair groves they grew;And they who roam beyond the seaShall think of childhood’s careless dayAnd long hours passed in summer playIn the shade of the apple tree.

But time shall waste this apple tree.Oh! when its aged branches throwTheir shadows on the world below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the task of mercy beAmid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this apple tree?

“Who planted this old apple tree?”The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:“A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymesOn planting the apple tree.”—William Cullen Bryant.

[image not availableJohn G. Whittier.

John G. Whittier.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest fields with snow.Through vales of grass and meads of flowersOur plows their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.We dropped the seed o’er hill and plainBeneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot, midsummer’s noonIts soft and yellow hair.And now with autumn’s moonlit eves,Its harvest time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.There, when the snows about us drift,And winter winds are cold,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milkBy homespun beauty poured!Where’er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!Then shame on all the proud and vain,Whose folly laughs to scornThe blessing of our hardy grain,Our wealth of golden corn!Let earth withhold her goodly root,Let mildew blight the rye,Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,The wheatfield to the fly.But let the good old crop adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us, for his golden corn,Send up our thanks to God.—John G. Whittier.

Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!Heap high the golden corn!No richer gift has Autumn pouredFrom out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, gleanThe apple from the pine,The orange from its glossy green,The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy giftOur rugged vales bestow,To cheer us when the storm shall driftOur harvest fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowersOur plows their furrows made,While on the hills the sun and showersOf changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o’er hill and plainBeneath the sun of May,And frightened from our sprouting grainThe robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of JuneIts leaves grew green and fair,And waved in hot, midsummer’s noonIts soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn’s moonlit eves,Its harvest time has come,We pluck away the frosted leaves,And bear the treasure home.

There, when the snows about us drift,And winter winds are cold,Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silkAround their costly board;Give us the bowl of samp and milkBy homespun beauty poured!

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearthSends up its smoky curls,Who will not thank the kindly earth,And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,Whose folly laughs to scornThe blessing of our hardy grain,Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,Let mildew blight the rye,Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,The wheatfield to the fly.

But let the good old crop adornThe hills our fathers trod;Still let us, for his golden corn,Send up our thanks to God.—John G. Whittier.

The walrus is one of the largest animals still extant, and although the element of personal danger is not so great in hunting it as in hunting some beasts of lesser bulk, yet the conditions under which the sport is pursued, as well as the nature of the sport itself, are such as will probably tempt one who has once tried this form of sport to return to it.

[image not availableWalruses at Home.

Walruses at Home.

An average-sized four-year-old walrus will measure ten feet in length and about the same in girth. The weight is, of course, difficult to determine; but it is probably about 3000 pounds, of which 350 pounds may be reckoned as blubber, and 300 pounds as hide.

The blubber, to be utilized, is mixed with that of the seals which may be obtained, and the oil, which is extracted by heat and pressure, sold as “seal oil”; the hide, which is from an inch to an inch and a half in thickness, and makes a soft, spongy leather, is exported principally to Russia and Germany, where it is used for making harness and other heavy leather goods.

The walrus is a carnivorous animal, feeding mostly upon shellfish and worms, and is therefore generally found in the shallow waters along a coast line, diving for its food on banks which lie at a depth of from two to twenty fathoms below the surface. Deeper than that the walrus does not care to go; in fact, it generally feeds in about fifteen fathoms.

The tusks are principally used to plow up the bottom in search of food, but are also employed as weapons, and in climbing upon the ice. They are composed of hard white ivory, set for about six inches of their length in a hard bony mass, about six inches in diameter, which forms the front of the head; the breathing passage runs through this mass, and terminates in two “blow holes” between the roots of the tusks. The tusk itself is solid, except that portion which is imbedded in the bone, and this is filled with a cellular structure containing a whitish oil.

A walrus killed in the water immediately sinks; even if mortally wounded, it will in nine cases out of ten escape, and sink to the bottom. When on the ice, these animals always lie close to the water, and it is therefore necessary to kill them instantly, or they will reach the water and be lost before the boat can arrive within harpooning distance. This can only be done by shooting them in such a way as to penetrate the brain, which is no easy matter. The brain lies in what appears to be the neck; that which one would naturally suppose to be the head being nothing but the heavy jaw bones, and mass of bone in which the tusks are set.

What becomes of the walrus in winter it is hard to say; but I have heard them blowing in an open pool of water among the ice on the north coast of Spitzbergen in the month of December. In the spring, however, when the ice begins to break up, they collect in herds on their feeding grounds around the coasts, where they may be found diving for shellfish, or basking and sleeping, singly or in “heaps” of two or three, often five or six, together.

They seem to prefer to lie on small cakes of flat bay ice; a single walrus will often take his siesta on a cake only just large enough to float him, and it is among such ice, therefore, rather than among rough old pack and glacier blocks, that they should besought, although I have seen them lying on heavy old water-worn ice, four and five feet above the water. In this case, however, they had no choice.

The boats of the walrus hunters are strongly yet lightly built. They are bow-shaped at both ends; the stem and stern posts are made thick and strong in order to resist the blows of the ice, and the bow sheathed with zinc plates to prevent excessive chafing. It is most important that they should be easy and quick in turning, and this quality is obtained by depressing the keel in the middle. They are painted red inside and white outside, so that they may not be conspicuous amongst ice, but the hunters stultify this idea to some extent by dressing themselves in dark colors.

The harpoon, the point and edges of which are ground and whetted to a razor-like sharpness, is a simple but very effective weapon. When thrust into a walrus or seal, a large outer barb “takes up” a loop of the tough hide, whilst a small inner fishhook barb prevents it from becoming disengaged, so that when once properly harpooned, it is seldom, if ever, that an animal escapes through the harpoon “drawing.” The harpoon line consists of sixteen fathoms of two-inch tarred rope, very carefully made of the finest hemp, “soft laid”; each line is neatly coiled in a separate box placed beneath the forward thwart.

A boat’s crew consists of four or five men, and the quickness with which they can turn their boat is greatly accelerated by their method of rowing and steering. Each man rows with a pair of oars, which he can handle much better than one long one when amongst ice.

The harpooner, who commands the boat’s crew, rows from the bow thwart, near the weapons and telescope, which he alone uses. It is he who searches for game, and decides on the method of attack when it is found. “No. 2,” generally the strongest man in the boat, is called the “line man”; it is his duty to tend the line when a walrus is struck, and to assist the harpooner.

In such a boat, then, one lovely September morning, we are rowing easily back to the sloop, which is lying off Bird Bay, a small indentation in the east face of the northernmost point of Spitzbergen. The harpooner is balancing himself, one foot on the forward locker, and one on the thwart, examining through a telescope something which appears to be a lump of dirty ice, about half a mile away. Suddenly he closes his glass and seizes the oars. “There he is!” he says, and without another word the boat is headed for the black mass.

Now we are within a couple of hundred yards, and each man crouches in the bottom of the boat, theharpooner still in the bow, his eyes intently fixed upon the walrus. Suddenly the walrus raises his head, and we are motionless. It is intensely still, and the scraping of a piece of ice along the boat seems like the roar of a railway train passing overhead on some bridge. Down goes the head, and we glide forward again. The walrus is uneasy; again and again he raises his head and looks round with a quick motion, but we have the sun right at our back, and he never notices us.

At last we are within a few feet, and with a shout of “Wake up, old boy!” which breaks the stillness like a shot, the harpooner is on his feet, his weapon clasped in both hands above his head. As the walrus plunges into the sea, the iron is buried in his side, and, with a quick twist to prevent the head from slipping out of the same slit that it has cut in the thick hide, the handle is withdrawn and thrown into the boat. Bumping and scraping amongst the floating ice, we are towed along for about five minutes, and then stop as the wounded walrus comes to the surface to breathe.

In the old days the lance would finish the business, but now it is the rifle. He is facing the boat; I sight for one of his eyes, and let him have both barrels, without much effect apparently, for away we rush for two or three minutes more, when he is upagain, still facing the boat. He seems to care no more for the solid “Express” bullets than if they were peas; but he is slow this time, and, as he turns to dive, exposes the fatal spot at the back of the head, and dies.

Few men are likely ever to forget the first occasion on which they found themselves amongst a herd of walrus in the water. Scores of fierce-looking heads—for the long tusks, small bloodshot eyes, and moustache on the upper lip (every bristle of which is as thick as a crow quill) give the walrus an expression of ferocity—gaze, perhaps in unbroken silence, from all sides upon the boat, See! the sun glints along a hundred wet backs, and they are gone.

Away you row at racing speed to where experience tells you they will rise again. “Here they are! Take that old one with long tusks first!” A couple of quick thrusts, right and left, and away you go again, fast to two old fellows that will want a good deal of attention before you can cut their tusks out. Indeed, unless one has served his apprenticeship, he had better not meddle with the harpoon at all. The old skippers and harpooners can spin many a yarn of lost crews and boats gone under the ice through a fatal moment’s delay in cutting free from the diving walrus.

—From “Big Game Shooting.”

Volcanoes can never be trusted. No one knows when one will break out, or what it will do; and those who live close to them—as the city of Naples is close to Mount Vesuvius—must not be astonished if they are blown up or swallowed, as that great and beautiful city of Naples may be without a warning, any day.

For what happened to that same Mount Vesuvius about eighteen hundred years ago in the old Roman times? For ages and ages it had been lying quiet, like any other hill. Beautiful cities were built at its foot—cities filled with people who were as handsome and as comfortable and, I am afraid, as wicked as any people ever were on earth. Fair gardens, vineyards, and olive yards covered the mountain slopes. It was held to be one of the Paradises of the world.

As for the mountain’s being a volcano, who ever thought of that? To be sure, the top of it was a great round crater, or cup, a mile or more across, and a few hundred yards deep. But that was all overgrown with bushes and wild vines full of deer and other wild animals. What sign of fire was there in that? To be sure, also, there was an ugly placebelow, by the seashore, where smoke and brimstone came out of the ground; and a lake called Avernus, over which poisonous gases hung. But what of that? It had never harmed any one, and how could it harm them?

So they all lived on, merrily and happily enough, till the yearA.D.79. At that time there was stationed in the Bay of Naples a Roman admiral, called Pliny, who was also a very studious and learned man, and author of a famous old book on natural history. He was staying on shore with his sister; and as he sat in his study, she called him out to see a strange cloud which had been hanging for some time over the top of Mount Vesuvius. It was in shape just like a pine tree; not, of course, like the pines which grow in this country, but like an Italian stone pine, with a long straight stem and a flat parasol-shaped top.

Sometimes it was blackish, sometimes spotted; and the good Admiral Pliny, who was always curious about natural science, ordered his rowboat and went away across the bay to see what it could be. Earthquake shocks had been very common for the last few days, but I do not suppose that Pliny thought that the earthquakes and the cloud had anything to do with each other. However, he soon found out that they had; and to his cost. Whenhe was near the opposite shore, some of the sailors met him and begged him to turn back. Cinders and pumice stones were falling down from the sky, and flames were breaking out of the mountain above. But Pliny would go on: he said that if people were in danger it was his duty to help them; and that he must see this strange cloud, and note down the different shapes into which it changed.

But the hot ashes fell faster and faster; the sea ebbed out suddenly, and almost left them on the beach; and Pliny turned away towards a place called Stabiæ, to the house of an old friend who was just going to escape in a boat. Brave Pliny told him not to be afraid; ordered his bath like a true Roman gentleman, and then went in to dinner with a cheerful face. Flames came down from the mountain, nearer and nearer as the night drew on; but Pliny persuaded his friend that they were only fires in some villages from which the peasants had fled; and then went to bed and slept soundly.

However, in the middle of the night, they found the courtyard being fast filled with cinders, and if they had not awakened the Admiral in time, he would never have been able to get out of the house.

The earthquake shocks grew stronger and fiercer, till the house was ready to fall; and Pliny and his

[image not availableMount Vesuvius during an Eruption.From a Photograph.Engraved by E. Heinemann

Mount Vesuvius during an Eruption.From a Photograph.Engraved by E. Heinemann

Mount Vesuvius during an Eruption.

From a Photograph.Engraved by E. Heinemann

friend, and the sailors and the slaves, all fled into the open fields, having pillows over their heads to prevent their being beaten down. By this time, day had come, but not the dawn: for it was still pitch dark. They went down to their boats upon the shore; but the sea raged so horribly that there was no getting on board of them.

Then Pliny grew tired and made his men spread a sail for him that he might lie down upon it. But there came down upon them a rush of flames and a strong smell of sulphur, and all ran for their lives.

Some of the slaves tried to help the Admiral; but he sank down again, overpowered by the brimstone fumes, and so was left behind. When they came back again, there he lay dead; but with his clothes in order, and his face as quiet as if he had been only sleeping. And that was the end of a brave and learned man, a martyr to duty and to the love of science.

But what was going on in the meantime? Under clouds of ashes, cinders, mud, lava, three of those happy cities—Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiæ—were buried at once. They were buried just as the people had fled from them, leaving the furniture and the earthenware, often even jewels and gold behind, and here and there a human being who had not hadtime to escape from the dreadful rain of ashes and dust.

The ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii have been dug into since, and partly uncovered; and the paintings, especially in Pompeii, are found upon the walls still fresh, preserved from the air by the ashes which have covered them in. At Naples there is a famous museum containing the curiosities which have been dug out of the ruined cities; and one can walk along the streets in Pompeii and see the wheel tracks in the pavement along which carts and chariots rolled two thousand years ago.

And what had become of Vesuvius, the treacherous mountain? Half, or more than half, of the side of the old crater had been blown away; and what was left, which is now called the Monte Somma, stands in a half circle round the new cone and the new crater which is burning at this very day. True, after that eruption which killed Pliny, Vesuvius fell asleep again, and did not awake for one hundred and thirty-four years, and then again for two hundred and sixty-nine years; but it has been growing more and more restless as the ages have passed on, and now hardly a year passes without its sending out smoke and stones from its crater, and streams of lava from its sides.

—From “Madam How and Lady Why,” by Charles Kingsley.

[image not availableSir Edward Bulwer Lytton.

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton.

The most popular historical romance in the English language is “The Last Days of Pompeii,” by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. It was first published in 1834, and is a narrative depicting life and manners during the last years of the doomed city. The description of the grand catastrophe is a subject which called forth all the brilliant powers of the author. As a piece of word-painting it has seldom been surpassed.

The cloud which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivaled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depths of a southern sky,—now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent,—now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns ofsmoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from arch to arch—then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life!

In the pauses of the showers you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the abyss of shade; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the vapors seemed like the bodily forms of gigantic foes—the agents of terror and of death.

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapor. In some places, immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt—the footing seemed to slide and

[image not availableInterior of a House in Pompeii.From the Painting by J. Coomans.Engraved by E. Heinemann.

Interior of a House in Pompeii.From the Painting by J. Coomans.Engraved by E. Heinemann.

Interior of a House in Pompeii.

From the Painting by J. Coomans.Engraved by E. Heinemann.

creep—nor could chariot or litter be kept steady even on the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the porticoes of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their sudden birth was converted had something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressing on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair.

Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land. The whole elements of civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, ladenwith the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the various and complicated machinery of social life was left save the primal law of self-preservation.

Through this awful scene did Glaucus wade his way, accompanied by Ione and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush of hundreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who with Ione was borne rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer came. They retraced their steps,—in vain: they could not discover her,—it was evident she had been swept along some other direction by the human current. Their friend, their preserver was lost! And hitherto Nydia had been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the windings of the city, she had led them unerringly towards the seashore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend? All was rayless to them—a maze without a clue. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they, however, passed along, the ashes falling upon theirheads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet.

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, they continued their uncertain way. At the moments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over the streets, they were enabled, by that awful light, to steer and guide their progress: yet, little did the view it presented to them cheer or encourage their path. In parts where the ashes lay dry and unmixed with the boiling torrents, cast upward from the mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of the earth presented a leprous and ghastly white. In other places, cinder and rock lay matted in heaps.

The groans of the dying were broken by wild shrieks of women’s terror—now near, now distant—which, when heard in the utter darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils around; and clear and distinct through all were the mighty and various noises from the Fatal Mountain; its rushing winds; its whirling torrents; and, from time to time, the burst and roar of some more fiery and fierce explosion.

Suddenly the place became lighted with an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness, which closed around it like the walls ofhell, the mountain shone—a pile of fire. Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface there seemed to rise two monster shapes, each confronting each, as Demons contending for a World. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide; butbelow, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the stupendous Phlegethon. And through the stilled air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another as they were borne down the fiery cataracts—darkening, for one instant, the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of the flood along which they floated.

Glaucus turned in awe, caught Ione in his arms, and fled along the street, that was now intensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shade fell over the air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold! one of the two gigantic crests, into which the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness ofwhich no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke—rolling on, over air, sea, and earth.

Another—and another—and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets. Darkness once more wrapped them as a veil; and Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and despairing, sank beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping Ione to his heart, resigned himself to die.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and Ione, had in vain endeavored to regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of more selfish terror. Again and again she returned to the spot where they had been divided—to find her companions gone, to seize every fugitive—to inquire of Glaucus—to be dashed aside in the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his neighbor?

At length it occurred to Nydia that, as it had been resolved to seek the seashore for escape, her most probable chance of rejoining her companions would be to persevere in that direction. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always carried, she continuedto avoid the masses of ruin which incumbered the path, and to take the nearest direction to the seaside.

She had gone some distance toward the seashore, when she chanced to hear from one of the fugitives that Glaucus was resting beneath the arch of the forum. She at once turned her back on the sea, and retraced her steps to the city. She gained the forum—the arch; she stooped down—she felt around—she called on the name of Glaucus.

A weak voice answered, “Who calls on me? Is it the voice of the Shades? Lo! I am prepared!”

“Arise! follow me! Take my hand! Glaucus, thou shalt be saved!”

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose, “Nydia still! Ah! thou, then, art safe!”

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor Thessalian, and she blessed him for his thought of her.

Half-leading, half-carrying Ione, Glaucus followed his guide. After many pauses they gained the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved to hazard any peril rather than continue in such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea; but, as they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial redness over the waves.

Utterly exhausted and worn out, Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet. Meanwhile the showers of dust and ashes, still borne aloft, fell into the wave, and scattered their snows over the deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those showers descended upon the remotest climes, startling even the swarthy African, and whirled along the antique soil of Syria and Egypt.

And meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last the light over the trembling deep,—the winds were sinking into rest,—the foam died from the glowing azure of that delicious sea. Around the east, their mists caught gradually the rosy hues that heralded the morning. Light was about to resume her reign. Yet, still, dark, and massive in the distance lay the broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from which red streaks, burning more and more dimly, betrayed the yet rolling fires of the mountain of the “Scorched Fields.” The white walls and gleaming columns that had adorned the lovely coasts were no more. Sullen and dull were the shores so lately crested by the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii. The darlings of the Deep were snatched from her embrace. Century after century shall the mighty Mother stretch forth her azure arms, and know them not—moaning round the sepulchers of the Lost!

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